A mushy apple exploded between his shoulders, but he did not even turn around.  So this was what the blacksmith meant!  This was why Mr. Higgins watched his daughter so closely.  This was why Gertie had been sent off to Trumet.  She had met the Bartlett miscreant in Boston; they had been together there; had fallen in love and—­He gritted his teeth and shook his fists almost in the face of old Deacon Pratt, who, knowing the McKay penchant for slaughter, had serious thoughts of sending for the constable.

Beriah Higgins must be warned, of course, but how?  To telegraph was to put Pat Starkey in possession of the secret, and Pat was too good a friend of Gertie’s to be trusted.  There was no telephone at the store.  Issy entered the combination grocery store and post office.

“Has the down mail closed yet?” he panted.

The postmaster looked out of his little window.

“Yes,” he replied.  “Why?  Got a letter you want to go?  Take it up to the depot.  The train’s due, but ’tain’t here yit.  If you run you can make it.”

Issy took a card from his pocket.  It was the business card of the firm to whom he sold his quahaugs.  On the back of the card he wrote in pencil as follows: 

“Mr. Beriah Higgins, your daughter Gertrude is going to meet Sam’l Bartlett at the Baptist Church in Trumet at 8 P.M. to-night and get married to him.  Look out!!!”

After an instant’s consideration he signed it “A True Friend,” this being in emulation of certain heroes of the Deadwood Dick variety.  Then he put the card into an envelope and ran at top speed to the railway station.  The train came in as he reached the platform.  The baggage master was standing in the door of his car.

“Here, mister!” panted Issy.  “Jest hand this letter to Beriah Higgins when he takes the mail bag at East Harniss, won’t you?  It’s mighty important.  Don’t forgit.  Thanks.”

The train moved off.  Issy stared after it, grinning malevolently.  Higgins would get that note in ample time to send word to the watchful Aunt Hannah.  When the unsuspecting eloper reached the Trumet church, it would be the aunt, not the niece, who awaited him.  Still grinning, Mr. McKay walked off the platform, and into the arms of Ed Burns, the stable keeper, and Sam Bartlett, his loathed and favored rival.

“Here he is!” shouted Burns.  “Now we’ve got him.”

The foiler of the plot turned pale.  Was his secret discovered?  But no; his captors began talking eagerly, and gradually the sense of their pleadings became plain.  They wanted him—­him, of all people—­to convey Bartlett to Trumet in the Lady May.

“You see, it’s a business meetin’,” urged Burns.  “Sam’s got to be there by ha’f past seven or he’ll—­he won’t win on the deal, will you, Sam?  Say yes, Issy; that’s a good feller.  He’ll give you—­I don’t know’s he won’t give you five dollars.”

“Ten,” cried Bartlett.  “And I’ll never forget it, either.  Will you, Is?”