Bennett and Keith approached. The Eurekas represented quite a different
social order from the Monumentals. Its membership was recruited from those
who in the East had been small farmers, artisans, or workingmen in the more
skilled trades; independent, plain, rather rough, thoroughly democratic, a
trifle contemptuous of "silk stockings," outspoken, with little heed for
niceties of etiquette or conduct. Bennett pushed his way through them to
where stood Carter, the chief, and several of the more influential. Keith,
looking at them, met their eyes directed squarely into his. They were
steady, clear-looking, solid, rather coarse-grained, grave men.

"I have brought Mr. Keith here, who was an eyewitness, to give his
testimony as to the events of last evenin'," said Bennett formally.

Keith told his story. It was received in a blank noncommittal silence. The
men all looked at him steadily, and said nothing. Somehow, he was
impressed. This silence seemed to him, fancifully, more than mere lack of
words--it conveyed a sense of reserve force, of quiet appraisal of himself
and his words, of the experiences of men who have been close to realities,
who have _done_ things in the world. Keith felt himself to be better
educated, to own a better brain, to have a wider outlook, to be possessed,
in short, of all the advantages of superiority. He had never mingled with
rough men, and he had always looked down on them. In this attitude was no
condescension and no priggishness, Now he felt, somehow, that the best of
these men had something that he had not suspected, some force of character
that raised them above his previous conception. They might be more than
mere "filling" in a city's population; they might well come to be an
element to be reckoned with.

When he had quite finished his story, there ensued a slight pause. Then
said Carter: