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“Where is he?” said Orr, in the same undertone to a large man in a buffalo coat. The large man was the sheriff of the county. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the dining-room.

“What’s he like?”

“Little feller with a game leg.”

Orr frowned. Robbins felt uncomfortable. A gaunt man on the outskirts of the circle added: “He’s powerful slick, though; you can bet your life. That girl Susy is all won over already; and she’s suspecting something, sure’s shooting. I guess she’s warned him there’s something in the air.”

“Well, if there is, I don’t know it,” said the sheriff.

“You never will know anything about it, either,” a gray-haired man added.

“That’s right, Kinney,” two or three spoke at once. But immediately a silence fell on them. Robbins, who felt himself an outsider, could see that the others drew closer together. Once or twice he caught sinister murmurs. He began to wish that he had not come.

“It would be no earthly use for me to chip in and try to soften them,” he thought. “They’re crazy with defeat and misery and the fool stuff campaign orators have crammed down their throats.”

Just then the dining-room door opened, and Robbins was the only one of the group to turn his head. The other men gazed at the fire, and the heavy silence grew heavier.

The man who came out of the room was young, slight of figure, and he limped a little. Nevertheless, there was nothing of dejection in his bearing or his face. He was freckled to a degree, smooth-shaven, and his teeth were beautiful. He had fine eyes also, a deep blue, flashing like steel as they moved from one object to another. The eyes were keen, alert, and determined; but being set rather wide apart under his light brows, they gave the face a candid, almost artless, look, and when he smiled the deep dimple in his cheek made it as merry as a child’s.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said he cheerfully. No one responded. Robbins made a gurgle in his throat, which the newcomer generously accepted for salutation, promptly approaching the fire at Robbins’ elbow.

“Cold weather,” said he. Two or three of the company lifted their heads and eyed the speaker. Robbins wondered were they as keenly conscious as he of the young fellow’s trimly fitted clothes, what good quality that rough plaided brown stuff was, how dainty was his linen. He looked at the home people’s ragged coats, he thought of the poverty that he knew, and the reflection of a sneer was on his own lips, and, somehow, a lump in his throat.

“Too cold weather for folks to travel unless they’re wanted bad!” said the gray-haired man on the edge of the company. There was a thrill of some strong feeling in his deep voice.

“It does seem that way,” agreed the young man with undiminished vivacity. “I am glad to get to a shelter. By the way, I hear this is a dry town. Will some of you gentlemen have something with me?” He had pulled out a flask and was flashing his brilliant smile at Robbins.

“No, thank you, I don’t drink,” said Robbins; but he felt his throat itching at the sight.

“We’ll drink your licker after we’ve finished our business with you,” the gray man struck in. He was old Captain Sparks, who had been very bitter since his eldest son went crazy with overwork and sunstroke and killed himself. The other men laughed. They looked at each other; they looked with goading hate in their dull eyes at the stranger; and they laughed.

“Here, Johnny,” said the young man, taking no notice, “run up to twenty-five and fetch me the bag there, the black one. If we are to drink to our business, I want you all to join. You are all interested, I take it? And get some glasses while you are about it.”