Mr. Flint did not answer this.  He might have had other views.

“I wonder we did not think of it before,” Mr. Worthington continued.  “A very simple remedy, and only requiring a little courage and—­and—­” (Mr. Worthington was going to say money, but thought better of it) “and the chimera disappears.  I congratulate you, Flint.”

“Congratulate yourself,” said Mr. Flint; “that would not have been my way.”

“Very well, I congratulate myself,” said the august personage, who was in too good a humor to be put out by the rejection of a compliment.  “You remember what I said:  the time was ripe, just publish a few biographical articles telling people what he was, and Jethro Bass would snuff out like a candle.  Mr. Duncan tells me the town-meeting results are very good all over the state.  Even if we hadn’t knocked out Jethro Bass, we’d have a fair majority for our bill in the next legislature.”

“You know Bass’s saying,” answered Mr. Flint, “You can hitch that kind of a hoss, but they won’t always stay hitched.”

“I know, I know,” said Mr. Worthington; “don’t croak, Flint.  We can buy more hitch ropes, if necessary.  Well, what’s the outlay up to the present?  Large, I suppose.  Well, whatever it is, it’s small compared to what we’ll get for it.”  He laughed a little and rubbed his hands, and then he remembered that capacity in which he stood before the world.  Yes, and he stood before himself in the same capacity.  Isaac Worthington may have deceived himself, but he may or may not have been a hero to his seneschal.  “We have to fight fire with fire,” he added, in a pained voice.  “Let me see the account.”

“I have tabulated the expense in the different cities and towns,” answered Mr. Flint; “I will show you the account in a little while.  The expenses in Coniston were somewhat greater than the size of the town justified, perhaps.  But Sutton thought—­”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Mr. Worthington, “if it had cost as much to carry Coniston as Newcastle, it would have been worth it—­for the moral effect alone.”

Moral effect!  Mr. Flint thought of Mr. Bixby with his bulging pockets going about the hills, and smiled at the manner in which moral effects are sometimes obtained.

“Any news, Flint?”

No news yet, Mr. Flint might have answered.  In a few minutes there might be news, and plenty of it, for it lay ready to be hatched under Mr. Worthington’s eye.  A letter in the bold and upright hand of his son was on the top of the pile, placed there by Mr. Flint himself, who had examined Mr. Worthington’s face closely when he came in to see how much he might know of its contents.  He had decided that Mr. Worthington was in too good a humor to know anything of them.  Mr. Flint had not steamed the letter open, and read the news; but he could guess at them pretty shrewdly, and so could have the biggest fool in Brampton.  That letter contained the opening scene of the next act in the drama.