use of the instinct that bade him keep
silent. He told himself fiercely that he had nothing to be ashamed of,
nor would he have acknowledged that it was a kind of shame that bade him
refrain even from circumstantial accounts of what went on in room Number
Seven of the Pelican. He had an idea that Austen knew and silently
condemned; and how extremely maddening was this feeling to the
Honourable Hilary may well be imagined. All his life long he had deemed
himself morally invulnerable, and now to be judged and ethically found
wanting by the son of Sarah Austen was, at times, almost insupportable.
Were the standards of a long life to be suddenly reversed by a prodigal
son?

To get back to Austen. On St. Valentine's Day of that year when, to tell
the truth, he was seated in his office scribbling certain descriptions
of nature suggested by the valentines in Mr. Hayman's stationery store,
the postman brought in a letter from young Tom Gaylord. Austen laughed
as he read it. "The Honourable Galusha Hammer is well named," young Tom
wrote, "but the conviction has been gaining ground with me that a hammer
is about as much use as a shovel would be at the present time. It is not
the proper instrument." "But the 'old man'" (it was thus young Tom was
wont to designate his parent) "is pig-headed when he gets to fighting,
and won't listen to reason. If he believes he can lick the Northeastern
with a Hammer, he is durned badly mistaken, and I told him so. I have
been giving him sage advice in little drops--after meals. I tell him
there is only one man in the State who has sense enough even to shake
the Northeastern, and that's you. He thinks this a pretty good joke. Of
course I realize where your old man is planted, and that you might have
some natural delicacy and wish to refrain from giving him a jar. But
come down for an hour and let me talk to you, anyway. The new statesman
from Leith is cutting a wide swath. Not a day passes but his voice is
heard roaring in the Forum; he has visited all the State institutions,
dined and wined the governor and his staff and all the ex-governors
he can lay his hands on, and he has that hard-headed and caustic
journalist, Mr. Peter Pardriff, of the State Tribune, hypnotized. He
has some swells up at his house to hear his speech on national affairs,
among them old Flint's daughter, who is a ripper to look at, although I
never got nearer to her than across the street. As you may guess, it is
something of