That is what the old Gentleman said every time.  Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years.  The words themselves almost formed an Institution.  Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence.  Always before they had been music in Stuffy’s ears.  But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman’s face with tearful agony in his own.  The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow.  But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind.

Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly.  He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him.  A son who would come there after he was gone—­a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say:  “In memory of my father.”  Then it would be an Institution.

But the Old Gentleman had no relatives.  He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park.  In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk.  In the spring he walked in the Easter parade.  In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day.  In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner.  These were the Old Gentleman’s occupations.

Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity.  The Old Gentleman’s eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure.  His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends.  And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot.  Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy’s old formula of acceptance.

“Thankee, sir.  I’ll go with ye, and much obliged.  I’m very hungry, sir.”

The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy’s mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution.  His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it.  True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition some one must be a repetend—­a repeating decimal.  The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold.  See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin.

The Old Gentleman led his annual protege southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred.  They were recognized.

“Here comes de old guy,” said a waiter, “dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving.”

The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition.  The waiters heaped the table with holiday food—­and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger’s expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay.