"Were you with him when he died?"
"I was."
"Poor Uncle Patrick! What did you do?"
He pegged away to the sofa, and threw himself on it.
"Played the fool. Broke an arm and a thigh, and damaged my spine, and—lived. Here rest the mortal remains."
And for the next ten minutes, he mocked himself, as he only can.
One does not like to be outdone by an uncle, even by such an uncle; but it is not very easy to learn to live like Godfather Bayard.
Sometimes I wish my grandmother had not brought up her sons to such a very high pitch, and sometimes I wish my mother had let that unlucky name become extinct in the family, or that I might adopt my nickname. One could live up to Backyard easily enough. It seems to suit being grumpy and tyrannical, and seeing no further than one's own nose, so well.