A grinning, freckled face peered cautiously around the corner of the blacksmith's front fence. Then an overripe potato whizzed through the air and burst against the shop wall a few inches from the reader's head. Issy jumped. “You--you everlastin' young ones, you!” he shouted fiercely. “If I git my hands onto you, you'll wish you'd--I see you hidin' behind that fence.” Two barefooted little figures danced provokingly in the roadway and two shrill voices chanted in derision: “Is McKay--Is McKay-- Makes the Injuns run away! “Scalped anybody lately, Issy?” Alas for the indiscretions of youth! The tale of Issy's early expedition in search of scalps and glory was known from one end of Ostable County to the other. It had made him famous, in a way. “If I git a-holt of you kids, I'll bet there'll be some scalpin' done,” retorted the persecuted one, rising from the heap of cable. A second potato burst like a bombshell on the shingles behind him. McKay was a good general, in that he knew when it was wisest to retreat. Shoving the paper novel into his overalls pocket, he entered the shop. “What's the matter, Is?” inquired the grinning blacksmith. Most people grinned when they spoke to Issy. “Gittin' too hot outside there, was it? Why don't you tomahawk 'em and have 'em for supper?” “Humph!” grunted the offended quahauger. “Don't git gay now, Jake Larkin. You hurry up with that rake.” “Oh, all right, Is. Don't sculp ME; I ain't done nothin'. What's the news over to East Harniss?” “Oh, I don't know. Not much. Sam Bartlett, he started for Boston this mornin'.” “Who? Sam Bartlett? I want to know! Thought he was down for six weeks. You sure about that, Is?” “Course I'm sure. I was up to the depot and see him buy his ticket and git on the cars.” “Did, hey? Humph! So Sam's gone. Gertie Higgins still over to her Aunt Hannah's at Trumet?” Issy looked at his questioner. “Why, yes,” he said suspiciously. “I s'pose she's there. Fact, I know she is. Pat Starkey's doin' the telegraphin' while she's away. What made you ask that?” The blacksmith chuckled. “Oh, nothin',” he said. “How's her dad's dyspepsy? Had any more of them sudden attacks of his? I cal'late they'll take the old man off some of these days, won't they? I hear the doctor thinks there's more heart than stomach in them attacks.” But the skipper of the Lady May was not to be put off thus. “What you drivin' at, Jake?” he demanded. “What's Sam Bartlett's goin' away got to do with Gertie Higgins?” In his eagerness he stepped to Mr. Larkin's side. The blacksmith caught sight of the novel in his customer's pocket. He snatched it forth. “What you readin' now, Is?” he demanded. “More blood and brimstone? 'Vivy Ann, the Shop Girl!' Gee! Wow!” “You gimme that book, Jake Larkin! Gimme it now!” Fending the frantic quahauger off with one mighty arm, the blacksmith proceeded to read aloud: