I found that out the afternoon of the day the paper was published. Mr. Featherbrain stormed into the office, spluttered for a while, and finally came to the point. "Durned old paper," he raged. "Durned old article. Who writ it, anyways?" I still remembered acutely l'affaire de water faucet. "I wrote it," I replied coldly. "So what?" He towered above me, thin and menacing, his chin quivering with violent emotion. "So what!" he repeated. "So what? Ain't it bad enough to have a name that sounds like 'Featherbrain' without spellin' it 'Featherbrain'?" His bony hand rasped across the white stubble of his beard. He seemed about to break into tears. "It's too bad, all right," I said, softening a little. "But lots of people have funny names." "I don't have a funny name!" he wailed. "You're just a-tryin' to make evvybody think I have. I oughta--why--" he paused, trying to think up an awful enough fate for me, and finally fell back on his old standby: "I oughta bust evvy bone in yer head!" I was bewildered, and finally he saw that I didn't know what he was talking about. He checked his fury long enough to explain that his name was, always had been, always would be, Featherbren, Feather b-r-e-n, not Featherbrain. He stalked away. I ran outside and called after him, "Mr. Featherbrain!--I mean, Mr. featherbren!" He stopped haughtily, and waited for me to catch up with him. "I'm really sorry," I said. "Maybe this makes us even now, even though what I did wasn't intentional. Let's be friends again, shall we?" A smile spread over his face like the sun bursting out from behind clouds. His chin flushed rosily with pleasure. He grasped my hand and pumped it up and down vigorously. "I been awful sorry, what I done about yer water. I ain't been mad at yuh noways for a long time now," he said. "But a course I couldn't admit it." A bout with housecleaning having kept me in the house most of the day, I beat Grant to the office one evening when the bell rang. "I haven't set eyes on a customer all day," I told Grant. "You go read a book; I'll take care of this one." 'This one' was a lanky, nice-looking man of about forty. "That radio on the desk there," he said without preamble. "I noticed it's for rent. Guess I'll take it." "Okay. Fifty cents," I said. He flipped half a dollar toward me, picked up the radio, and exclaimed, "Sold!" "No, just rented," I answered wittily. We laughed, and he went out, carrying the radio. Grant had been listening. "Who was that?" he asked casually as I came into the living room. "A man from one of the cabins." "Which cabin?" "Well--well, I don't know. I've been cleaning house--you did the renting today." "Did you make sure that he really was staying in one of our cabins, and wasn't just someone off the highway?" Grant pursued relentlessly. "Of course. Well, that is, naturally he's not just someone--I mean, after all, he said that it was when he was renting a cabin that he noticed the radio."