t that Mr. Meader would never again
be able to do physical labour of the sort by which he had supported
himself, and ended up by calling the attention of the jury to the
photographs and plans of the crossing he had obtained two days after
the accident, requesting them to note the facts that the public highway,
approaching through a dense forest and underbrush at an angle of
thirty-three degrees, climbed the railroad embankment at that point, and
a train could not be seen until the horse was actually on the track.

The jury was out five minutes after the judge's charge, and gave Mr.
Zebulun Meader a verdict of six thousand dollars and costs,--a popular
verdict, from the evident approval with which it was received in the
court room. Quiet being restored, Mr. Billings requested, somewhat
vehemently, that the case be transferred on the exceptions to the
Supreme Court, that the stenographer write out the evidence, and that he
might have three weeks in which to prepare a draft. This was granted.

Zeb Meader, true to his nature, was self-contained throughout the
congratulations he received, but his joy was nevertheless intense.

"You shook 'em up good, Austen," he said, making his way to where his
counsel stood. "I suspicioned you'd do it. But how about this here
appeal?"

"Billings is merely trying to save the face of his railroad," Austen
answered, smiling. "He hasn't the least notion of allowing this case to
come up again--take my word for it."

"I guess your word's good," said Zeb. "And I want to tell you one thing,
as an old man. I've been talkin' to Putnam County folks some, and you
hain't lost nothin' by this."

"How am I to get along without the friendship of Brush Bascom?" asked
Austen, soberly.

Mr. Meader, who had become used to this mild sort of humour, relaxed
sufficiently to laugh.

"Brush did seem a mite disgruntled," he remarked.

Somewhat to Austen's embarrassment, Mr. Mender's friends were
pushing forward. One grizzled veteran took him by the hand and looked
thoughtfully into his face.

"I've lived a good many years," he said, "but I never heerd 'em talked
up to like that. You're my candidate for governor."

CHAPTER VI. ENTER THE LION

It is a fact, as Shakespeare has so tersely hinted, that fame sometimes
comes in the line of duty. To be sure, if Austen Vane had been Timothy
Smith, the Mender case might not have made quite so many ripples in the
pond with which this story is concerned. A