Langdon's committee room in the Capitol. Richard Cullen, the favorite
associate of Haines in his journalistic days, out earlier than usual
on his daily round of the departments for news for his Chicago paper,
had strolled in and attempted a few of his characteristic cynicisms.
Haines usually found them entertaining, but these were directed at
Senator Langdon.

"Now, let me tell you something, Dick," the secretary answered,
firmly. "Don't you work off all your dyspeptic ideas in this
neighborhood. My Senator is a great man. They can't appreciate him up
here because he's honest--crystal clear. I used to think I knew what a
decent citizen, a real man, ought to be, but he's taught me some new
things. He'll teach them all something before he gets through."

Cullen hung one leg over Haines' desk.

"You're a nice, quiet, gentlemanly little optimist, and I like you,
old fellow," retorted Cullen. "But don't deceive yourself too much.
Your Senator Langdon is personally one of the best ever. But he was
born a mark, and a mark he'll be to the end of time.

"He looks good now. Sure, I like his speeches, and all that, but just
wait. When some of those old foxes in the Senate want to put his head
in the bag and tie it down, they won't have any trouble at all."

Smiling, Haines looked up at his cynical friend.

"The bag'll have to go over my head, too," he said, with a nod.

"Well, I don't know that Peabody'd have to strain himself very much to