“It’s nothin’, son; it’s nothin’.  It’s my temperament:  I can’t help it.  Did you say you were from the ‘Courier’?  Well, you better give Mort a good send-off.  He appreciates a good job; he’s a sort o’ literary cuss himself.”

As another mirthful spasm seemed imminent Dan retired, wondering just what in himself or in his errand had so moved the fat editor’s risibilities.  He learned at the Bassett Bank that Mr. Bassett was spending the day in a neighboring town, but would be home at six o’clock, so he surveyed Fraserville and killed time until evening, eating luncheon and supper with sundry commercial travelers at the Grand Hotel.

Harwood’s instructions were in every case to take the subjects of his sketches at their own valuation and to set them forth sympathetically.  The ambitions of most of the gentlemen he had interviewed had been obvious—­obvious and futile.  Nearly every man who reached the legislature felt a higher call to Congress or the governor’s chair.  Harwood had already described in the “Courier” the attainments of several statesmen who were willing to sacrifice their private interests for the high seat at the state capitol.  The pettiness and sordidness of most of the politicians he met struck him humorously, but the tone of his articles was uniformly laudatory.

When the iron gate clicked behind him at the Bassett residence, his notebook was still barren of such anecdotes of his subject as he had usually gathered in like cases in an afternoon spent at the court-house.  Stories of generosity, of the kindly care of widows and orphans, gifts to indigent pastors, boys helped through college, and similar benefactions had proved altogether elusive.  Either Harwood had sought in the wrong places or Morton Bassett was of tougher fibre than the other gentlemen on whom his pencil had conferred immortality.  In response to his ring a boy opened the door and admitted him without parley.  He had a card ready to offer, but the lad ran to announce him without waiting for his name and reappeared promptly.

“Papa says to come right in, sir,” the boy reported.

Dan caught a glimpse of a girl at the piano in the parlor who turned to glance at him and continued her playing.  The lad indicated an open door midway of the long hall and waited for Harwood to enter.  A lady, carrying a small workbasket in her hand, bade the reporter good-evening as she passed out.  On a table in the middle of the room a checkerboard’s white and black belligerents stood at truce, and from the interrupted game rose a thick-set man of medium height, with dark hair and a close-trimmed mustache, who came toward him inquiringly.

“Good-evening.  I am Mr. Bassett.  Have a chair.”

Harwood felt the guilt of his intrusion upon a scene so sheltered and domestic.  The father had evidently been playing checkers with his son; the mother’s chair still rocked by another table on which stood a reading lamp.