He could not speak for joy, for pride. His dark eyes were illumined by a glancing, amber light. He took off his hat and smoothed with his rough hand his long black hair, falling from his massive forehead. He leaned against one of the stunted oaks, shouldering his rifle that he had loaded for Grinnell--he could hardly believe this, although he remembered it. He did not want to shoot Grinnell; he would not waste the good lead! And indeed Grinnell had much ado to defend himself against the sneers and rebukes with which the party beguiled the way through the wintry woods. “Ter go a-claimin' another man's land, an' put him ter the expense o' processionin' it, an' git his line run!” exclaimed the blacksmith, indignantly. “An' ye 'ain't got nare sign o' a show at Moses' tables!” “I dunno how this hyar line air a-runnin',” declared Grinnell, sorely beset. “I don't b'lieve it air a-runnin' north.” The surveyor was hard by. He had planted his staff again, and was once more taking his bearings. He looked up for a second. “Northwest,” he said. Grinnell stared for a moment; then strode up to the surveyor, and pointed with his stubby finger at a word on his deed. The official looked with interest at it; he held up suddenly Purdee's grant and read aloud, “From Crystal Spring seven hundred poles _northwest_ to a stake in the middle of the river.” He examined, too, the original plat of survey which he had taken to guide him, and also the plat made when Squire Bates sold to Grinnell's father; “_northwest_” they all agreed. There was evidently a clerical error on the part of the scrivener who had written Grinnell's deed. In a moment the harassed man saw that through the processioning of Purdee's land he had lost heavily in the extent of his supposed possessions. He it was who had claimed what was rightfully another's. And because of the charge Purdee was the richer by a huge slice of mountain land--how large he could not say, as he ruefully followed the line of survey.