“My own great-grandfather,” expounded Willis, unctuously, “my own great-grandfather, Colonel Weilguse Chase, was the first white man to be hanged in New Jersey. Not that I brag unduly of it. Yet it is sweet to remember, in this age of so-called equality.... Landlord, these trout are probably more or less fit to eat. But my doctor forbids me to guzzle fish. I wonder if I might trouble you to order a little fried tripe for me? I am willing to pay extra for it, of course. Nothing sets off a dinner like a side dish of fried tripe. Or, still better, a nice juicy slice of roast shoulder of tripe. But, speaking of family--” “I’m afraid you don’t just get my point, Mr. Case,” interposed Mrs. Mosely. “I mean about family. I don’t believe in pride of ancestors--merely _as_ ancestors. But I believe in being proud of ancestors who achieved something worth while. Do you see the distinction?” “Certainly,” agreed Chase, with much profundity. “And I feel the same way. Now, out of all the millions of white men, great and small, who from time to time have infested New Jersey, there could be but _one_ ‘first white man’ hanged there. And that startling honor was reserved for my own great-grandfather. Not that I brag of it--as I said. But people like you and myself, Mrs. Mousely, can at least be honestly proud of our ancestors. Now, I suppose our genial landlord here--” “Luella!” boomed Joshua Q. Mosely, in sudden comprehension. “This--this person is pokin’ fun at you. I’ll thank you, young man--” “Speaking of family,” deftly intervened Miss Gregg, while Mosely and Vail, from opposite sides of the table, looked homicide at the unruffled Chase, “speaking of family, Clive, you remember the Bacons, who used to live just beyond Canobie, don’t you? Your father asked pompous old Standish Bacon if he happened to be descended from Sir Francis Bacon. He answered: ‘Sir Francis left no descendants. But if he had, I should be one of them.’ He--” “If Mr. Case thinks it is a gentlemanly thing to insult--” boomed Joshua Q., afresh. “That’s just like Bacon,” cut in Clive Creede, coming to the old lady’s rescue. “My father used to say--” Then he fell silent, as though his tired mind was not equal to further invention. He did not so much as recall the possibly mythical Bacon, and he had not the energy to improvise further. But Miss Gregg’s mind was never tired, nor was her endurance-trained tongue acquainted with weariness. And before Mosely could boom his protest afresh, she was in her stride once more. “You’re right,” she assured Clive. “He was just that sort. If Standish Bacon had lived in Bible times, he’d never have been content to be one of the Apostles. He’d have insisted on being all twelve of them and a couple of the High Priests thrown in. Doris, you’ll remember the time I told him that?” “Yes,” assented the girl, breaking involuntarily into the queer little child-laugh that Vail loved. “I do, indeed. And I remember what he answered. He--”