“Did I say so?”

“No.  But you did say that he would play the game with the chips that are on the table, not with sugar-plums.”

“And you construe that to mean that I’m pulling him into this thing so as to be able to work him in the interests of the machine, eh?” inquired the Duke, putting into brutal speech even more than his grandson’s vague suspicions suggested.  “Now, look here!  You remember Pod McClintock and his epileptic fits?  You know he fell into a barbed-wire fence in a fit, and told around afterward how he had been to heaven, and the devil met him on his way back and clawed him for spite?  Well, now don’t you go to imitating Pod.  There’s more or less barbed wire in politics—­any man gets afoul of it.  But don’t lay it to the devil.  That will be elevating accidents onto too high a plane.  If Vard Waymouth is the next Governor of this State there’ll be some wire fences that he won’t be able to sit on.  There’ll be too many barbs.  We’ll put top rails onto all the fences we can.  But you can’t make any fence safe for those that are bound to butt head-first into barbed wire.  Waymouth isn’t the kind to do any butting.  I’ll tell you this, Harlan, and it’s straight:  if I help to make Waymouth our next Governor, I’ll help to make him a good one—­provided he needs any of my help in that line.  Now go and attend to your business.”

There were few at the railroad station, and those few paid little heed to General Waymouth when he stepped down from the train.  The young man greeted him with eager respect, and explained why he was there.

The General took his arm and walked to the carriage.  “This is restful.  I’m glad to see you here,” he said.  “But to-morrow,” he added, bitterly, “if I am fool enough to be dragged back into politics, I’ll be met wherever I go by men that fawn and men that seek—­by that crowd I thought and hoped I had escaped forever.  I was very hasty, Mr. Thornton, when I gave my word to your grandfather.  I fear I must hold you responsible just because you were present.”  He smiled as the young man took his seat opposite.  “But you constituted a new element in politics.  I had been having my dreams in the peace of my home—­and one of those dreams was to see the young men of this State breaking away from the political bondage of the fathers.  But I’m afraid I am older than I thought.  I have an old man’s fears.  I have had enough—­too much—­of the contact of men.  Now this next idea is fanciful—­another proof that I’m old—­in my dotage, perhaps.”  His tone was gently playful.  “I told you the other day that you seemed to typify the young strength of the State.  So I’m going to appeal to you, young man—­I cannot very well appeal to the rest, for they are not in the secret—­I’m going to beg of you, Mr. Second Generation, to release me from my promise.  What say you?—­and remember that I’m an old man who has fought the good fight and is very weary.”

“I’ve got to confess there isn’t much wit and humor in me—­there doesn’t seem to be just now,” stammered Harlan, after groping some moments for suitable reply to what he accepted as badinage.