fire of his eye somehow burned into me an impression—­since effaced—­that a just cause is not imperiled by a trifling concession to fact.  So, leaving the matter quite in my editor’s hands I went away to keep some important engagements, the paragraph having involved me in several duels with the friends of Mr. Broskin.  I thought it rather hard that I should have to defend my new editor’s policy against the supporters of my own candidate, particularly as I was clearly in the right and they knew nothing whatever about the matter in dispute, not one of them having ever before so much as heard of the now famous Warm Springs asylum.  But I would not shirk even the humblest journalistic duty; I fought these fellows and acquitted myself as became a man of letters and a politician.  The hurts I got were some time healing, and in the interval every prominent member of my party who came to Claybank to speak to the people regarded it as a simple duty to call first at my house, make a tender inquiry as to the progress of my recovery and leave a challenge.  My physician forbade me to read a line of anything; the consequence was that Masthead had it all his own way with the paper.  In looking over the old files now, I find that he devoted his entire talent and all the space of the paper, including what had been the advertising columns, to confessing that our candidate had been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, and contemptuously asking the opposing party what they were going to do about it.

All this time Mr. Broskin made no sign; but when the challenges became intolerable I indignantly instructed Mr. Masthead to whip round to the other side and support my brother-in-law.  Masthead “sank the individual,” and duly announced, with his accustomed frankness, our change of policy.  Then Mr. Broskin came down to Claybank—­to thank me!  He was a fine, respectable-looking gentleman, and impressed me very favorably.  But Masthead was in when he called, and the effect upon him was different.  He shrank into a mere heap of old clothes, turned white, and chattered his teeth.  Noting this extraordinary behavior, I at once sought an explanation.

“Mr. Broskin,” said I, with a meaning glance at the trembling editor, “from certain indications I am led to fear that owing to some mistake we may have been doing you an injustice.  May I ask you if you were really ever in the Lunatic asylum at Warm Springs, Missouri?”

“For three years,” he replied, quietly, “I was the physician in charge of that institution.  Your son”—­turning to Masthead, who was flying all sorts of colors—­“was, if I mistake not, one of my patients.  I learn that a few weeks ago a friend of yours, named Norton, secured the young man’s release upon your promise to take care of him yourself in future.  I hope that home associations have improved the poor fellow.  It’s very sad!”

It was indeed.  Norton was the name of the man to whom I had written for an editor, and who had sent me one!  Norton was ever an obliging fellow.