head there's no getting it
out. The railroad employs the best lawyers it can find to look after its
interests. I'm one of 'em, and I'm proud of it. If I hadn't been one of
'em, the chances are you'd never be where you are, that you'd never have
gone to college and the law school. The Republican party realizes that
the Northeastern is most vitally connected with the material interests of
this State; that the prosperity of the road means the prosperity of the
State. And the leaders of the party protect the road from vindictive
assaults on it like Gaylord's, and from scatterbrains and agitators like
your friend Redbrook."

Austen shook his head sadly as he gazed at his father. He had always
recognized the futility of arguments, if argument on this point ever
arose between them.

"It's no use, Judge," he said. "If material prosperity alone were to be
considered, your contention would have some weight. The perpetuation of
the principle of American government has to be thought of. Government by
a railroad will lead in the end to anarchy. You are courting destruction
as it is."

"If you came in here to quote your confounded Emerson--" the Honourable
Hilary began, but Austen slipped around the table and took him by the arm
and led him perforce to his chair.

"No, Judge, that isn't Emerson," he answered. "It's just common sense,
only it sounds to you like drivel. I'm going now,--unless you want to
hear some more about the plots I've been getting into. But I want to say
this. I ask you to remember that you're my father, and that--I'm fond of
you. And that, if you and I happen to be on opposite sides, it won't make
any difference as far as my feelings are concerned. I'm always ready to
tell you frankly what I'm doing, if you wish to know. Good-by. I suppose
I'll see you in Ripton at the end of the week." And he pressed his
father's shoulder.

Mr. Vane looked up at his son with a curious expression. Perhaps (as when
Austen returned from the shooting of Mr. Blodgett in the West) there was
a smattering of admiration and pride in that look, and something of an
affection which had long ceased in its strivings for utterance. It was
the unconscious tribute, too,--slight as was its exhibition,--of the man
whose life has been spent in the conquest of material things to the man
who has the audacity, insensate though it seem, to fling these to the
winds in his search after ideals.

"Good-by, Austen," said Mr. Vane.

Austen got as fa