"Well, I'll tell you," said the Congressman, speaking very slowly. "You came mighty near making yourself famous in the House yesterday. Your alacrity in bringing Warrington to us was the means of saving a very important bill. If he had not come at the time he did, the measure would have been delayed and probably beaten. As it was, you helped us to win the day. The measure, that is now sure of success, gives the President of the United States the right to withdraw certain public lands for the benefit of future generations. It is a part of what is popularly known as the Conservation Movement." "I am glad that I was useful," said Barry. "You are not half so glad as I am," said the Congressman, "and I am delighted to know that you take it so sensibly. You simply did your duty, and if you continue to do your duty in this modest sort of way I know that you will be a success." The telephone bell rang and Mr. Carlton answered it. As he hung up the receiver the boy said: "I was told that you wanted to see me this morning." "Yes," said Mr. Carlton, drumming on his desk with his finger tips. "Barry, can you work the typewriter?" "Yes, sir; and I have a good knowledge of stenography, too." "Well," was the response, "I suppose it may sound a little sentimental, but I have written the bill to make an appropriation for the new Naval Repair Station at Cleverly, and I want you to run it off on the typewriter. You know very well the feeling I had towards your father, and I would like to be able to say that you wrote the bill for this big improvement in your native town. It's not much, I know, but I thought you might like it." Barry's eyes were glistening. He spoke eagerly: "I think it's just fine, Mr. Carlton, and I want to assure you that I appreciate it very much indeed." Without further ado, Mr. Carlton gave him the manuscript copy of the bill, and Barry, going to a typewriter in a corner of the room, began to transcribe the document. While Barry was at work on the machine Mr. Carlton began the task of going through his mail. It was no easy job, for there were probably a hundred letters on his desk and that merely represented one day's crop. He ran an opener through one envelope after another and remarked casually as he did so: "I am waiting for my secretary, Barry. I don't know what keeps him so late." At that moment the door opened and the tall, spare form of Felix Conway, the journalist, entered the room. Mr. Carlton pretended to frown: "You're late, sir." "Yes, sir," was the reply, with mock humility. "I'm sorry to say, sir, that I overslept myself, sir." At this both men burst into laughter. Barry was so interested and so surprised that he forgot to run his typewriter. Mr. Carlton turned and noticed the look of amazement on the boy's face.