That was the real beginning. After that the years rolled placidly along. He went to Egypt, under his beloved chief, and there found exactly what he had dreamed. The desert, the pyramids, the sculptures, the ancient writings, the buried tombs and temples--all those Galusha saw and took, figuratively speaking, for his own. On his return he settled down to the study of Egyptology, its writings, its history, its every detail. He made another trip to the beloved land and distinguished himself and his museum by his discoveries. His chief died and Galusha was offered the post left vacant. He accepted. Later--some years later--he was called to the National Institute at Washington. When he was thirty-seven his Aunt Clarissa died. She left all her property to her nephew. But she left it in trust, in trust with Cousin Gussie. There was a letter to the latter in the envelope with the will. “He is to have only the income, the income, understand--until he is forty-five,” Aunt Clarissa had written. “Heaven knows, I am afraid even THAT is too young for a child such as he is in everything except pyramids.” Cousin Gussie, now the dignified and highly respected senior partner of Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot, took charge of the Bute--now the Bangs--property. There was not as much of it as most people had supposed; since Uncle Joshua passed on certain investments had gone wrong, but there was income enough to furnish any mortal of ordinary tastes with the means of gratifying them and still have a substantial residue left. Galusha understood this, in a vague sort of way, but he did not care. Outside of his beloved profession he had no tastes and no desires. Life for him was, as Cousin Gussie unfeelingly put it, “one damned mummy after the other.” In fact, after the arrival of the first installment of income, he traveled posthaste to the office of his Boston relative and entered a protest. “You--you mustn't send any more, really you mustn't,” he declared, anxiously. “I don't know what to do with it.” “DO with it? Do with the money, you mean?” “Yes--yes, that's it.” “But don't you need it to live on?” “Oh, dear me, no!” “What DO you live on?” “Why, my salary.” “How much is your salary, if you don't mind telling us?” Galusha did not in the least mind. The figure he named seemed a small one to his banking relative, used to big sums. “Humph!” grunted the latter; “well, that isn't so tremendous. They don't overpay you mummy-dusters, do they? And you really don't want me to send you any more?” “No, not if you're sure you don't mind.” “Oh, I don't mind. Then you want me to keep it and reinvest it for you; is that it?” “I--I think so. Yes, reinvest it or--ah--something.” “But you may need some of it occasionally. If you do you will notify me, of course.” “Oh, yes; yes, indeed. Thank you very much. It's quite a weight off my mind, really it is.” Cabot could not help laughing. Then a thought struck him.