There was a small frame house, the kitchen door just inside and to the left of the front door.  Jim Nudd was inside.  Somehow the house caught on fire, in the kitchen.  Jim came to the kitchen door and was nearly hysterical with amazement.  "Good Lord." he kept saying, "what a terrible fire-it's awful, it's awful."  The flames could only be seen once in a while, licking past the edge of the front door.  Soon, however, Jim had to come out, and he was still raving about it.  He was bare from the shoulders to the waist and was redder than a bad sunburn, all the way to his wrists.  I was red too, but not as much as he was.  We went to a tree some distance from the house.  I stood forlornly, and soon put my head against the tree and started crying.  "Don't give a damn about it, Gilbert," he said.  "But there goes my past, my memories," I kept saying.  Although the house did not look like it, it seemed to be 506 Woodburn Place in my hometown.