“Waal, I ain’t keerin’ ef ye never see Skimpy ag’in,” she said indignantly, “considerin’ the way ye treat him. That thar boy air tender in his feelin’s, an’ he hev been settin’ hyar an’ cryin’ his eyes out ’count o’ you-uns. Ye want ter torment him some mo’, I s’pose.” Ike stared bewildered. “I ain’t never tormented Skimp none ez I knows on.” “Ye ain’t!” exclaimed Obadiah, scornfully. Then grotesquely distorting his face he careened to one side and began to wheeze distractingly—“Oh—aw—yi-i, Mister Ky-une, Oh—aw—ee-ee, Mister Ky-une.” As Ike still stood holding the door open, the flames bowed fantastically before the wind, sending puffs of smoke into the room and scurrying ashes about the hearth. “Kem in, ef ye air a-comin’, an’ go out ef ye air a-goin’,” said Mrs. Sawyer tartly. “Ennyhow we-uns will feel obligated ef ye’ll shet that door.” The invitation was none too cordial, but Ike availed himself of the opportunity to speak, since the matter was so important. He closed the door and sat down on the end of the bench where Skimpy had been sitting so short a time before. “Skimp ’lows that’s the way ye mocked him,” said Obadiah. “An’ ye wants ter see him ag’in, do ye? Ef I war Skimp I’d gin ye sech a dressin’ ez ye wouldn’t want ter see _me_ ag’in soon.” He winked fiercely at Ike and nodded his head. Then he stuck his violin under his chin and began to saw away once more as if nothing had happened. Ike gave a great gulp as if he literally swallowed a bitter dose in taking Obadiah’s defiance; the strain on his temper was severe, but he succeeded in controlling himself. It was in a calm and convincing voice that he said:— “Oby, ye an’ me, an’ Skimp, and the t’others”—pointing to the tangled-up wrestlers—“hev been too good frien’s ter be parted by folks tattlin’ lies an’ tales from one ter ’nother. I never said sech. I never mocked Skimpy’s singin’ sence I been born. I hev sot too much store by Skimp fur that, an’ he oughter know it.” Mrs. Sawyer’s expression softened. “Ye only would hev proved yerse’f a idjit ef ye hed faulted Skimpy’s singin’,” she said. Then, still more genially—“Set up closer ter the fire. It mus’ be airish out’n doors. Who d’ye reckon tole Skimp sech a wicked, mean story on ye?” Ike trembled in his eagerness to tell. “I dunno fur true, Mis’ Sawyer, and mebbe I oughtn’t ter say, but I b’lieves it be Jerry Binwell, kase Skimpy hev been goin’ a powerful deal with him lately, an’”—