Jim was born in a white house on a green corner. It had four weather-beaten pillars in front and a great amount of lattice-work in the rear that made a cheerful criss-cross background for a ﬂowery sun-drenched lawn. Originally the dwellers in the white house had owned the ground next door and next door to that and next door to that, but this had been so long ago that even Jim's father scarcely remembered it. He had, in fact, thought it a matter of so little moment that when he was dying from a pistol wound got in a brawl be neglected even to tell little Jim, who was five years old and miser ably frightened. The white house became a boarding house run by a tight-lipped lady from Macon, whom Jim called Aunt Mamie and detested with all his soul.