im 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:

"'Darlin',' cried Lord Lyndhurst, strainin' the beautiful and blushin'
maid to his manly bosom, 'you are mine at last. Mine! No--' Jerushy! a
love story! Why, Issy! I didn't know you was in love. Who's the lucky
girl? Send me an invite to your weddin', won't you?"

Issy's face was a fiery