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 guests all listened to Fairchild with a sort of noncommittal attention. “You can always tell him because he wears congress boots all the time—”

“Congress boots?” murmured Major Ayers, staring at him. Fairchild explained, raising his foot above the level of the table to demonstrate.

“Sure. On the street, at formal gatherings, even in evening dress he wears ’em. He even wears ’em in bathing.”

“In bathing? I say.” Major Ayers stared at the narrator with his round china-blue eyes.

“Sure. Won’t let any one see him barefoot. A family deformity, you see. Old Hickory himself had it: that’s the reason he outfought the British in those swamps. He’d never have whipped ’em otherwise. When you get to town, go down to Jackson square and look at that statue of the old fellow. He’s got on congress boots.” He turned to the Semitic man. “By the way, Julius, you remember about Old Hickory’s cavalry, don’t you?” The Semitic man was noncommittal, and Fairchild continued:

“Well, the old general bought a place in Florida. A stock farm, they told him it was, and he gathered up a bunch of mountaineers from his Tennessee place and sent ’em down there with a herd of horses. Well, sir, when they got there they found the place was pretty near all swamp. But they were hardy folks, so they lit right in to make the best of it. In the meantime—”

“Doing what?” asked the nephew.

“Huh?” said Fairchild.

“What were they going to do in Florida? That’s what we all want to know,” Mrs. Wiseman said.

“Sell real estate to the Indians,” the Semitic man suggested. Major Ayers stared at him with his little blue eyes.

“No, they were going to run a dude ranch for the big