Ike felt peculiar resentment against the propounders of these strictures, although he had not consciously fallen under the fascination of the little Rosamond. He could not however always disregard her hilarious challenges to play, but when he succumbed it was with a sort of surly surprise at his own relenting. He even consented to see-saw with her,—a pastime which she greatly affected,—although he was obliged to sit on a very short end of the plank thrust between the rails of the fence in order to balance her very small weight as she sat at the other extremity, on the inside of the fence. And there, as she swayed high and dropped low, beaming with smiles and pink with delight, she looked like a veritable rose, blown about in the playful wind. But Ike was less picturesque as he bobbed up and down very close indeed to the rails and the leaning cross-stakes. “I’ll butt my brains out ag’in these rails like a demented Billy-goat if I don’t mind,” he said to himself in dudgeon. One day, when he and Skimpy had been visiting certain traps that they had jointly set in the woods, their homeward way led them past the store. They had had good luck with their snares, and their fine spirits responded alertly to a robust chorusing laugh that suddenly rang out from the dark interior of the building. The boys quickened their steps; there was something unusual going on inside. The brown, unpainted walls within, the shadowy beams and dusky rafters above, the burly boxes and barrels in the background, were dimly illumined by the one fibrous slant of sunshine through the window, which served to show too the long gaunt figure of the storekeeper standing near the entrance. He was swaying backward, laughing as he smote his thigh, and he called out, “Do it ag’in, Shanks! Do it ag’in!” Then the boys observed that there was a large group of figures standing at one side, although not easily distinguishable since their brown jeans garb so assimilated with the mellow tint of the walls. The next minute Ike reached the door and the whole scene was distinct before him. In the midst of the circle stood Jerry Binwell, his coat lying on the floor, his hat hanging on the knob of a rickety chair. His thin, long face was flushed; he was laughing too and rubbing his hands, and walking to and fro a few steps each way. “Do it ag’in, Shanks,” once more called out Peter Sawyer. There were friendly enough glances bent upon him, and everybody was laughing pleasantly, despite the pipes held between strong discolored teeth. Even old Jake Corbin had a reluctant twinkle among the many wrinkles that encircled his eyes as he sat smoking, his rickety chair tilted back against the wall. “Pritty spry yit, fur a ole man,” declared Binwell, still rubbing his hands. “Do it ag’in, Shanks!” rang out from the bystanders.