So the president’s manner was hearty, but not the substance.  It came, Austen thought, from a rarity of meeting with men on a disinterested footing; and he could not but wonder how Mr. Flint would treat the angels in heaven if he ever got there, where there were no franchises to be had.  Would he suspect them of designs upon his hard won harp and halo?  Austen did not dislike Mr. Flint; the man’s rise, his achievements, his affection for his daughter, he remembered.  But he was also well aware that Mr. Flint had thrown upon him the onus of the first move in a game which the railroad president was used to playing every day.  The dragon was on his home ground and had the choice of weapons.

“I do not wish to bother you long,” said Austen.

“No bother,” answered Mr. Flint, “no bother to make the acquaintance of the son of my old friend, Hilary Vane.  Sit down—­sit down.  And while I don’t believe any man should depend upon his father to launch him in the world, yet it must be a great satisfaction to you, Mr. Vane, to have such a father.  Hilary Vane and I have been intimately associated for many years, and my admiration for him has increased with every year.  It is to men of his type that the prosperity, the greatness, of this nation is largely due,—­conservative, upright, able, content to confine himself to the difficult work for which he is so eminently fitted, without spectacular meddling in things in which he can have no concern.  Therefore I welcome the opportunity to know you, sir, for I understand that you have settled down to follow in his footsteps and that you will make a name for yourself.  I know the independence of young men—­I was young once myself.  But after all, Mr. Vane, experience is the great teacher, and perhaps there is some little advice which an old man can give you that may be of service.  As your father’s son, it is always at your disposal.  Have a cigar.”

The thin secretary continued to flit about the room, between the letter-files and the desk.  Austen had found it infinitely easier to shoot Mr. Blodgett than to engage in a duel with the president of the United Railroad.

“I smoke a pipe,” he said.

“Too many young men smoke cigars—­and those disgusting cigarettes,” said Mr. Flint, with conviction.  “There are a lot of worthless young men in these days, anyhow.  They come to my house and loaf and drink and smoke, and talk a lot of nonsense about games and automobiles and clubs, and cumber the earth generally.  There’s a young man named Crewe over at Leith, for instance—­you may have seen him.  Not that he’s dissipated —­but he don’t do anything but talk about railroads and the stock market to make you sick, and don’t know any more about ’em than my farmer.”

During this diatribe Austen saw his opening growing smaller and smaller.  If he did not make a dash for it, it would soon be closed entirely.

“I received a letter this morning, Mr. Flint, enclosing me an annual pass—­”