“How am I to get along without the friendship of Brush Bascom?” asked Austen, soberly.

Mr. Meader, who had become used to this mild sort of humour, relaxed sufficiently to laugh.

“Brush did seem a mite disgruntled,” he remarked.

Somewhat to Austen’s embarrassment, Mr. Mender’s friends were pushing forward.  One grizzled veteran took him by the hand and looked thoughtfully into his face.

“I’ve lived a good many years,” he said, “but I never heerd ’em talked up to like that.  You’re my candidate for governor.”

CHAPTER VI

ENTER THE LION

It is a fact, as Shakespeare has so tersely hinted, that fame sometimes comes in the line of duty.  To be sure, if Austen Vane had been Timothy Smith, the Mender case might not have made quite so many ripples in the pond with which this story is concerned.  Austen did what he thought was right.  In the opinion of many of his father’s friends whom he met from time to time he had made a good-sized stride towards ruin, and they did not hesitate to tell him so—­Mr. Chipman, president of the Ripton National Bank; Mr. Greene, secretary and treasurer of the Hawkeye Paper Company, who suggested with all kindness that, however noble it may be, it doesn’t pay to tilt at windmills.

“Not unless you wreck the windmill,” answered Austen.  A new and very revolutionary point of view to Mr. Greene, who repeated it to Professor Brewer, urging that gentleman to take Austen in hand.  But the professor burst out laughing, and put the saying into circulation.

Mr. Silas Tredway, whose list of directorships is too long to print, also undertook to remonstrate with the son of his old friend, Hilary Vane.  The young lawyer heard him respectfully.  The cashiers of some of these gentlemen, who were younger men, ventured to say—­when out of hearing —­that they admired the championship of Mr. Mender, but it would never do.  To these, likewise, Austen listened good-naturedly enough, and did not attempt to contradict them.  Changing the angle of the sun-dial does not affect the time of day.

It was not surprising that young Tom Gaylord, when he came back from New York and heard of Austen’s victory, should have rushed to his office and congratulated him in a rough but hearty fashion.  Even though Austen had won a suit against the Gaylord Lumber Company, young Tom would have congratulated him.  Old Tom was a different matter.  Old Tom, hobbling along under the maples, squinted at Austen and held up his stick.

“Damn you, you’re a lawyer, ain’t you?” cried the old man.

Austen, well used to this kind of greeting from Mr. Gaylord, replied that he didn’t think himself much of one.

“Damn it, I say you are.  Some day I may have use for you,” said old Tom, and walked on.

“No,” said young Tom, afterwards, in explanation of this extraordinary attitude of his father, “it isn’t principle.  He’s had a row with the Northeastern about lumber rates, and swears he’ll live till he gets even with ’em.”