“Gee, but it was great, Dad!” he exploded. “Finer’n any circus parade that ever struck this town. Only, did you hear how rottenly Hank Ebbets played the snare-drum? If I couldn’t hammer a drum better’n he does I’d learn to knit instead. I can play the drum all around any feller in that corps. And I never had a lesson, either. I just picked it up. The leader says I’m a ‘natural-born drummer.’ I wish I could be thumping a drum down South there, this minute, in a battle.” “Insubordination, general!” reproved Dad, his voice a trifle husky. “Against our agreement. Seventeen more forbidden wishes like that and you’ll have to order yourself court-martialed.” “I forgot. I’m sorry. Say, father looked el’gant in his uniform, didn’t he? Had it made to order. I heard a man behind us say a funny thing when father marched past. Someone said: ‘Joseph Brinton is more patriotic than I thought.’ And this other feller says: ‘Patriotic for revenue only.’ What does ‘patriotic for revenue only’ mean, Dad?” “It means too much nowadays, son. But it doesn’t mean your father. You can bet on that. He’s a true fighting Brinton. Right down to the ground. I used to be afraid he wasn’t. But that just shows how wrong a suspicious old fool can be.” “Wasn’t it a shame the way that horrible funeral tried to spoil the procession?” exclaimed Jimmie, off on a new tack. “What did it have to traipes across the route for, just when we were having such a good time cheering?” “When you grow up,” said Dad, “you’ll find that’s a way funerals have--and, oftenest, funerals that go by other names.” They had gained the hill’s summit, and had turned in at the gate of a house whose architecture in garish ugliness outdid that of nearly all its pretentious neighbors. Jimmie opened the front door without ceremony and stood aside to let Dad pass in. “Your headquarters, colonel!” he announced proudly. “You are hereby placed in full command of the Brinton corps. Take your post.” Dad stepped in and stood for an instant within the broad hall. The big and overfurnished rooms filled him, as always, with a sort of awe. He had long since offered Joseph the solid, early Victorian and Georgian furniture his own mother had so prized. But Marcia, who had once lived in the metropolis of Cincinnati and was an authority on all matters of taste, had rejected the offer. Mahogany, she declared, was hideously old fashioned, and rosewood was worse. Also, Sheraton and Hepplewhite styles had forever gone out; and no up-to-date home could afford to harbor their makers’ works. So the antique lumber had gone in ignominy to storage, and the big house was outfitted with the most ultramodern gems of furniture from Cincinnati, Chicago, and even far-off New York. Dad was to-day sensible, as never before, of the grandeur of his surroundings. The marble-topped center tables, the plush chairs and lambrequins, the art plaques and Rogers groups, all struck him afresh with their splendor.