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But when his past rose up it took entire possession of him. "Why didn't ye tell me this before?" "I've not knowed it the long time meself." "What towken have ye got?" "Towken enough for you and me." "Show it to me." "I will not." "Ye're desavin' me. Ye have no towken." "Thin marry on yer quarther-brade if ye dare!"
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." The cobbler panted heavily. "The loikes of you that do be goin' to marry on a Frinch quarther-brade, desavin' her, and the father and the mother and the praste, that you do be a widdy."
"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 gut?"
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