That wouldn’t be suggesting anything. His father could understand that as he chose, and doubtless he would understand it as it was meant, as a dutiful and affectionate desire on the part of a son to make his old father happy for a moment. Continuing his train of thought, Tracy said to himself, “Ah, but if he should cable me to come home! I—I—couldn’t do that—I _mustn’t_ do that. I’ve started out on a mission, and I mustn’t turn my back on it in cowardice. No, no, I couldn’t go home, at—at—least I shouldn’t want to go home.” After a reflective pause: “Well, maybe—perhaps—it would be my _duty_ to go in the circumstances; he’s very old and he does need me by him to stay his footsteps down the long hill that inclines westward toward the sunset of his life. Well, I’ll think about that. Yes, of course it wouldn’t be right to stay here. If I—well, perhaps I could just drop him a line and put it off a little while and satisfy him in that way. It would be—well, it would mar everything to have him require me to come instantly.” Another reflective pause—then: “And yet if he should do that I don’t know but—oh, dear me—_home!_ how good it sounds! and a body is excusable for wanting to see his home again, now and then, anyway.” He went to one of the telegraph offices in the avenue and got the first end of what Barrow called the “usual Washington courtesy,” where “they treat you as a tramp until they find out you’re a congressman, and then they slobber all over you.” There was a boy of seventeen on duty there, tying his shoe. He had his foot on a chair and his back turned toward the wicket. He glanced over his shoulder, took Tracy’s measure, turned back, and went on tying his shoe. Tracy finished writing his telegram and waited, still waited, and still waited, for that performance to finish, but there didn’t seem to be any finish to it; so finally Tracy said: “Can’t you take my telegram?” The youth looked over his shoulder and said, by his manner, not his words: “Don’t you think you could wait a minute, if you tried?” However, he got the shoe tied at last, and came and took the telegram, glanced over it, then looked up surprised, at Tracy. There was something in his look that bordered upon respect, almost reverence, it seemed to Tracy, although he had been so long without anything of this kind he was not sure that he knew the signs of it. The boy read the address aloud, with pleased expression in face and voice. “The Earl of Rossmore! Cracky! Do you know him?” “Yes.” “Is that so! Does he know you?” “Well—yes.” “Well, I swear! Will he answer you?” “I think he will.” “Will he though? Where’ll you have it sent?” “Oh, nowhere. I’ll call here and get it. When shall I call?” “Oh, I don’t know—I’ll send it to you. Where shall I send it? Give me your address; I’ll send it to you soon’s it comes.”