John came 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 engagé 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 sweet-brier 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.” “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 ye not a widdy?” he challenged, as soon as he could speak. “I am, Owen Cunnin', I am,” maintained John. “Thin I repate ye're the loire!” And once more they came to the proof, until Owen lay upon the ground kicking to keep his opponent off. “Will I bring ye the dhrop of whiskey, Owen?” suggested John, tenderly. His cousin by marriage crawled to the fence and sat up, without replying. “I've the flask in me pouch, Owen.” “Kape it there.” “But sure if ye foight wid me ye'll dhrink wid me?” “I'll not dhrink a dhrop wid ye.”