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about Julia Devlin?”
    â€œLondon.”
    â€œIs Mr. Butler’s son with him?”
    â€œI don’t see him.”
    Pray you don’t, I thought.
    â€œPlease come. He’s killing our beautiful trees.”
    â€œTwenty minutes. Open the gate and—”
    â€œHenry, don’t,” she cried.
    I ran for the car, and made Fox Trot in fifteen. The gate was open, the driveway spikes latent. The motor court and parking area were empty, the offices dark, the workmen off for the weekend.
    I jumped out of the car and squished through the mud toward the whining, growling din of Mr. Butler’s chainsaw. It stopped abruptly. There was a sharp crack and, as I rounded the house, a triumphant, “Timmmmberrrr!”
    I saw a beautiful tulip tree, tall and straight as a square rigger’s mast, quiver against the sky. It leaned, slowly at first. Then, gathering speed, it fell with a nearly silent rush of leafless limbs and hit the ground with a tremendous whoommmp .
    King, decked out in a shooting jacket, came running to me. He was red with anger and indignation. “Stop him!”
    â€œI’ll try.”
    There was real anguish in his voice. “We had four beautiful trees in the corner of the wall. You could step inside them. It was like a cathedral.”
    I suspected that if DaNang weren’t standing guard, he’d have climbed the deer fence and tried to stop Butler with his bare hands. But the big yellow dog was standing guard, hackles stiff, ears flat back. Mr. Butler sat on the fallen tree and began nonchalantly sharpening his chain with a file.
    â€œTurn off the fence,” I told King. He yelled at Mrs. King, who ran up to the house and threw the switch. “It’s off.”
    I climbed through the wire. DaNang eyed me. I said, “Call him off, Mr. Butler.”
    Butler looked up from his sharpening. “ Stay !”
    DaNang sank reluctantly on his hunches, like a gigantic rat trap set to spring.
    â€œWhat do you want, Ben?”
    â€œMrs. King called me. They’re really upset about the trees.”
    â€œNot their trees.”
    â€œI know that….What are you cutting ’em for?”
    â€œPawloski’s paying eight cents a board foot.”
    â€œSixty bucks a tree?”
    â€œFor the poplar. More like a thousand for those oaks.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.”
    â€œProper veneer wood in some of ’em.”
    They looked more like ordinary piss oak to me. I said, “Let me sell ’em to King.”
    â€œWhat’s he gonna do with ’em?”
    â€œPay you the money and leave them standing.”
    â€œNaw, I’d rather sell ’em to Pawloski.”
    â€œCome on, it’ll save you snakin’ ’em out of here.”
    He thought about it a while. Logging was back-breaking work and no fun at all with a light farm tractor. But if he asked Pawloski to send his dragger truck the price would drop even lower. And no Yankee worth his salt was going to turn his nose up at found money extorted from a city person.
    â€œBut King’s got to pay me more.”
    â€œGive me a minute, I’ll see what I can do.”
    I walked back to the fence, climbed through the strands, and spoke to King. The diplomat started trying to negotiate me downward until I asked, sternly, “Are you out of your mind?”
    At last, I reported back to Mr. Butler. “He’s getting his check book.”
    King came marching stiffly down from the house, across his lawn and through the fence that separated his field from Butler’s leased pasture. He shoved the check at Mr. Butler, But when the farmer reached for it, King snapped it back. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t cut them down when I turn my back?”
    Mr. Butler regarded him for a long moment, while I tried to think of something to soften the insult. Before I could, he picked up his saw. “Guarantee? You would have had my word, you son