“I heard of your gettin' aired out yesterday, up Tunbridge way,” said the Honourable Hilary.
“I supposed you would hear of it,” answered Austen.
“I was up there to-day. Gave Mr. Flint your pass did you?”
“Yes.”
“Didn't see fit to mention it to me first—did you? Said you were going up to thank him for it.”
Austen considered this.
“You have put me in the wrong, Judge,” he replied after a little. “I made that remark ironically. I I am afraid we cannot agree on the motive which prompted me.”
“Your conscience a little finer than your father's—is it?”
“No,” said Austen, “I don't honestly think it is. I've thought a good deal in the last few years about the difference in our ways of looking at things. I believe that two men who try to be honest may conscientiously differ. But I also believe that certain customs have gradually grown up in railroad practice which are more or less to be deplored from the point of view of the honour of the profession. I think they are not perhaps—realized even by the eminent men in the law.”
“Humph!” said the Honourable Hilary. But he did not press his son for the enumeration of these customs. After all the years he had disapproved of Austen's deeds it seemed strange indeed to be called to account by the prodigal for his own. Could it be that this boy whom he had so often chastised took a clearer view of practical morality than himself? It was preposterous. But why the uneasiness of the past few years? Why had he more than once during that period, for the first time in his life, questioned a hitherto absolute satisfaction in his position of chief counsel for the Northeastern Railroads? Why had he hesitated to initiate his son into many of the so-called duties of a railroad lawyer? Austen had never verbally arraigned those duties until to-night.