ome ground and had the choice of weapons.

"I do not wish to bother you long," said Austen.

"No bother," answered Mr. Flint, "no bother to make the acquaintance of
the son of my old friend, Hilary Vane. Sit down--sit down. And while I
don't believe any man should depend upon his father to launch him in
the world, yet it must be a great satisfaction to you, Mr. Vane, to have
such a father. Hilary Vane and I have been intimately associated for
many years, and my admiration for him has increased with every year. It
is to men of his type that the prosperity, the greatness, of this nation
is largely due,--conservative, upright, able, content to confine himself
to the difficult work for which he is so eminently fitted, without
spectacular meddling in things in which he can have no concern.
Therefore I welcome the opportunity to know you, sir, for I understand
that you have settled down to follow in his footsteps and that you will
make a name for yourself. I know the independence of young men--I was
young once myself. But after all, Mr. Vane, experience is the great
teacher, and perhaps there is some little advice which an old man can
give you that may be of service. As your father's son, it is always at
your disposal. Have a cigar."

The thin secretary continued to flit about the room, between the
letter-files and the desk. Austen had found it infinitely easier to
shoot Mr. Blodgett than to engage in a duel with the president of the
United Railroad.

"I smoke a pipe," he said.

"Too many young men smoke cigars--and those disgusting cigarettes," said
Mr. Flint, with conviction. "There are a lot of worthless young men in
these days, anyhow. They come to my house and loaf and drink and smoke,
and talk a lot of nonsense about games and automobiles and clubs, and
cumber the earth generally. There's a young man named Crewe over
at Leith, for instance--you may have seen him. Not that he's
dissipated--but he don't do anything but talk about railroads and the
stock market to make you sick, and don't know any more about 'em than my
farmer."

During this diatribe Austen saw his opening growing smaller and smaller.
If he did not make a dash for it, it would soon be closed entirely.

"I received a letter this morning, Mr. Flint, enclosing me an annual
pass--"

"Did Upjohn send you one?" Mr. Flint cut in; "he ought to have done so
long ago. It was probably an oversight that he did not, Mr. Vane. We try
to extend the courtesies o