of others helped. I read about
it in a book."

"I am not grudging glory to others," returned David; "I am only saying I
am proud that I am a descendant of a revolutionist."

Wyckoff dived into his inner pocket and produced a leather photograph
frame that folded like a concertina.

"I don't want to be a descendant," he said; "I'd rather be an ancestor.
Look at those." Proudly he exhibited photographs of Mrs. Wyckoff with
the baby and of three other little Wyckoffs. David looked with envy at
the children.

"When I'm married," he stammered, and at the words he blushed, "I hope
to be an ancestor."

"If you're thinking of getting married," said Wyckoff, "you'd better
hope for a raise in salary."

The other clerks were as unsympathetic as Wyckoff. At first when David
showed them his parchment certificate, and his silver gilt insignia with
on one side a portrait of Washington, and on the other a Continental
soldier, they admitted it was dead swell. They even envied him, not
the grandfather, but the fact that owing to that distinguished relative
David was constantly receiving beautifully engraved invitations to
attend the monthly meetings of the society; to subscribe to a fund to
erect monuments on battle-fields to mark neglected graves; to join in
joyous excursions to the tomb of Washington or of John Paul Jones;
to inspect West Point, Annapolis, and Bunker Hill; to be among those
present at the annual "banquet" at Delmonico's. In order that when he
opened these letters he might have an audience, he had given the society
his office address.

In these communications he was always addressed as "Dear Compatriot,"
and never did the words fail to give him a thrill. They seemed to lift
him out of Burdett's salesrooms and Broadway, and place him next to
things uncommercial, untainted, high, and noble. He did not quite know
what an aristocrat was, but he believed being a compatriot made him an
aristocrat. When customers were rude, when Mr. John or Mr. Robert was
overbearing, this idea enabled David to rise above their ill-temper, and
he would smile and say to himself: "If they knew the meaning of the
blue rosette in my button-hole, how differently they would treat me! How
easily with a word could I crush them!"

But few of the customers recognized the significance of the button.
They thought it meant that David belonged to the Y. M. C. A. or was a
teetotaler. David, with his gentle manners and pale, ascetic face, was
liabl