“I need scarcely say, Hugh,” he added, “that your presence in the capital should not be advertised as connected with this—­legislation.  They will probably attribute it to us in the end, but if you’re reasonably careful, they’ll never be able to prove it.  And there’s no use in putting our cards on the table at the beginning.”

“No indeed, sir!” I agreed.

He took my hand and pressed it.

“Good luck,” he said.  “I know you’ll get along all right.”

A FAR COUNTRY

By Winston Churchill

BOOK 2.

X.

This was not my first visit to the state capital.  Indeed, some of that recondite knowledge, in which I took a pride, had been gained on the occasions of my previous visits.  Rising and dressing early, I beheld out of the car window the broad, shallow river glinting in the morning sunlight, the dome of the state house against the blue of the sky.  Even at that early hour groups of the gentlemen who made our laws were scattered about the lobby of the Potts House, standing or seated within easy reach of the gaily coloured cuspidors that protected the marble floor:  heavy-jawed workers from the cities mingled with moon-faced but astute countrymen who manipulated votes amongst farms and villages; fat or cadaverous, Irish, German or American, all bore in common a certain indefinable stamp.  Having eaten my breakfast in a large dining-room that resounded with the clatter of dishes, I directed my steps to the apartment occupied from year to year by Colonel Paul Barney, generalissimo of the Railroad on the legislative battlefield,—­a position that demanded a certain uniqueness of genius.

“How do you do, sir,” he said, in a guarded but courteous tone as he opened the door.  I entered to confront a group of three or four figures, silent and rather hostile, seated in a haze of tobacco smoke around a marble-topped table.  On it reposed a Bible, attached to a chain.

“You probably don’t remember me, Colonel,” I said.  “My name is Pared, and I’m associated with the firm of Watling, Fowndes, and Ripon.”

His air of marginality,—­heightened by a grey moustache and goatee a la Napoleon Third,—­vanished instantly; he became hospitable, ingratiating.

“Why—­why certainly, you were down heah with Mr. Fowndes two years ago.”  The Colonel spoke with a slight Southern accent.  “To be sure, sir.  I’ve had the honour of meeting your father.  Mr. Norris, of North Haven, meet Mr. Paret—­one of our rising lawyers...”  I shook hands with them all and sat down.  Opening his long coat, Colonel Varney revealed two rows of cigars, suggesting cartridges in a belt.  These he proceeded to hand out as he talked.  “I’m glad to see you here, Mr. Paret.  You must stay awhile, and become acquainted with the men who—­ahem—­are shaping the destinies of a great state.  It would give me pleasure to escort you about.”