"I don't want to be a descendant," he said; "I'd rather be an
ancestor. Look at those." Proudly he exhibited photographs of
Mrs. Wyckoff with the baby and of three other little Wyckoffs.
David looked with envy at the children.

"When I'm married," he stammered, and at the words he blushed, "I
hope to be an ancestor."

"If you're thinking of getting married," said Wyckoff, "you'd
better hope for a raise in salary."

The other clerks were as unsympathetic as Wyckoff. At first when
David showed them his parchment certificate, and his silver gilt
insignia with on one side a portrait of Washington, and on the
other a Continental soldier, they admitted it was dead swell.
They even envied him, not the grandfather, but the fact that
owing to that distinguished relative David was constantly
receiving beautifully engraved invitations to attend the monthly
meetings of the society; to subscribe to a fund to erect
monuments on battle-fields to mark neglected graves; to join in
joyous excursions to the tomb of Washington or of John Paul
Jones; to inspect West Point, Annapolis, and Bunker Hill; to be
among those present at the annual "banquet" at Delmonico's. In
order that when he opened these letters he might have an
audience, he had given the society his office address.

In these communications he was always addressed as "Dear
Compatriot," and never did the words fail to give him a thrill.
They seemed to lift him out of Burdett's salesrooms and Broadway,