However, they insisted on standing by. We arrived in Washington one hot August morning, left all our eminent counsel in their favorite hotel, and went empty handed to the Capitol, where neither of us had been before. We wandered about for half an hour, trying to find the place where the Committee sat. It was a special Committee with no room of its own. We were directed at last to the Rivers and Harbors Committee room. It was full of smoke, electric fans and men in attitudes of waiting. Six, looking very significant, sat around a long table covered with green cloth. Others to the number of thirty or forty sat on chairs against the walls. At a smaller table were the reporters with reams of paper in front of them. “Is this the Committee that wants to see Henry M. Galt?” he asked, standing on the threshold. “It is,” said the man at the head of the table. He was the chairman. He sat with one leg over the arm of his chair, his back to the door, and did not turn or so much as move a hair. He spoke in that loud, disembodied voice which makes the people’s business seem so impressive to the multitude and glared at us through the back of his head. “I am that person,” said Galt. “You have delayed us a quarter of an hour,” said the chairman, still with his back to us. “You were hard to find,” said Galt, very simply, looking about for a place to sit. A chair was placed for him at the opposite end of the table. There was no place for me, so I stood a little aside. Goldfuss, whom I had never seen and had not yet identified, sat beside the chairman. They had their heads together, whispering. The chairman spoke. “The question is raised as to whether witness may be permitted to appear with counsel. It is decided in the negative. Counsel will be excused.” Silence. Nothing happened. “Counsel will be excused,” said the chairman again. Still nothing happened. “If you are talking at me,” said Galt, “I have no counsel. I didn’t bring any,--that is, I left them at the hotel.” “Who is the gentleman with you?” the chairman asked. “Oh,” said Galt, looking at me. “That’s all right. He’s my secretary. He doesn’t know any more law than I do.” There was a formal pause. The official stenographer leaned toward Galt, speaking quietly, and took his name, age, address and occupation. The chairman said, “Proceed.” Goldfuss poised himself for theatrical effect. He was a small, body-conscious man with a coarse, loose skin, very close shaven, powdered, sagging at the jowls; a tiny wire mustache, unblinking blue eyes close together and a voice like the sound of a file in the teeth of a rusty saw. “So this is the great Galt,” he said, sardonically, slowly bobbing his head. “And you,” said Galt, “are the Samuel Goldfuss who once tried to blackmail me for a million dollars.” Oh, famous beginning! The crowd was tense with delight. Goldfuss, looking aggrieved and disgusted, turned to the chairman, saying: “Will the Committee admonish the witness?”