Against violent protests from Issy, who declared that Ves Young's rattle-trap wan't fit to do nothin' but haul fish heads to the fertilizer factory, the Calvin beams and boards were piled high on the wagon and with Ves on the driver's seat and Simp perched, like a disreputable carrion crow on top of the load, the equipage started. “There!” exclaimed Albert, with satisfaction. “He can't say it wasn't delivered this time according to promise.” “Godfreys!” snorted Issy, gazing after the departing wagon. “He won't be able to say nothin' when he sees that git-up--and smells it. Ves carts everything in that cart from dead cows to gurry barrels. Whew! I'd hate to have to set on that porch when 'twas built of that lumber. And, unless I'm mistook, Ves and Simp had been havin' a little somethin' strong to take, too.” Mr. Price, as it happened, was not “mistook.” Mr. Young had, as the South Harniss saying used to be, “had a jug come down” on the train from Boston that very morning. The jug was under the seat of his wagon and its contents had already been sampled by him and by Simp. The journey to the Calvin cottage was enlivened by frequent stops for refreshment. Consequently it happened that, just as Mrs. Calvin's gathering of Welfare Workers had reached the cake and chocolate stage in their proceedings and just as the Reverend Mr. Calvin had risen by invitation to say a few words of encouragement, the westerly wind blowing in at the open windows bore to the noses and ears of the assembled faithful a perfume and a sound neither of which was sweet. Above the rattle and squeak of the Young wagon turning in at the Calvin gate arose the voices of Vessie and Simp uplifted in song. “'Here's to the good old whiskey, drink 'er daown,'” sang Mr. Young. “'Here's to the good old whiskey, Drink 'er daown! Here's to the good old whiskey, It makes you feel so frisky, Drink 'er--' Git up there, blank blank ye! What the blankety blank you stoppin' here for? Git up!” The horse was not the only creature that got up. Mrs. Calvin rose from her chair and gazed in horror at the window. Her husband, being already on his feet, could not rise but he broke off short the opening sentence of his “few words” and stared and listened. Each Welfare Worker stared and listened also. “Git up, you blankety blank blank,” repeated Ves Young, with cheerful enthusiasm. Mr. Mullen, from the top of the load of lumber, caroled dreamily on: “'Here's to the good old rum, Drink 'er daown! Here's to the good old rum, Drink 'er daown! Here's to the good old rum, Ain't you glad that you've got some? Drink 'er daown! Drink 'er daown! Drink 'er daown!'” And floating, as it were, upon the waves of melody came the odor of the Young wagon, an odor combining deceased fish and late lamented cow and goodness knows what beside.