“You have your ideals—­fine ideas of public service that I admire.  Our party needs such men as you; the young fellows couldn’t get away from us fast enough after ’96; many of the Sons of old-time Democrats joined the Republicans.  Fitch has spoken to me of you often as the kind of man we ought to push forward, and I’m willing to put you out on the firing-line, where you can work for your ideals.  My help will handicap you at first,”—­his voice grew dry and hard here,-"but once you have got a start you can shake me off as quick as you like.  It’s a perfectly selfish proposition I’m making, Harwood; it simply gets down to this, that I need your help.”

“Of course, Mr. Bassett; if I can serve you in any way—­”

“Anything you can do for me you may do if you don’t feel that you will be debasing yourself in fighting under my flag.  It’s a black flag, they say—­just as black as Thatcher’s.  I don’t believe you want to join Thatcher; the question is, do you want to stick to me?”

Bassett had spoken quietly throughout.  He had made no effort to play upon Harwood’s sympathies or to appeal to his gratitude.  He was, in common phrase, to be taken or let alone.  Harwood realized that he must either decline outright or declare his fealty in a word.  It was in no view a debatable matter; he could not suggest points of difference or even inquire as to the nature of the service to be exacted.  He was face to face with a man who, he had felt that night of their first meeting at Fraserville, gave and received hard blows.  Yet he did not doubt that if their relations terminated to-day Bassett would deal with him magnanimously.  He realized that after all it was not Bassett who was on trial; it was Daniel Harwood!

He saw his life in sharp fulgurations; the farm (cleared of debt through Bassett’s generosity, to be sure!) where his father and brothers struggled to wrest a livelihood from reluctant soil, and their pride and hope in him; he saw his teachers at college, men who had pointed the way to useful and honorable lives; and more than all, Sumner rose before him—­Sumner who had impressed him more than any other man he had ever known.  Sumner’s clean-cut visage was etched grimly in his consciousness; verily Sumner would not have dallied with a man of Bassett’s ilk.  He had believed when he left college that Sumner’s teaching and example would be a buckler and shield to him all the days of his life; and here he was, faltering before a man to whom the great teacher would have given scarce a moment’s contemptuous thought.  He could even hear the professor’s voice as he ironically pronounced upon sordid little despots of Bassett’s stamp.  And only forty-eight hours earlier he had been talking to a girl on the campus at Madison who had spoken of idealism and service in the terms of which he had thought of those things when he left college.  Even Allen Thatcher, in his whimsical fashion, stood for ideals, and dreamed of the heroic men who had labored steadfastly for great causes.  Here was his chance now to rid himself of Bassett; to breathe free air again!  On the other hand, Bassett had himself suggested that Harwood, once in a position to command attention, might go his own gait.  His servitude would be for a day only, and by it he should win eternal freedom.  He caught eagerly at what Bassett was saying, grateful that the moment of his choice was delayed.