spent his last years keeping the Circleville tavern. Crane knew all about this, one of his grandfather's standing quarrels with Fate being that Josh Slater, a durned fool, and a rascal besides, in Cap'n Ebenezer's opinion, had made so much, where a better man—that is, himself—couldn't make a living. But Crane knew better than to refer to any of these matters before the Secretary, who was indeed only dimly acquainted with his father's profession. The Secretary, a polished, scholarly man, was a very good imitation of a statesman. He liked to be called the Premier, prided himself on his resemblance to Lord Salisbury, and dressed the part to perfection. During Thorndyke's chairmanship of the Committee on Foreign Affairs, when the present international complication had been brewing, the Secretary had been a good deal annoyed by being sent for to the Capitol on what he considered flimsy pretexts. He determined when Crane succeeded Thorndyke to make a bold stroke, and have the chairman come to him occasionally, on the sly, as it were. To this end he had written Crane a little note beginning, "My Dear Crane." In it the Secretary spoke pathetically of his lumbago, also of
