THE UNSUCCESSFUL PARENT Kenny slept as he lived, with a genius for dreams and adventure.

He remembered moodily as he rose at noon that he had dreamed a kaleidoscopic chase, precisely like a moving picture with himself a star, in which, bolting through one taxi door and out another with a shotgun in his hand, he had valiantly pursued a youth who had, miraculously, found the crooked stick of the psaltery and stolen it.
The youth proved to be Brian.

That part was reasonable enough.

Brian was the only one who could find the thing long enough to steal it.
It was not likely to be a day for work.

That he felt righteously could not be expected.