“I didn't want to have trouble with that Charle' Charette and that 'Tite Laboise,” explained Étienne. “And I don't want any black feather. It was my brother's stomach. On account of my brother's stomach I have to fight. If they do not let my brother's stomach alone, I will have to kill the whole brigade.” But Charle' Charette walked into the Fur Company's building feeling nothing but disdain for the puny stock of St. Martin, as he held out his arm and let the blood drip from a little wound that stained his calico shirt-sleeve. The very neips around his ankles seemed to tingle with desire to kick poor Étienne. It was not necessary to send for the surgeon of the fort. Robert Stuart dressed the wound, salving it with the rebukes which he knew discipline demanded, and making them as strong as his own enjoyment had been. He promised to break the head of every voyageur in the yard with a board if another quarrel occurred. And he pretended not to see the culprit's trembling wife, that little besom whose caprices had set the men by the ears ever since she was old enough to know the figures of a dance, yet for whom he and Mrs. Stuart had a warm corner in their hearts. She had caused the first fracas of the season, moreover. He went out and slammed the office door, ordering the men away from it. “Bring me yon Étienne St. Martin,” commanded Mr. Stuart, preparing his arsenal of strong language. “I'll have a word with yon carl for this.” The noise of the one-sided conflict could be heard in the office, but 'Tite remained as if she heard nothing, with her head and arms on the desk. Her husband took up the cap with the black feather, which he had thrown off in the presence of his superior. He rested it against his side, his elbow pointing a triangle, and waited aggressively for her to speak. The back of her pretty neck and fine tendrils of curly hair ruffled above it were very moving; but his heart swelled indignantly. “'Tite Laboise, why did you shut the door in my face when I came back to you after a year's absence?” She answered faintly, “Me, I don't know.” “And dance with Étienne St. Martin until I am obliged to whip him?” “Me, I don't know.” “Yes, you do know. You have concealments,” he accused, and she made no defence. “This is the case: you run to the dock to see the boats come in; you are joyful until you watch me step ashore; I look for 'Tite; her back is disappearing at the corner of the street. Eh bien! I say, she would rather meet me in the house. I fly to the house. My wife refuses to see me.” 'Tite made no answer.