“Who’s that?” he demanded of his son, “another d-d fool?”

“No,” replied young Tom, “it’s Austen Vane.”

“What’s he doin’ here?” old Tom demanded, with a profane qualification as to the region.  But young Tom seemed to be the only being capable of serenity amongst the flames that played around him.

“I sent for him because he’s got more sense than Galusha and all the rest of ’em put together,” he said.

“I guess that’s so,” old Tom agreed unexpectedly, “but it ain’t sayin’ much.  Bring him in—­bring him in, and lock the door.”

In obedience to these summons, and a pull from young Tom, Austen entered and sat down.

“You’ve read the Pingsquit bill?” old Tom demanded.

“Yes,” said Austen.

“Just because you won a suit against the Northeastern, and nearly killed a man out West, Tom seems to think you can do anything.  He wouldn’t, give me any peace until I let him send for you,” Mr. Gaylord remarked testily.  “Now you’re down here, what have you got to propose?”

“I didn’t come here to propose anything, Mr. Gaylord,” said Austen.

“What!” cried Mr. Gaylord, with one of his customary and forceful exclamations.  “What’d you come down for?”

“I’ve been asking myself that question ever since I came, Mr. Gaylord,” said Austen, “and I haven’t yet arrived at any conclusion.”

Young Tom looked at his friend and laughed, and Mr. Gaylord, who at first gave every indication of being about to explode with anger, suddenly emitted a dry cackle.

“You ain’t a d-n fool, anyway,” he declared.

“I’m beginning to think I am,” said Austen.

“Then you’ve got sense enough to know it,” retorted old Tom.  “Most of ’em haven’t.”  And his glance, as it fell upon the younger man, was almost approving.  Young Tom’s was distinctly so.

“I told you Austen was the only lawyer who’d talk common sense to you,” he said.

“I haven’t heard much of it yet,” said old Tom.

“Perhaps I ought to tell you, Mr. Gaylord,” said Austen, smiling a little, “that I didn’t come down in any legal capacity.  That’s only one of Tom’s jokes.”

“Then what in h—­l did you bring him in here for?” demanded old Tom of his son.

“Just for a quiet little powwow,” said young Tom, “to make you laugh.  He’s made you laugh before.”

“I don’t want to laugh,” said old Tom, pettishly.  Nevertheless, he seemed to be visibly cooling.  “If you ain’t in here to make money,” he added to Austen, “I don’t care how long you stay.”

“Say, Austen,” said young Tom, “do you remember the time we covered the old man with shavings at the mills in Avalon, and how he chased us with a two-by-four scantling?”