lawmakers."

"They're not particularly edifying," Mr. Watling replied. "But they seem,
unfortunately, to be necessary."

Such had been my own thought.

"Who is this man Krebs?" he inquired suddenly. "And why didn't Varney get
hold of him and make him listen to reason?"

"I'm afraid it wouldn't have been any use," I replied. "He was in my
class at Harvard. I knew him--slightly. He worked his way through, and
had a pretty hard time of it. I imagine it affected his ideas."

"What is he, a Socialist?"

"Something of the sort." In Theodore Watling's vigorous, sanity-exhaling
presence Krebs's act appeared fantastic, ridiculous. "He has queer
notions about a new kind of democracy which he says is coming. I think he
is the kind of man who would be willing to die for it."

"What, in these days!" Mr. Watling looked at me incredulously. "If that's
so, we must keep an eye on him, a sincere fanatic is a good deal more
dangerous than a reformer who wants something. There are such men," he
added, "but they are rare. How was the Governor, Trulease?" he asked
suddenly. "Tractable?"

"Behaved like a lamb, although he insisted upon going through with his
little humbug," I said.