The jury was out five minutes after the judge's charge, and gave Mr. Zebulun Meader a verdict of six thousand dollars and costs,--a popular verdict, from the evident approval with which it was received in the court room. Quiet being restored, Mr. Billings requested, somewhat vehemently, that the case be transferred on the exceptions to the Supreme Court, that the stenographer write out the evidence, and that he might have three weeks in which to prepare a draft. This was granted. Zeb Meader, true to his nature, was self-contained throughout the congratulations he received, but his joy was nevertheless intense. “You shook 'em up good, Austen,” he said, making his way to where his counsel stood. “I suspicioned you'd do it. But how about this here appeal?” “Billings is merely trying to save the face of his railroad,” Austen answered, smiling. “He hasn't the least notion of allowing this case to come up again--take my word for it.” “I guess your word's good,” said Zeb. “And I want to tell you one thing, as an old man. I've been talkin' to Putnam County folks some, and you hain't lost nothin' by this.” “How am I to get along without the friendship of Brush Bascom?” asked Austen, soberly. Mr. Meader, who had become used to this mild sort of humour, relaxed sufficiently to laugh. “Brush did seem a mite disgruntled,” he remarked. Somewhat to Austen's embarrassment, Mr. Mender's friends were pushing forward. One grizzled veteran took him by the hand and looked thoughtfully into his face. “I've lived a good many years,” he said, “but I never heerd 'em talked up to like that. You're my candidate for governor.” CHAPTER VI. ENTER THE LION It is a fact, as Shakespeare has so tersely hinted, that fame sometimes comes in the line of duty. To be sure, if Austen Vane had been Timothy Smith, the Mender case might not have made quite so many ripples in the pond with which this story is concerned. Austen did what he thought was right. In the opinion of many of his father's friends whom he met from time to time he had made a good-sized stride towards ruin, and they did not hesitate to tell him so--Mr. Chipman, president of the Ripton National Bank; Mr. Greene, secretary and treasurer of the Hawkeye Paper Company, who suggested with all kindness that, however noble it may be, it doesn't pay to tilt at windmills. “Not unless you wreck the windmill,” answered Austen. A new and very revolutionary point of view to Mr. Greene, who repeated it to Professor Brewer, urging that gentleman to take Austen in hand. But the professor burst out laughing, and put the saying into circulation.