“I guess so.” 

 “It must be, from the stories you have told me since I have been here. How old was Washington, anyway, when he died?” 

 “He was in his sixty-eighth year.” 

 “I think there’s some mistake about that.” 

 “No, sir. Those are the correct figures. He was born in 1732 and he died in 1799.” 

 “I’m not going to dispute you, George. I’ll take your word for it, but it always seemed to me that Washington’s age must have been a good deal greater than the histories say it was.” 

 “Why?” 

 “Because he slept in so many houses. I have figured it up and if he had spent about a quarter of an hour in every one of the houses that you say he slept in, it will figure out that he was a good deal more than sixty-seven years old. Indeed, I have begun to think that Methuselah was an infant-in-arms compared with George Washington, if ten per cent of the stories you have been telling us are true. By the way, how old was Methuselah, anyway?” 

 “‘And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred and sixty and nine years and he died.’” 

 “Well, poor old man, I should have thought he would have been ready to die. Just think of it, having to live in this world almost a thousand years! I wonder how his hearing was and if he could see straight. I have always thought that no matter how long I might live I should want people to feel when I came to die that I had a little more of a record than born in 1899 and died some time in the future.” 

 “That’s the best thing some men ever did.” 

 “What?” 

 “Why, to die. They’d give up their places to others who could fill them better.” 

 “What’s all that got to do with that old house?” 

 “Nothing. I didn’t start to talk about Methuselah.” 

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