At this remark of his son’s, the intermittent geyser of old Tom’s wrath spouted up again with scalding steam, and in a manner utterly impossible to reproduce upon paper.  Young Tom waited patiently for the exhibition to cease, which it did at length in a coughing fit of sheer exhaustion that left his father speechless, if not expressionless, pointing a lean and trembling finger in the direction of a valise on the floor.

“You’ll go off in a spell of that kind some day,” said young Tom, opening the valise and extracting a bottle.  Uncorking it, he pressed it to his father’s lips, and with his own pocket-handkerchief (old Tom not possessing such an article) wiped the perspiration from Mr. Gaylord’s brow and the drops from his shabby black coat.  “There’s no use gettin’ mad at Austen.  He’s dead right—­you can’t lobby this thing through, and you knew it before you started.  If you hadn’t lost your temper, you wouldn’t have tried.”

“We’ll see, by G-d, we’ll see,” said the indomitable old Tom, when he got his breath.  “You young men think you know a sight, but you haven’t got the stuff in you we old Tellers have.  Where would I be if it wasn’t for fightin’?  You mark my words, before this session’s ended I’ll scare h-l out of Flint—­see if I don’t.”

Young Tom winked at his friend.

“Let’s go down to supper,” he said.

The dining room of the Pelican Hotel during a midweek of a busy session was a scene of bustle and confusion not likely to be forgotten.  Every seat was taken, and gentlemen waited their turn in the marble-flagged rotunda who had not the honour of being known to Mr. Giles, the head waiter.  If Mr. Hamilton Tooting were present, and recognized you, he would take great pleasure in pointing out the celebrities, and especially that table over which the Honourable Hilary Vane presided, with the pretty, red-checked waitress hovering around it.  At the Honourable Hilary’s right hand was the division superintendent, and at his left, Mr. Speaker Doby—­a most convenient and congenial arrangement; farther down the board were State Senator Nat Billings, Mr. Ridout (when he did not sup at home), the Honourables Brush Bascom and Elisha Jane, and the Honourable Jacob Botcher made a proper ballast for the foot.  This table was known as the Railroad Table, and it was very difficult, at any distance away from it, to hear what was said, except when the Honourable Jacob Botcher made a joke.  Next in importance and situation was the Governor’s Table—­now occupied by the Honourable Asa Gray.  Mr. Tooting’s description would not have stopped here.

Sensations are common in the Pelican Hotel, but when Austen Vane walked in that evening between the Gaylords, father and son, many a hungry guest laid down his knife and fork and stared.  Was the younger Vane (known to be anti-railroad) to take up the Gaylords’ war against his own father?  All the indications were that way, and a rumour flew from table to table-leaping space, as rumours will—­that the Gaylords had sent to Ripton for Austen.  There was but one table in the room the occupants of which appeared not to take any interest in the event, or even to grasp that an event had occurred.  The Railroad Table was oblivious.