given his seat therein, was a thing of granite and ice to all newcomers.
The oldsters took no more notice of the novice in their midst than if he
had not been, and it was Senate tradition that a member must hold his
seat a year before he could speak and three before he would be listened
to. If a man were cast away on a desert island, the local savage could
be relied upon to meet him on the beach and welcome him with either a
square meal or club. Not so in the cold customs of the Senate. The
wanderer thrown upon its arctic shores might starve or freeze or perish
in what way he would; never an oldster of them all would make a sign.
Each sat in mighty state, like some ancient walrus on his cake of ice,
and made the new one feel his littleness. If through ignorance or worse
the new one sought to be heard, the old walruses goggle-eyed him
ferociously. If the new one persisted, they slipped from their cakes of
ice and swam to the seclusion of the cloakrooms, leaving the new one
talking to himself. This snub was commonly enough to cause the collapse
of the new one, after which the old walruses would return to their cakes
of ice.

Senator Hanway--one should give him his title when now he has earned
it--was not inclined to abide by those gag traditions that ruled the
Senate beaches. He was supple, smooth, apologetic, deprecatory, and his
nature was one which would sooner run a mile than fight a moment. For
all that he was wise in his generation, fearing no one who could not
reach him for his injury. He did not, for instance, fear the Senate
walruses, goggle-eying him from their ice cakes. They could do him no
harm; he did not take his seat by their permission. Upon deliberate
plan, therefore, Senator Hanway had not been in his place a fortnight
before he got the floor on an appropriation, and began to voice his
views. The walruses at first goggle-eyed him in wrathful amazement; but
he kept on. Then, as was their habit, they set sail for the cloakrooms,