the
population was mainly American, and they were beginning to pour
in--sharp-eyed men from the towns in black coats, and long-legged,
quiet-looking and quiet-voiced mountaineers in rusty clothes, who hulked
along in single file, silent and almost fugitive in the glare of
daylight. Quiet they were and well-nigh stealthy, with something of the
movement of other denizens of the forest, unless they were crossed and
aroused, and then, like those other denizens, they were fierce almost
beyond belief. A small cavil might make a great quarrel, and pistols
would flash as quick as light.

The first visit that Keith received was from J. Quincy Plume, the editor
of the _Gumbolt Whistle_. He had the honor of knowing his distinguished
father, he said, and had once had the pleasure of being at his old home.
He had seen Keith's name on the book, and had simply called to offer him
any services he or his paper could render him. "There are so few
gentlemen in this ---- hole," he explained, "that I feel that we should
all stand together." Keith, knowing J. Quincy's history,
inwardly smiled.

Mr. Plume had aged since he was the speaker of the carpet-bag
legislature; his black hair had begun to be sprinkled with gray, and had
receded yet farther back on his high forehead, his hazel eyes were a
little bleared; and his full lips were less resolute than of old. He had
evidently seen bad times since he was the facile agent of the Wickersham
interests. He wore a black suit and a gay necktie which had once been
gayer, a shabby silk hat, and patent-leather shoes somewhat broken.

His addiction to cards and drink had contributed to Mr. Plume's
overthrow, and after a disappearance from public view for some time he
had turned up just as Gumbolt began to be talked of, with a small sheet
somewhat larger than a pocket-handkerchief, which, in prophetic tribute
to Gumbolt's future manufactures, he christened the _Gumbolt Whistle_.

Mr. Plume offered to introduce Keith to "the prettiest woman in
Gumbolt," and, incidentally, to "the best cocktail" also. "Terpsichore
is a nymph who practises the Terpsichorean art; indeed, I may say,
presides over a number of the arts, for she has the best faro-bank in
town, and the only bar where a gentleman can get a drink that will not
poison a refined stomach. She is, I may say, the leader of
Gumbolt society."

Keith shook his head; he had come to work, he declared.

"Oh, you need not decline; you will have to kno