I belonged to some good clubs--athletic, mostly--and trained regularly, and was called a fair boxer among the amateurs.

I could tell to a glass--after a lot of practise--just how much of 'steen different brands I could take without getting foolish, and I could play poker and win once in awhile.

I had a steam-yacht and a motor of my own, and it was generally stripped to racing trim.

And I wasn't tangled up with any women; actress-worship had never appealed to me.

My tastes all went to the sporting side of life and left women to the fellows with less nerve and more sentiment.
So I had lived for twenty-five years--just having the best time a fellow with an unlimited resource can have, if he is healthy.
It was then, on my twenty-fifth birthday, that I walked into dad's private library with a sonly smile, ready for the good wishes and the check that I was in the habit of getting--I'd been unlucky, and Lord knows I needed it!--and what does the dear man do?
Instead of one check, he handed me a sheaf of them, each stamped in divers places by divers banks.