“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?”