“Small blame to him,” Haggarty responded sympathetically. “I’ll bet he’d rather be swappin’ punches wid a man twice his own weight.”
But Jack entered on her father’s arm—a dainty, queenly Jack, clad in bride-white, her eyes demurely downcast but the small head with the crown of glossy brown hair carried as proudly as ever.
“An’ I used to give her lumps out of the sugar bar’l!” said Jimmy Bowes, the fat old bull-cook, in sentimental reminiscence.
“Purty as a little red wagon,” said Haggarty with approval.
“Mo’ Gee! I leave home for dat myself!” commented little Narcisse Laviolette, who possessed a wife of double his own fighting weight and offspring of about the same combined avoirdupois. And Cooley, who overheard this tribute from the little teamster, took offence thereat.
“Shut up, ye blasted little pea-soup!” he growled. “She’s the boss’s wife—or as good as. You remember that, and don’t try to be funny!”
“Who’s try for be fonnee?” demanded Laviolette with indignation at this unjust interpretation of his well-meant speech. “You give me de swif’ pain, you. Sacré dam! Some tam, bagosh, I ponch your beeg Irish mug!”
“Sh!” rumbled Haggarty. “Can’t ye quit yer dam’ swearin’ in a church? Shut up, the both of ye!”
The ceremony, which was rapidly changing Jack Crooks into Mrs. Joe Kent, proceeded, finished. Kisses were showered on her, handshakes and slaps on the back on Joe. In the midst of these the latter caught sight of a group of weather-tanned faces in the centre of the church. Their owners were standing uncertainly, diffident, not caring to mingle with the more fashionably clad throng that clustered about the principals. Joe turned to his bride.
“There’s Cooley and Haggarty and a bunch of the boys of my river crew, Jack,” he said. “They want to wish us luck, and they’re too bashful to mix. Come on down and shake hands.”