“Suppose I go over the whole plan again, from the start,” suggested Harnden.

“Joe, Mr. Britt looks real tired,” protested Mrs. Harnden from the chimney corner.  Her querulous tone fitted her lackadaisical looks; her house dress had too many flounces on it; she had a paper-covered novel in her hand.

“Yes, I am tired,” declared Britt, mournfully.  “Sort of worn out and all discouraged.  I feel terribly alone in this world.”

“Too bad!” Mrs. Harnden cooed her sympathy, affectedly.

“And I’ve been through hell’s torments in the last few hours,” declared Britt; ire succeeded his dolor.

“You must try and forget how those ingrates have abused you, Mr. Britt.  This is a beautiful story I have just finished.  You must take it with you and read it.  The love sentiment is simply elegant.  And it speaks of the sheltering walls of the home making a haven for the wounded heart.  I hope you have found this home a haven to-night.”  She rose and crossed to him and laid the novel in his hands.

Mr. Harnden shoved his own hands into his trousers pockets, throwing back his coat from his comfortable frontal convexity.  He presented a sort of full-rigged effect—­giving the appearance of one of those handy-Jack “Emergency Eddies” who make personal equipment a fad:  the upper pockets of his waistcoat bristled with pencils and showed the end of a folded rule and some calipers.  He had all sorts of chains disappearing into various pockets—­chains for keys and knife and cigar cutter and patent light.  “Tasper,” he advised, briskly, “seeing that you’re now in a happy haven, as the wife says, why waste time and temper on this town?  The only reason why I have kept my home here is because the town is solid rock and makes a good jumping-off place for me; I can get a firm toe hold.  Why do you bother with a dinky office like the one you started out for?  With your money and general eminence you can be the Governor of our state.  Sure!  I know all the men in this state.  I’ve made it my business to know ’em.  Let me be your manager and I’ll make you Governor like”—­Mr. Harnden yanked out one hand and tripped the doors of the model with a loud snap—­“like that!  Open goes the door to honors—­bang goes the door against enemies!”

Mr. Britt glanced at the title of the story in his hands—­The Flowers Along Life’s Pathway—­and perked up a bit as if he saw an opportunity to pluck some of those flowers.  But when Mr. Harnden went on to say that politics was not as expensive—­with the right manager—­as some folks supposed, Mr. Britt exhibited gloomy doubt.  “A home is about all I have in mind right now,” he declared.  “A man has got to have a happy home before his mind is free for big plans.”

“My experience exactly!” stated Mr. Harnden, graciously indicating with a wave of the hand the happy home which he rarely graced.  “And knowing what I do about the help a good home gives an enterprising man, you’ve got my full co-operation in your efforts, Tasper.”