Keith bowed.  The speech of Mr. Valiant-for-Truth carried its cachet with it.  The stiff, awkward figure had changed.  The preacher’s sincerity had lent him dignity, and his simple use of a simple tinker’s words had suddenly uplifted him to a higher plane.

“Do not you think you might go about it in a less uncompromising spirit?  You might succeed better and do more good,” said Keith.

“No, sir; I will make no compromise with the devil—­not even to succeed.  Good-by.  I am sorry to find you among the obdurate.”  As he shook hands, his jaw was set fast and his eye was burning.  He strode off with the step of a soldier advancing in battle.

Keith had not long to wait to test old Gilsey’s advice.  He was sitting in the public room of the Windsor, a few evenings later, among the motley crew that thronged that popular resort, who were discoursing of many things, from J. Quincy Plume’s last editorial on “The New Fanny Elssler,” to the future of Gumbolt, when Mr. Plume himself entered.  His appearance was the signal for some humor, for Mr. Plume had long passed the time when any one but himself took him seriously.

“Here comes somebody that can tell us the news,” called some one.  “Come in, J. Quincy, and tell us what you know.”

“That would take too long,” said Mr. Plume, as he edged himself toward the stove.  “You will find all the news in the Whistle to-morrow.”

Just then another new arrival, who had pushed his way in toward the stove, said:  “I will tell you a piece of news:  Bill Bluffy is back.”

“Come back, has he?” observed one of the company.  “Well, that is more interesting to J. Quincy than if the railroad had come.  They are hated rivals.  Since J. Quincy has taken to writing editorials on Terpy, Bill says there ain’t no show for him.  He threatened to kill Terp, I heard.”

“Oh, I guess he has got more sense than that, drunk or sober.  He had better stick to men; shootin’ of women ain’t popular in most parts, an’ it ain’t likely to get fashionable in Gumbolt, I reckon.”

“He is huntin’ for somebody,” said the newcomer.

“I guess if he is going to get after all of Terpy’s ardent admirers, he will have his hands pretty full,” observed Mr. Plume—­a sentiment which appeared to meet with general approval.

Just then the door opened a little roughly, and a man entered slowly whom Keith knew intuitively to be Mr. Bill Bluffy himself.  He was a young, brown-bearded man, about Keith’s size, but more stockily built, his flannel shirt was laced up in front, and had a full, broad collar turned over a red necktie with long ends.  His slouch-hat was set on the back of his head.  The gleaming butts of two pistols that peeped out of his waistband gave a touch of piquancy to his appearance.  His black eyes were restless and sparkling with excitement.  He wavered slightly in his gait, and his speech was just thick enough to confirm what his appearance suggested, and what he was careful to declare somewhat superfluously, that he was “on a ——­ of a spree.”