"Tangling is tangling, Mrs. Whitby. Pay up."
"I don't have five shillings on me."
"Then you'll have to owe me."
"I could bake you something instead."
"After your admission about Tuesday loaves? I think not."
"My Sunday baking is perfectly acceptable."
"Faint praise."
"HELP!" Mr. Ironwell called. "I'm becoming part of the tree!"
"We should probably help him," Marianne said.
"Should we though? He seems to be fulfilling his lifelong dream of becoming one with nature."
"That's terribly philosophical for someone concerned with basic physics."
"I contain multitudes."
"You contain sarcasm and mild social discomfort."
"Those are multitudes if you count them right."
Marianne laughed and started toward the tree. "Come on, Mr. Fletcher. Let's rescue Harold before Martha decides to leave him up there as an ornament."
"That would be festive."
"And slightly illegal."
"Only slightly?"
"Well, he volunteered."
The rescue operation took another twenty minutes and involved three ladders and a pair of scissors. By the end, Mr. Ironwell was free but his jacket was a casualty of war, and the star was still on the ground.
"Right," Marianne said, hands on her hips. "New plan. Mr. Fletcher, since you're so clever, you can climb the tree."
"I absolutely will not."
"Why not?"
"I don't climb trees. It's undignified."
"Everything about this situation is undignified."
"Exactly. No need to compound the problem."
"So your solution is to stand there being unhelpful?"
"I was extremely helpful. My counterweight idea was sound."
"Your counterweight idea resulted in Mr. Ironwell becoming a Christmas ornament."
"That was execution error, not design flaw."
