Mr. Hardwick McVickar was not of those who fight as one beating the air.  While the deft waiter was clearing the table and serving the small coffees he kept silence.  But when the time was fully ripe he said what there was to be said.

“You’ve got us by the nape of the neck, as usual, Blount.  Name your terms.”

“I have named them.  Get in line with the new public opinion and we’ll do what we can for you.”

During the long pause following this curt ultimatum the masterful dictator of railroad policies deliberated thoughtfully upon many things.  With the ex-senator as the all-powerful head of the machine in this State of many costly battle-fields, it would have been a weakness inexcusable on the part of so astute a commander as McVickar if David Blount’s history, political and personal, had not been known to him in all its details.  As a contingency to be met sooner or later, the vice-president had anticipated the thing which had now come to pass.  That Blount should wish to push the fortunes of his son was perfectly natural; and it was no less natural that he should push them by making the railroad company’s pay-roll furnish the motive-power.  The magnate smiled inwardly when he remembered that he had given Gantry, the division traffic manager of the Transcontinental, a quiet hint to look up one Evan Blount, a young lawyer, on his next visit to Boston.  By all odds it would be better to wait for Gantry’s report before taking any irrevocable steps in the bargaining with Evan Blount’s father; but unhappily the crisis had arrived, and in all probability it could not be postponed.  None the less, the vice-president tried craftily for the postponement.

“You’re asking a good deal, Blount, and you don’t seem to realize it.  You are practically demanding that we lay down our arms and put a possible enemy in the saddle on the eve of a battle.  If we should agree to meet the people of this State half-way, as you suggest, what guarantee have we that we won’t be compelled to go all the way?”

The fine-lined wrinkles were appearing again at the corners of the hereditary Blount eyes.

“You can’t quite rise to the occasion, can you, Hardwick?” smiled the boss.  “You’d like to behave yourself and be good, of course; but you want to be cocksure beforehand that it isn’t going to cost too much.”

“Well, anyway, I’m going to ask for a little time in which to consider it,” was the vice-president’s final word.

“Sure!  You have all the time there is between now and the election.  Go on and do your considering.  I’ve told you what I’m going to do.”

“You know very well that we can’t allow you to do what you propose.  With an unfriendly attorney-general we might as well throw up our hands first as last.”

“All right; it’s right pointedly up to you,” was the calm reply.

The vice-president rose and dusted the cigar-ash from his coat-sleeve with the table-napkin.  When he looked up, the heavy frown was again furrowing itself between his eyes.