t
its adroitness as he wrote it.

But he made his state of mind even clearer. His custom had been to begin
his notes "Dear Harvey," or "Dear Sayler," and to end them "James" or
"Burbank." This note began "My dear Senator"; it ended, "Yours
sincerely, James E. Burbank." As I stared at these phrases my blood
steamed in my brain. Had he spat in my face my fury would have been
less, far less. "So!" I thought in the first gush of anger, "you feel
that you have been using me, that you have no further use for me. You
have decided to take the advice of those idiotic independent newspapers
and 'wash your hands of the corruptionist who almost defeated you'."

To make war upon him was in wisdom impossible--even had I wished. And
when anger flowed away and pity and contempt succeeded, I really did
not wish to war upon him. But there was Goodrich--the real
corruptionist, the wrecker of my plans and hopes, the menace to the
future of the party. I sent for Woodruff and together we mapped out a
campaign against the senior senator from New Jersey in all the
newspapers we could control or influence. I gave him a free hand to
use--with his unfailing discretion, of course--all the facts we had
accumulated to Goodrich's discredit. I put at his disposal a hundred
thousand dollars. As every available dollar of the party funds had been
used in the campaign, I advanced this money from my own pocket.

And I went cheerfully away to Palm Beach, there to watch at my ease the
rain of shot and shell upon my enemy.

XXVII

A DOMESTIC DISCORD

After a month in the South, I was well again--younger in feeling, and in
looks, than I had been for ten years. Carlotta and the children, except
"Junior" who was in college, had gone to Washington when I went to
Florida. I found her abed with a nervous attack from the double strain
of the knowledge that Junior had eloped with an "impossible" woman he
had met, I shall not say where, and of the effort of keeping the
calamity from me until she was sure he had really entangled himself
hopelessly.

She was now sitting among her pillows, telling the whole story. "If he
only hadn't married her!" she ended.

This struck me as ludicrous--a good woman citing to her son's discredit
the fact that he had goodness' own ideals of honor.

"What are you laughing at?" she demanded.

I was about to tell her I was hopeful of the boy chiefly because he had
thus shown the splendid courage that more than redeems fo