the article. Bassett didn't seem to
care about it one way or another. I rewrote most of that stuff half a
dozen times to be sure to get the punk out of it, because I knew he
hated punk."

"You did, did you! Well, McNaughton of Tippecanoe County is the next
standard-bearer you're to tackle, and you needn't be afraid to pin
ribbons on him. You college fellows are all alike. Try to remember,
Harwood, that this paper ain't the 'North American Review'; it's a
newspaper for the plain people."

Dan, at some personal risk, saw to it that the illustrations were so
minimized that it became unnecessary to sacrifice his text to
accommodate it to the page set apart for it. He read his screed in type
with considerable satisfaction, feeling that it was an honest piece of
work and that it limned a portrait of Bassett that was vivid and
truthful. The editor-in-chief inquired who had written it, and took
occasion to commend Harwood for his good workmanship. A little later a
clerk in the counting-room told him that Bassett had ordered a hundred
copies of the issue containing the sketch, and this was consoling.
Several other subjects had written their thanks, and Dan had rather
hoped that Bassett would send him a line of approval; but on reflection
he concluded that it was not like Bassett to do so, and that this
failure to make any sign corroborated all that he knew or imagined of
the senator from Fraser.

CHAPTER VII

SYLVIA AT LAKE WAUPEGAN

The snow lay late the next year on the Madison campus. It had been a
busy winter for Sylvia, though in all ways a happy one. When it became
known that she was preparing for college all the Buckeye Lane folk were
anxious to help. Professor Kelton would not trust his own powers too far
and he availed himself of the offers of members of the faculty to tutor
Sylvia in their several branches. Buckeye Lane was proud of Sylvia and
glad that the old professor found college possible for her. Happiness
reigned in the cottage, and days were not so cold or snows so deep but
that Sylvia and her grandfather went forth for their afternoon tramp.
There was nothing morbid or anaemic about Sylvia. Every morning she
pulled weights and swung Indian clubs with her windows open. A
mischievous freshman who had thrown a snowball at Sylvia's heels, in the
hope of seeing her jump, regretted his bad manners: Sylvia caught him in
the ear with an unexpected return shot. A senior who observed the
incident dealt i