remembering that all my misfortunes had flowed like a stream from the
niggard economy of my parents in the matter of school luncheons; and I
knew of no reason to think they had reformed.

On the road between Succotash Hill and South Asphyxia is a little open
field which once contained a shanty known as Pete Gilstrap's Place,
where that gentleman used to murder travelers for a living. The death of
Mr. Gilstrap and the diversion of nearly all the travel to another road
occurred so nearly at the same time that no one has ever been able to
say which was cause and which effect. Anyhow, the field was now a
desolation and the Place had long been burned. It was while going afoot
to South Asphyxia, the home of my childhood, that I found both my
parents on their way to the Hill. They had hitched their team and were
eating luncheon under an oak tree in the center of the field. The sight
of the luncheon called up painful memories of my school days and roused
the sleeping lion in my breast. Approaching the guilty couple, who at
once recognized me, I ventured to suggest that I share their
hospitality.

"Of this cheer, my son," said the author of my being, with
characteristic pomposity, which age had not withered, "there is
sufficient for but two. I am not, I hope, insensible to the hunger-light
in your eyes, but--"

My father has never completed that sentence; what he mistook for
hunger-light was simply the earnest gaze of the hypnotist. In a few
seconds he was at my service. A few more sufficed for the lady, and the
dictates of a just resentment could be carried into effect. "My former
father," I said, "I presume that it is known to you that you and this
lady are no longer what you were?"