The silver lining of the Democratic cloud had not greatly disturbed Morton Bassett.  He had been a delegate to the national convention of 1896, but not conspicuous in its deliberations; and in the subsequent turbulent campaign he had conducted himself with an admirable discretion.  He was a member of the state committee and the chairman was said to be of his choosing.  Bassett stood for party regularity and deplored the action of those Democrats who held the schismatic national convention at Indianapolis and nominated the Palmer and Buckner ticket on a gold-standard platform.  He had continued to reelect himself to the senate without trouble, and waited for the political alchemists of his party to change the silver back to gold.  The tariff was, after all, the main issue, Bassett held; but it was said that in his business transactions during these vexed years he had stipulated gold payment in his contracts.  This was never proved; and if, as charged, he voted in 1896 for Republican presidential electors it did not greatly matter when a considerable number of other Hoosier Democrats who, to outward view were virtuously loyal, managed to run with both hounds and hare.  Bassett believed that his party would regain its lost prestige and come into power again; meanwhile he prospered in business, and wielded the Democratic minority at the state house effectively.

Dan presented himself punctually at the Whitcomb House where Bassett, with his bag packed, sat reading a magazine.  He wore a becoming gray suit without a waistcoat, and a blue neglige shirt, with a turnover collar and a blue tie.  He pulled up his creased trousers when he sat down, and the socks thus disclosed above his tan Oxfords proved to be blue also.  His manner was cordial without effusiveness; when they shook hands his eyes met Dan’s with a moment’s keen, searching gaze, as though he sought to affirm at once his earlier judgment of the young man before him.

“I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Harwood.  I was to be in town for the day and named this hour knowing I should be free.”

“I supposed you were taking it easy at Lake Waupegan.  I remember you told me you had a place there.”

Bassett’s eyes met Dan’s quickly; then he answered:—­

“Oh, I ought to be there, but I’ve only had a day of it all summer.  I had to spend a lot of time in Colorado on some business; and when I struck Waupegan I found that matters had been accumulating at home and I only spent one night at the lake.  But I feel better when I’m at work.  I’m holding Waupegan in reserve for my old age.”

“You don’t look as though you needed a vacation,” remarked Dan.  “In fact you look as though you’d had one.”

“The Colorado sun did that.  How are things going with you?”

“Well, I’ve kept busy since I saw you in Fraserville.  But I seem doomed to be a newspaper man in spite of myself.  I like it well enough, but I think I told you I started out with some hope of landing in the law.”