I hardly know how to describe this same Grant Harlson.  At this stage of my story it is scarcely requisite that I should, but the account is loose and vagrant and with no chronology.  Physically, he was more than most men, six feet in height, deep of chest, broad-shouldered, strong-legged and strong-featured, and ever in good health, so far as all goes, save the temporary tax on recklessness nature so often levies, and the other irregular tax she levies by some swoop of the bacilli of which the doctors talk so much and know so little.  I mean only that he might catch a fever with a chill addition if he lay carelessly in some miasmatic swamp on some hunting expedition, or that, in time of cholera, he might have, like other men, to struggle with the enemy.  But he tossed off most things lightly, and had that vitality which is of heredity, not built up with a single generation, though sometimes lost in one.  Forest and farm-bred, college-bred, city-fostered and broadened and hardened.  A man of the world, with experiences, and in his quality, no doubt, the logical, inevitable result of such experiences—­one with a conscience flexile and seeking, but hard as rock when once satisfied.  One who never, intentionally, injured a human being, save for equity’s sake.  One who, of course, wandered in looking for what was, to him, the right, but who, having once determined, was ever steadfast.  A man who had seen and known and fed and felt and risked, but who seemed to me always as if his religion were:  “What shall I do?  Nature says so-and-so, and the Power beyond rules nature.”  Laws of organization for political purposes, begun before Romulus and Remus, and varied by the dale-grouped Angles or the Northmen’s Thing, did not seem to much impress him.  He recognized their utility, wanted to improve them, made that his work, and eventually observed most of them.  This, it seemed to me, was his honest make-up—­a Berseker, a bare-sark descendant of the Vikings, in a dress-coat.  He had passions, and gratified them sometimes.  He had ambitions, and worked for them.  He had a conscience, and was guided by it.

It was always interesting to me to look at him in youthful fray, more so, years afterward, in club or in convention, or anywhere, and try to imagine him the country small boy.  Keen, hard, alert in all the ways of a great city, it was difficult to conceive him in his early youth, well as I knew it; difficult to reflect that his dreams at night were not of the varying results of some late scheme, nor of white shoulders at the opera, nor the mood of the Ninth Ward, nor of the drift of business, but of some farm-house’s front yard in mid-summer with a boy aiming a long shot-gun at a red-winged poacher in a cherry tree, or that he saw, in sleep, the worn jambs beside the old-fashioned fireplace where, winter mornings, he kicked on his frozen boots, and the living-room where, later in the morning, he ate so largely of buckwheat cakes.  He was a figure, wicked some said, a schemer many said, a rock of refuge for his friends said more.  This was the man, no uncommon type in the great cities of the great republic.