Close by, the "train-crier" was calling in a high, nasal voice: "Train for Mountwille, Doncaster, Downington, Philadelphy, _and_ Noo York! First stop Mountwille!" "And, Luke——" "Yes, father?" "Don’t make charges when you don’t know facts." "Perhaps I have a weakness that way," Luke smiled. His smile conjured another. "That’s right; now you’re showing the proper spirit." With his free hand, the elder man patted the younger’s shoulder. "Stick to your books and stick to Leighton. Gratitude is the best virtue—and the rarest." Luke nodded. "Now, get aboard," concluded his counselor. "Got your pass?—and the checks?—I’ll be running over occasionally, I dare say.—And let me know if I can do anything for you." Luke clambered into the smoking-car. He took a seat on the side near the station and waved his hand to his father as the engine began to snort. He paid his fare to the conductor, and, when Americus was well behind him, he opened the window, tore the pink pass into a dozen small pieces and let the clean April breeze carry them away. At Doncaster he changed to the Pullman car that was there attached to the train; he again carefully chose his seat, this time selecting one on the side from which he could the better enjoy his first view of New York. He had always liked this view when it came to him on his returns to Boston after his vacations; it wakened in him the dreams of the day which should light him into the city, there to work for its salvation and the nation’s. His youthful dreams were still with him, and, since the moment when the sun had rent the Susquehanna mists, he was looking forward to that sight of the southernmost walls of New York towering like the ramparts of a mighty fortress above the crowded waters of the Jersey City ferry. Then, indeed, with the battle yet to be fought, he would feel as the crusaders must have felt at their first sight of Jerusalem. But Luke’s train was late, and by the time that it reached the point from which the city should have been visible, the mists had again descended. They had deepened. All that Luke, with straining eyes, could see were a few spectral turrets, distorted and ugly in the thickened atmosphere, swaying overhead upon waves of yellow fog. §2. Jack Porcellis, with his mother’s motor, met Luke. They were driven to the apartment-house in Thirty-ninth Street where, upon Jack’s advice, Huber had written to engage two small rooms and bath. It was Jack Porcellis (his real name was John Jay Porcellis) who had District-Attorney Leighton for a brother-in-law and had induced that official to give Luke a place on the staff of the public prosecutor.