“Don’t get fooled on this ‘people’ idea, Harlan.  The people are no good without organization—­and organization is the party.  I don’t want to discourage you, son.  You’ll see some opportunities where you can grab in and turn a trick for the general good of all hands.  But you can’t dump your friends.  You’ve got to stand by your own party first.  You do anything else, and you’ll simply get the reputation of being a kicker and an insurgent.  And then you can’t spin a thread.  Your own party doesn’t want you and the other side is afraid of you. Ideals are blasted good in their way, but in politics cut out the I and attend to the deals.  It’s the only way you’ll get anywhere.”

Harlan sat alone for a while and thought.  Rebellion seethed in him.  But it was rebellion against something vague—­protest that was more instinct than actual understanding.  He still lacked the prick of party enthusiasm; party, as he had seen its operations, stood for some pretty sordid actualities.  One thing comforted him:  he had not lost his faith in General Waymouth.  His grandfather’s cynicism had not destroyed that.  He realized that his youth and his lack of experience would make him a very humble cog in the legislative machinery.  But he had youth and high hopes, and his creed from boyhood had been to do everything that he had to do resolutely and to the full measure of his ability.

When he looked at his watch he decided that he would not go to his berth.  The train would reach the State capital shortly after four in the morning.  He dozed in his seat, the grateful breath of the summer night fanning his face through the screen.  The Duke found him there, appearing as he had departed, his coat on his arm, his collar in his hand.  He was full of the briskness of the dawn in spite of his short rations of sleep.

“You mustn’t think because you’ve found sins in the party that you’ve been picked out for the atonement, boy,” he chided, jocosely.  “Get your sleep—­always get your sleep.  I wouldn’t have been alive to-day if I’d been kept awake by worry and wonder.”

A cab took their luggage to the hotel.  They walked up the hill.  It was the old man’s suggestion.

“It’ll do us good.  This air beats any cocktail you can get over Luke’s bar—­and they serve as good a one as you’ll get anywhere, even if this is a prohibition State.”

“Wasn’t it Governor Waymouth who signed the first prohibition bill in this State?” asked Harlan.

“Still dwelling on visions of reform, eh?” inquired his grandfather, smiling broadly.  He did not reply immediately.  He stepped ahead, for they were obliged to walk in single file past a man who was sweeping sawdust across the sidewalk.  In the windows that flanked the open doors of his shop dusty cigar boxes were piled.  The shelves within were empty.  Harlan recognized the nature of the establishment.  It was a grog-shop in its partial disguise.  He got the odor of stale liquors from the open door as he passed.