"S'pose you could say dat, b'y," Jack grinned as he hedged his bets a little. Letting too many people know about his plans to build a still, however small, was not the greatest of ideas. "Second Shift in our crew did the proper thing, left us wit little enough to set our hands to. So I came down to where yar at to lend a bit of a hand. Dis place is in a right floption, it is, so I says ta meself, 'Jack', I says, and I tell the truth to shame the Devil now, I says, 'Dis place is rake for run, an' wouldn't ya be a better sort to put yar face an' eyes into it than go off and play the Devil at cards?'"

His eyes flickered to her crucifix as he chattered on amenably, a small smile twisting in the corner of his lips. Jack couldn't really recall the last time he'd been to Mass or taken confession. Sometime back before the family had left The Rock, he was sure. He still carried the rosary his grandmother had gotten for him in the pocket of his overalls, right besides the jackknife his father had given him. But the crucifix? That was packed away somewhere, he thought. Around his neck hung a Newfoundland twenty-cent piece from 1885, the very same coin his great-grandfather had placed in his palm just after he was born to make sure that Jack would never be in want or need. That silver coin carried a great deal more meaning to Jack, especially now, and it humbled him to think on it.

The gay laughter burst brightly from his lips when she asked where he was from, the bay ringing with the sound of it. "No harm in asking', duck! I'm an Islander! Talamh an Eisc! Newfoundland! Near Petty Cove Harbour by way of St. John's, which t'ain't the same Petty Harbour, that being a different place in the altogether. You'd need to right squint to find Petty Cove Harbour on any map, nuttin' surer den dat! Family's been there since, oh, pot auger days at the least. Long time. Only things got hard, so we tanned off to Wyoming few years back 'fore everyt'ting went arse over kettle an' ended up on dis boat. An' der it is. Dat's it, b'y."

Still grinning, he gestured up to the silver at her throat. "Bless your cotton socks, glad to see ya still have faith. Some nice piece o' stuff, b'y. Named for St. John's myself, an' dat being named for Saint John the Baptist, you see. But here's me, talkin' the cat off da fish truck! What 'bout yarself? You from Wyoming yarself?"