"The State Senate. We want a young man who has got brains, but is solid and not a loafer. And when I say State Senate I don't stop there. We're up against it here, Dalyrimple. We've got to get some young men into politics—you know the old blood that's been running on the party ticket year in and year out."
Dalyrimple licked his lips.
"You'll run me for the State Senate?"
"I'll put you in the State Senate."
Mr. Fraser's expression had now reached the point nearest a smile and Dalyrimple in a happy frivolity felt himself urging it mentally on—but it stopped, locked, and slid from him. The barn-door and the jaw were separated by a line strait as a nail. Dalyrimple remembered with an effort that it was a mouth, and talked to it.
"But I'm through," he said. "My notoriety's dead. People are fed up with me."
"Those things," answered Mr. Fraser, "are mechanical. Linotype is a resuscitator of reputations. Wait till you see the herald, beginning next week—that is if you're with us—that is," and his voice hardened slightly, "if you haven't got too many ideas yourself about how things ought to be run."
"No," said Dalyrimple, looking him frankly in the eye. "You'll have to give me a lot of advice at first."
"Very well. I'll take care of your reputation then. Just keep yourself on the right side of the fence."
Dalyrimple started at this repetition of a phrase he had thought of so much lately. There was a sudden ring at the door-bell.