ame heartily to the door and endeavored to pull his countryman in.
He was a much younger man than Owen, a handsome, light-haired voyageur,
with thick eyelids and cajoling blue eyes. John was the only Irish
engage in the brigades. The sweet gift of blarney dwelt on his broad red
lips.

He looked too amiable and easily entreated, too much in love with life,
indeed, to quarrel with any one. Yet as Owen answered his invitation by
a quick pass that struck his cheek, his color mounted with zest, and he
stepped out, turning up his sleeves.

"Is it a foight ye want, ye old wizard from the Divil's Kitchen?"
laughed John, still good-natured.

"It's a foight I want," responded Owen. "It's a foight I'm shpilin' for.
Come out forninst the place, where the shlobberin' Frinch can lave a man
be, and I'll shpake me moind."

John walked bareheaded with him, and they passed around the building
to a fence enclosing the Fur Company's silent yard. Stockades of
sharp-pointed cedar posts outlined gardens near them. A smell of fur
mingled with odors of sweetbrier and loam. Again the violins excited
that throb of dancing feet, and John McGillis moved his arms in time to
the music.

"Out wid it, Owen. I'm losin' me shport."

"John McGillis, are ye not own cousin to me by raisin of marryin' on as
fine a colleen as iver shtepped in Ireland?"

"I am, Owen, I am."

"Did ye lave that same in sorrow, consatin' to fetch her out to Ameriky
whin yer fortune was made?"

"I did, Owen, I did."

"Whin ye got word of her death last year, was ye a broken-hearted widdy
or was ye not?"

"I was, Owen, I was." 46

"John McGillis, do ye call yerself a widdy now, or do ye not call
yerself a widdy?"

"I do, Owen, I do."

"Thin ye're the loire," and Owen slapped his face.

For a minute there was danger of manslaughter as they dealt each other
blows with sledge fists. Instead of clinching, they stood apart and
cudgelled fiercely with the knuckled hand. The first round ended in
blood, which John wiped from his face with a new bandanna, and
Owen flung contemptuously from his nose with finger and thumb. The
lax-muscled cobbler was no match for the fresh and vigorous voyageur,
and he knew it, but went stubbornly to work again, saying, grimly:

"I've shpiled yer face for the gu'urls the night, bedad."

They pounded each other without mercy, and again rested, Owen this time
leaning against the fence to breathe.

"John McGillis, are ye a widdy or are y