“That’s right!” broke in Thatcher eagerly; “that’s what I’ve been wanting somebody to say!  It’s so beautiful, so wonderful; the hope and promise are so immense!  You believe it; I can see you do!” he concluded happily.

His hand stole shyly from the pocket that seemed to be its inevitable hiding-place, and paused uncertainly; then he thrust it out, smiling.

“Will you shake hands with me?”

“Let us be old friends,” replied Dan heartily.  “And now I’ve got to get out of here or I’ll lose my job.”

“Then I should have to get you another.  I never meant to keep you so long.  You’ve been mighty nice about it.  I suppose I couldn’t help you—­I mean about dad?  All you wanted was to see father or find you couldn’t.”

“I had questions to ask him, of course.  They were about a glass-factory deal with Bassett.”

“Oh, I dare say they bought them!  He asked me if I didn’t want to go into the glass business.  He talks to me a lot about things.  Dad’s thinking about going to the Senate.  Dad’s a Democrat, like Jefferson and Jackson.  If he goes to the Senate I’ll have a chance to see the wheels go round at Washington.  Perfectly bully for me!”

Harwood grinned at the youth’s naive references to Edward Thatcher’s political ambitions.  Thatcher was known as a wealthy “sport,” and Dan had resented his meddling in politics.  But this was startling news—­that Thatcher was measuring himself for a senatorial toga.

“You’d better be careful!  There’s a good story in that!”

“But you wouldn’t!  You see, I’m not supposed to know!”

“Bassett and your father will probably pull it off, if they try hard enough.  They’ve pulled off worse things.  If you’re interested in American types you should know Bassett.  Ever see him?”

Allen laughed.  His way of laughing was pleasant; there was a real bubbling mirth in him.

“No; but I read about him in the ‘Courier,’ which they always have follow them about—­I don’t know why.  It must be that it helps them to rejoice that they are so far away from home; but I always used to read it over there, I suppose to see how much fun I missed!  And at a queer little place in Switzerland where we were staying—­I remember, because our landlord had the drollest wart on his chin—­a copy of the ‘Courier’ turned up on a rainy day and I read it through.  A sketch of Bassett tickled me because he seemed so real.  I felt that I’d like to be Morton Bassett myself,—­the man who does things,—­the masterful American,—­a real type, by George!  And that safe filled with beautiful bindings; it’s fine to know there are such fellows.”

“Your words affect me strangely; I wrote the piece!”

“Now that is funny!” Allen glanced at Dan with frank admiration.  “You write well—­praise from Sir Hubert—­I scribble verses myself!  So our acquaintance really began a long time ago.  It must have been last October that we were at that place.”