“Did Upjohn send you one?” Mr. Flint cut in; “he ought to have done so long ago.  It was probably an oversight that he did not, Mr. Vane.  We try to extend the courtesies of the road to persons who are looked up to in their communities.  The son of Hilary Vane is at all times welcome to one.”

Mr. Flint paused to light his cigar, and Austen summoned his resolution.  Second by second it was becoming more and more difficult and seemingly more ungracious to return a gift so graciously given, a gift of no inconsiderable intrinsic value.  Moreover, Mr. Flint had ingeniously contrived almost to make the act, in Austen’s eyes, that of a picayune upstart.  Who was he to fling back an annual pass in the face of the president of the Northeastern Railroads?

“I had first thought of writing you a letter, Mr. Flint,” he said, “but it seemed to me that, considering your relations with my father, the proper thing to do was to come to you and tell you why I cannot take the pass.”

The thin secretary paused in his filing, and remained motionless with his body bent over the drawer.

“Why you cannot take it, Mr. Vane?” said the railroad president.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I appreciate the—­the kindness,” said Austen, “and I will try to explain.”  He drew the red cardboard from his pocket and turned it over.  “On the back of this is printed, in small letters, ’It is understood that this pass is accepted by the recipient as a retainer.’”

“Well,” Mr. Flint interrupted, smiling somewhat blandly, “how much money do you think that pass would save an active young lawyer in a year?  Is three hundred dollars too much?  Three hundred dollars is not an insignificant sum to a young man on the threshold of his practice, is it?”

Austen looked at Mr. Flint.

“Any sum is insignificant when it restricts a lawyer from the acceptance of just causes, Mr. Flint.  As I understand the matter, it is the custom of your railroad to send these passes to the young lawyers of the State the moment they begin to give signs of ability.  This past would prevent me from serving clients who might have righteous claims against your railroads, and—­permit me to speak frankly—­in my opinion the practice tends to make it difficult for poor people who have been injured to get efficient lawyers.”

“Your own father is retained by the railroad,” said Mr. Flint.

“As their counsel,” answered Austen.  “I have a pride in my profession, Mr. Flint, as no doubt you have in yours.  If I should ever acquire sufficient eminence to be sought as counsel for a railroad, I should make my own terms with it.  I should not allow its management alone to decide upon the value of my retainer, and my services in its behalf would be confined strictly to professional ones.”

Mr. Flint drummed on the table.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“I mean that I would not engage, for a fee or a pass, to fight the political battles of a railroad, or undertake any political manipulation in its behalf whatever.”