“Don’t feel sore because you didn’t get the governor you thought you were going to get when you went around preaching the gospel?” said the father, still chuckling.

“We’ve got a better man and a bigger one, I’m sure,” was the quick reply.  Then he added:  “But I think I am still doubtful about the advisability of injecting the machine principle into politics.”

The senator laughed silently.

“Call it ‘the organization’ instead of ‘the machine,’ son, and you’ve named the power that moves the civilized world to-day.  Man, the individual, is just about as helpless as a new-born baby.  If you want to reform anything, from an unjust poor-law to the tariff, your first move is to rustle up a following; after that, you’ve got to solidify your bunch of sympathizers into a working organization—­in other words, into a machine.  Isn’t that so, Professor Anners?”

The white-haired professor of palaeontology nodded sleepily.  He had been dreaming of the Megalosauridae, and had not heard the question.

“You’ve heard me called ‘the boss’ from the time Dick Gantry had his first talk with you back yonder in Massachusetts,” the senator went on, turning again to his son.  “Call me a man with friends enough to make me a sort of foreman of round-ups in the old home State, and you’ve got it about right.  I don’t say that I’ve always used the power as it ought to be used; the good Lord knows, I’m no more infallible than other folks.  You’ve gone through a heap of trouble and worry because you thought, when you got ready to knock the wedge out of the log, my fingers were going to get caught in the split, along with a lot of others.  That would have been true enough any other year but this, I reckon, so you didn’t have your fight and your worry for nothing.  I’ve bought and trafficked and bargained and compromised—­I don’t deny that—­but only when it seemed as though the end justified the means.  Maybe the end never does justify the means—­I’m open to conviction on that.  But sometimes it’s mighty easy to persuade yourself that it does.”

It was just here that the professor awoke with a start and a snort, excused himself abruptly, and stumped off to bed.  Mrs. Honoria, sitting under the drop-light and stitching patiently at her bit of stretched linen, laid the tiny embroidery-hoop aside, signalled to her husband, and vanished in her turn.  A few minutes after she had gone, the senator crossed from his corner of the fireplace to stand before the two sitting on the little sofa.

“Son,” he said gravely, “you’ve got your work cut out for you from this on, and it’s a good-sized job.  You’re going to have a string of hard fights, one after the other, and there’ll be times when you’ll long with all your soul for some good, clean-hearted, bright-minded little girl to go to for comfort and counsel.  Of course, I know that Patricia, here, has another job, but—­”

The Honorable Senator Sage-Brush had been out of sight and hearing for five full minutes when Evan Blount reached over and possessed himself of the hand that was shading a pair of deep-welled eyes from the firelight.