“Only a New England pedigree!” exclaims Adams, in indignant wonder. “Why, sir, when you say ‘The best pedigree in New England,’ you have spoken of the best pedigree in the world!” “Waiving that,” returns Hamilton, “I may at least assure you, sir, that in New York your best New England pedigree does not invoke the reverence which you seem to pay it. No, sir; the success of Colonel Burr was the result of no pedigree. No one cared whether he were the grandson of Jonathan Edwards or Tom o’ Bedlam. Colonel Burr won by lies and trickery; by the same methods through which a thief might win possession of your horse. Stripping the subject of every polite veneer of phrase, the fellow stole his victory.” At this harshness Adams looks horrified, while Jefferson, who has listened with interest, shrugs his wide shoulders. Washington appears wondrously impressed. Strong, honest, slow, he is in no wise keen at reading men. Hamilton--quick, supple, subservient, a brilliant flatterer--has complete possession of him. He admires Hamilton, rejoices in him in a large, bland manner of patronage. [Illustration: 0173] The pair, in their mutual attitudes, are not unlike a huge mastiff and some small vivacious, spiteful, half-bred terrier that makes himself the mastiff’s satellite. Terrier Hamilton--brisk, busy, overbearing, not always honest--rushes hither and yon, insulting one man, trespassing on another. Let the insulted one but threaten or the injured one pursue, at once Terrier Hamilton takes skulking refuge behind Mastiff Washington. And the latter never fails Terrier Hamilton. Blinded by his overweening partiality, a partiality that has no reason beyond his own innate love of flattery, Washington ever saves Hamilton blameless, whatever may have been his evil deeds. Washington constitutes Hamilton’s stock in national trade. In New York, Hamilton is the rusty Schuyler’s son-in-law--heir to his riches, lieutenant of his name. In the nation at large, however, Hamilton traffics on that confident nearness to Washington, and his known ability to pull or haul or lead the big Virginian any way he will. To have a full-blown President to be your hand gun is no mean equipment, and Hamilton, be sure, makes the fullest, if not the most honest or honorable, use of it. “Now I do not think it was either the noble New England blood of Colonel Burr, or his skill as a politician, that defeated General Schuyler.” The voice--while not without a note of jeering--is bell-like and deep, the thoughtful, well-assured voice of Jefferson. Washington glances at his angular, sandy-haired Secretary of State. “What was it, then,” he asks.