“Me, I know Blackbird,” responded Léon Baudette.
“Is the consoompted chafe that they're makin' the snake shindy for married on her?”
“No, no. Blackbird she wife of Jean Magliss in de winter camps.”
“John McGillis? Is it for marryin' on a haythen wife he is?”
“O oui. Two wives. One good Cat'olique. Jean Magliss, he dance every night now with Amable Morin's girl. The more weddings, the more dancing. Me,” Léon shrugged, “I no want a woman eating my wages in Mackinac. A squaw in the winter camps—'t assez.”
“Two wives, the bog-trotter!” gulped Owen. “John McGillis is a blayguard!”
“Oui, what you call Irish,” assented Léon; and he dodged, but the cobbler threw nothing at him. Owen marked with the awl on his own leather apron.
“First a haythen and then a quarther-brade,” he tallied against his countryman. “He will be takin' his quarther-brade to the praste before the boats go out?”
Léon raised fat eyebrows. “Amable Morin, he no fool. It is six daughters he has. O oui; the marriage is soon made.”