“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.