the furnace fires of America’s industries were brought down from Heaven by Protection, a modern Prometheus of a new order of utilitarian gods.  In the view of these earnest debaters, Protection was the first and last commandment, the law and the prophets.  The “Indianapolis Advertiser” and protection newspapers generally had long attacked periodically those gentlemen who, enjoying the sheltered life of college and university, were corrupting the youth of the land by questioning the wisdom of the fire-kindling god.  There was a wide margin between theory and practice, between academic dilletantism and a prosperous industrial life fostered and shielded by acts of Congress.  It required courage for young men bred in the popular faith to turn their backs upon the high altar, so firmly planted, so blazing with lamps of perpetual adoration.

While Dan was considering the politician’s offer, a letter from home brought a fresh plea for help, and strengthened a growing feeling that his wiser course was to throw in his fortunes with Bassett.  In various small ways Mr. Fitch had shown an interest in Harwood, and Dan resolved to take counsel of the lawyer before giving his answer.

The little man sat in his private room in his shirt sleeves, with his chair tipped back and his feet on his desk.  He was, in his own phrase, “thinking out a brief.”  He fanned himself in a desultory fashion with a palm leaf.  Dan had carried in an arm load of books which Fitch indicated should be arranged, back-up, on the floor beside him.

Dan lingered a moment and Fitch’s “Well” gave him leave to proceed.  He stated Bassett’s offer succinctly, telling of his visit to Fraserville and of the interview at the Whitcomb.  When he had concluded Fitch asked:—­

“Why haven’t you gone ahead and closed the matter?  On the face of it it’s a good offer.  It gives you a chance to read law and to be associated with a man who is in a position to be of great service to you.”

“Well, to tell the truth, sir, I have had doubts.  Bassett stands for some things I don’t approve of—­his kind of politics, I mean.”

“Oh!  He doesn’t quite square with your ideals, is that it?”

“I suppose that is it, Mr. Fitch.”

The humor kindled in the little man’s brown eyes, and his fingers played with his whitening red beard.

“Just how strong are those ideals of yours, Mr. Harwood?”

“They’re pretty strong, I hope, sir.”

Fitch dropped his feet from the desk, opened a drawer, and drew out a long envelope.

“It may amuse you to know that this is the sketch of Bassett you printed in the ‘Courier’ last fall.  I didn’t know before that you wrote it.  No wonder it tickled him.  And—­er—­some of it is true.  I wouldn’t talk to any other man in Indiana about Bassett.  He’s a friend and a client of mine.  He doesn’t trust many people; he doesn’t”—­the little man’s eyes twinkled—­“he doesn’t trust Wright!—­and he trusts