Neale laughed to himself at the clergyman's resentment of any ignorance of any detail of Ashley's unimportant history. ". . . as a fort against the York State men in the land-grant quarrels with New Hampshire and New York, before the Revolution." Neale, smiling inwardly, bet himself a nickel that neither of the two strangers had ever heard of the Vermont land-grant quarrels, and found himself vastly tickled by the profound silence they kept on the subject. They were evidently scared to death of starting old Bayweather off on another line. They were safe enough, if they only knew it. It was inconceivable to Mr. Bayweather that any grown person should not know all about early Vermont history. At this point Marise came out of the office, her face between laughter and exasperation. She clasped her hands together and said, "Can't you do _any_thing?" "In a minute," he told her. "I'll just finish these two letters and then I'll go and break him off short." Marise went on to the accountant's desk, to ask about his wife, who sang in her winter chorus. He dictated rapidly: "No more contracts will go out to you if this stripping of the mountain-land continues. Our original contract has in it the clause which I always insist on, that trees smaller than six inches through the butt shall not be cut. You will please give your choppers definite orders on this point, and understand that logs under the specified size will not be accepted at the mill." He held out to the stenographer the letter he was answering. "Here, Arthur, copy the name and address off this. It's one of those French-Canadian names, hard to spell if you don't see it."