The youth vanished and Dale resumed his chair.

He was looking across the lawn when a sudden alertness came into
the scene; the silk-hatted line of callers stepped aside; those who were
seated arose; newspaper correspondents turned with vigilant ears. A
nervous voice inquired, "Where is Mr. John Dale?"

The President stood before him, dressed in white flannel, then smilingly
grasped his hand with a blast of welcome: "I'm delighted to meet
the friend of Judge Long!" Taking his arm the Executive escorted him
through the Cabinet Room thronged with Senators, Representatives, and
tourists. They entered the private office. "Take the sofa, Mr. Dale--it's
the easiest thing in the place. I hope your business is such that you
can excuse me for a little while."

A smile came over Dale's white face. Could the poorest farmer of
the "Cold Friday" region wait for the most powerful character in the
world? Nor was the old man in the linen duster the only one who smiled.
A member of the Russian Embassy turned to his companion--a distinguished
visitor from the Court of St. Petersburg: "What would a peasant
say to the Czar?"

The President now entered the Cabinet Room, shaking hands with
the many, guiding a few into his private office. Dale listened; now it was
an introduction and a message to an old friend in the West. Then a decisive
"No" dashed some hope of patronage; again, it was a discussion
of poetry, aerial navigation, or the relics of the Aztecs. It was a long
stride from "Lonesome Hill," and for the time Dale was novelty's captive.
He glanced round the room. It was not as fine as the director's