"I remember," said Mr. Kinney sympathetically. "Well, life's odd enough
as we look back."

"Probably it's going to be odder still--if we could look forward."

"Probably."

They sat and smoked.

"However," Mr. Morgan remarked presently, "I still dance like an
Indian. Don't you?"

"No. I leave that to my boy Fred. He does the dancing for the
family."

"I suppose he's upstairs hard at it?"

"No, he's not here." Mr. Kinney glanced toward the open door and
lowered his voice. "He wouldn't come. It seems that a couple of years
or so ago he had a row with young Georgie Minafer. Fred was president
of a literary club they had, and he said this young Georgie got
himself elected instead, in an overbearing sort of way. Fred's red-
headed, you know--I suppose you remember his mother? You were at the
wedding--"

"I remember the wedding," said Mr. Morgan. "And I remember your
bachelor dinner--most of it, that is."

"Well, my boy Fred's as red-headed now," Mr. Kinney went on, "as his