"I suppose I am," the young man admitted, "but he has always taught me to form an opinion of my own and to hold it when once well formed, and until recently he seemed pleased at what he termed my individuality and independence. But now I can’t do or say a thing to please him. I’m no child, and not a fool, I hope; then, why should I be treated as if I had no sense at all? What have I done that he should turn against me? He treats everyone else with consideration and respect. He even has toleration of Uncle William’s dates," he added, mischievously thrusting at the old fellow for the recent stand he had taken, knowing that, with him, it was the policy of the moment rather than the conviction of the hour. "What!" exclaimed William, with a bat of eye and a swell of jaw. "Turned loose on me, have you? Well, I want to tell you, sir, that I won’t stand it. I am aware that my forbearance heretofore may have misled you with regard to the extent of my endurance, but I want to say that you have made a mistake. I am treated with consideration and respect everywhere except in this household, and I won’t stand it, that’s all." "Thank you," Howard replied. "Thank me! Thank me for what?" "You said, ’that’s all,’ and I thank you for it." Mrs. Elbridge interposed with a mild and smiling admonition. She shook her finger at Howard. "Let him go ahead, Rachel," the old fellow spoke up. "Let him go ahead as far as his strength will permit him. He’s—he’s set himself against us, and as he runs riot in the privilege of the spoiled heir, why, I guess we’ll have to stand it—as long as we can. Of course, there’ll come a time when all bodily and moral strength will fail us, but until then let him go ahead. Yes, has set himself against us." "Us, did you say, Uncle Billy? You are evidently one of the us. Who’s the other?" Howard asked, immensely tickled, for the warmth of the family joke was most genial to him. "I don’t want any of your Uncle Billying. I always know what to expect when you begin that." "I began it the other night and ended by giving you a meerschaum pipe, didn’t I?" "Oh, meerschaum. Chalk—if there ever was a piece used by a tailor to mark out the angles of a raw-boned man—that pipe’s chalk. You could no more color it than you could a door-knob." "A friend of mine brought it from Germany, Uncle Billy." "Did he? He brought it from a German beer garden, where they peddle them in baskets and sell them by the paper bag full, like popcorn. I had my suspicions at the time." "But you were willing to run the risk of acceptance because your pipe was so strong." The old fellow put down his knife and fork and, straightening up, looked at Howard as if he would bore him through. "I deny your slander, sir." "So do I," said Howard. "You do what?" "Deny the slander—unless there is slander in truth." "Howard, you remind me of a cart-horse, treading on his trace chains. You remind me—I don’t know what you remind me of."