A knock sounded upon the door, and three men entered with hats in their hands.
"Mr. Sinclair, I believe," the spokesman began.
"Yes, that's my name, and what can I do for you?" the lumberman replied.
"Well, you see," continued the other, "we've come to the city on purpose to have a talk with you about that line you had run between your land and ours."
"Well, and what about it?" snapped Sinclair.
"We've been appointed a committee to inform you that your men are cutting logs over the line, and are encroaching on the shore lots. They began day before yesterday."
"What, the men of Camp Number Three?"
"Yes."
"But that timber is mine," Sinclair replied. "I sent a surveyor there last summer and he found that the old line was wrong. A new one was run which gives me fifty rods off the rear of your shore lots."
"There must be some mistake, Mr. Sinclair," the countryman calmly returned. "Our forefathers received their lands as grants from the Crown after the Revolutionary War. A line was then run which separated the shore lots from that portion of land known as the 'Dinsmore Manor,' and there has been no dispute over it until now."