“He’d make a good governor,” said Sayler.
“Yes—if I could get some hold on him.”
Sayler’s eyes were amused. Said he—and he had the habit of being intensely relevant while seeming to be most irrelevant:
“Curious jaw, that young fellow’s got. Did you notice how long it is from ear to chin? There’s a foolish notion about that—a long chin is a sign of strength. It means nothing—nor does a short chin. It’s the length of the jaw that makes persistence—endurance—and the unafraidness that advances without a tremor where even courage hesitates. An interesting young man.”
Hazelrigg had never heard so long—or so puzzling—a speech from his secret chieftain. He said desperately:
“I give you fair warning, Senator, he may make it damned interesting for us if we aren’t careful.”
Sayler laughed pleasantly. “I wish he would. I’m tired of fighting mere cranks—or knaves attacking us simply to shake us down. Why is it, Hazelrigg, that the best can be changed into the worst? To find an absolutely abandoned woman, don’t look among the girls from the lower classes. Find one born a lady, bred a lady. To get a chap who’ll swallow any insult with gusto, who’ll do any kind of dirty work with pleasure—go among the fallen gentlemen. Several in this club.”
Sayler strolled away. Hazelrigg was laughing—uncomfortably. He said to himself, “Well, if the Senator was rapping me, he was banging his own conk, too.”
Sayler had brought Helm and Miss Clearwater together at his house the night before—had arranged it as soon as their chance meeting in his presence had revealed to his shrewd eyes that there was something peculiar in their relations, something unwarranted by so casual an acquaintance as theirs apparently had been. And when, after he had seen to it that they were left alone together, he had found them in a state of nervousness that indicated anything but a smooth session, he had decided that Helm had made the mistake of proposing too precipitately—and had been refused. He now went down to the Capitol to hunt Helm up.
An extraordinary amount of trouble for so distinguished a man to take about an almost obscure youth of rugged appearance, one he knew hardly at all. But Sayler was a profound man. It had been said of him that he had ruined more young men than any man of his time. It was his habit to seek out any youth who showed, to his acute insight into human nature, indications of unusual abilities. As there are not many such under our system of crushing in infancy or near it, all but a very few of the very strongest or luckiest, he had plenty of time left over for his other affairs. When he had won the personal liking of such a young man, he proceeded to show him—by ways of most delicate subtlety—how wise and sensible and just it was for a man of ambition to come in with the triumphant classes, and not let any academic sentimentality attach him to the lost and hopeless and morally doubtful cause of the masses.