Harwood stated his errand, and Bassett merely nodded, offering none of those protestations of surprise and humility, those pleas of unworthiness that his predecessors on Dan’s list had usually insisted upon.  Dan made mental note at once of the figure before him.  Bassett’s jaw was square and firm—­power was manifest there, unmistakably, and his bristling mustache suggested combativeness.  His dark eyes met Harwood’s gaze steadily—­hardness might be there, though their gaze was friendly enough.  His voice was deep and its tone was pleasant.  He opened a drawer and produced a box of cigars.

“Won’t you smoke?  I don’t smoke myself, but you mustn’t mind that.”  And Harwood accepted a cigar, which he found excellent.  A moment later a maid placed on the table beside the checkerboard a tray, with a decanter and glasses, and a pitcher of water.

“That’s for us,” remarked Bassett, nodding toward the glasses.  “Help yourself.”

“The cigar is all I need; thank you.”

The reporter was prepared to ask questions, following a routine he had employed with other subjects, but Bassett began to talk on his own initiative—­of the town, the county, the district.  He expressed himself well, in terse words and phrases.  Harwood did not attempt to direct or lead:  Bassett had taken the interview into his own hands, and was imparting information that might have been derived from a local history at the town library.  Dan ceased, after a time, to follow the narrative in his absorption in the man himself.  Harwood took his politics seriously and the petty politicians with whom he had thus far become acquainted in his newspaper work had impressed him chiefly by their bigotry or venality.  It was not for nothing that he had worshiped at Sumner’s feet at Yale and he held views that were not readily reconcilable with parochial boss-ships and the meek swallowing of machine-made platforms.  Bassett was not the vulgar, intimate good-fellow who slapped every man on the back—­the teller of good stories over a glass of whiskey and a cigar.  He was, as Pettit had said, a new type, not of the familiar cliche.  The decanter was a “property” placed in the scene at the dictates of hospitality; the checkerboard canceled any suggestion of conviviality that might have been conveyed by the decanter of whiskey.

Bassett’s right hand lay on the table and Dan found himself watching it.  It was broad but not heavy; the fingers that opened and shut quietly on a small paperweight were supple.  It was a hand that would deal few blows, but hard ones.  Harwood was aware, at a moment when he began to be bored by the bald facts of local history, that Bassett had abruptly switched the subject.