“I niver tould ye I had a towken from the old counthry.”
“Ye did tell me ye had a towken.”
“I have.”
“Ye said it proved I was not a widdy.”
“I did.”
“Show me that same, thin.”
“I will.”
Owen looked steadily past John's shoulder at Blackbird, and laid in John's hand a small gold coin with a hole in it, on one side of which was rudely scratched the outline of a bird.
John McGillis's face burned red, and many expressions besides laughter crossed it. Like a child detected in fault, he looked sheepishly at Owen and glanced behind his shoulder. The faithful sunset-tinted face of Blackbird, immovable as a fixed star, regarded the battered cobbler as it might have regarded a great manitou when the island was young.
“How did you come by this, Owen?”