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 red.  He tore the precious volume from its desecrator’s hand, losing the pictured cover in the struggle.

“You—­you pesky fool!” he shouted.  “You mind your own business.”

The blacksmith roared in glee.  “Oh, ho!” he cried.  “Issy’s in love and I never guessed it.  Aw, say, Is, don’t be mean!  Who is she?  Have you strained her to your manly bosom yit?  What’s her name?”

“Shut up!” shrieked Issy, and strode out of the shop.  His tormentor begged him not to “go off mad,” and shouted sarcastic sympathy after him.  But Mr. McKay heeded not.  He stalked angrily along the sidewalk.  Then espying just ahead of him the boys who had thrown the potatoes, he paused, turned, and walking down the carriageway at the side of the blacksmith’s place of business, sat down upon a sawhorse under one of its rear windows.  He could, at least, be alone here and think; and he wanted to think.

For Issy—­although he didn’t look it—­was deeply interested in another love story as well as that in his pocket.  This one was printed upon his heart’s pages, and in it he was the hero, while the heroine—­the unsuspecting heroine—­was Gertie Higgins, daughter of Beriah Higgins, once a fisherman, now the crotchety and dyspeptic proprietor of the “general store” and postmaster at East Harniss.