"Dalyrimple, you've got brains and you've got the stuff in you-- and that's what I want. I'm going to put you into the State Senate." "The WHAT?" "The State Senate. We want a young man who has got brains, but is solid and not a loafer. And when I say State Senate I don't stop there. We're up against it here, Dalyrimple. We've got to get some young men into politics--you know the old blood that's been running on the party ticket year in and year out." Dalyrimple licked his lips. "You'll run me for the State Senate?" "I'll PUT you in the State Senate." Mr. Fraser's expression had now reached the point nearest a smile and Dalyrimple in a happy frivolity felt himself urging it mentally on--but it stopped, locked, and slid from him. The barn-door and the jaw were separated by a line strait as a nail. Dalyrimple remembered with an effort that it was a mouth, and talked to it. "But I'm through," he said. "My notoriety's dead. People are fed up with me." "Those things," answered Mr. Fraser, "are mechanical. Linotype is a resuscitator of reputations. Wait till you see the HERALD, beginning next week--that is if you're with us--that is," and his voice hardened slightly, "if you haven't got too many ideas yourself about how things ought to be run." "No," said Dalyrimple, looking him frankly in the eye. "You'll have to give me a lot of advice at first." "Very well. I'll take care of your reputation then. Just keep yourself on the right side of the fence." Dalyrimple started at this repetition of a phrase he had thought of so much lately. There was a sudden ring at the door-bell. "That's Macy now," observed Fraser, rising. "I'll go let him in. The servants have gone to bed." He left Dalyrimple there in a dream. The world was opening up suddenly-- The State Senate, the United States Senate--so life was this after all--cutting corners--common sense, that was the rule. No more foolish risks now unless necessity called--but it was being hard that counted-- Never to let remorse or self-reproach lose him a night's sleep--let his life be a sword of courage--there was no payment--all that was drivel--drivel. He sprang to his feet with clinched hands in a sort of triumph. "Well, Bryan," said Mr. Macy stepping through the portières. The two older men smiled their half-smiles at him. "Well Bryan," said Mr. Macy again. Dalyrimple smiled also. "How do, Mr. Macy?" He wondered if some telepathy between them had made this new appreciation possible--some invisible realization. . . . Mr. Macy held out his hand. "I'm glad we're to be associated in this scheme--I've been for you all along--especially lately. I'm glad we're to be on the same side of the fence." "I want to thank you, sir," said Dalyrimple simply. He felt a whimsical moisture gathering back of his eyes. The Four Fists