To this latter category Keith would undoubtedly have belonged--as did his wife and practically all his friends--had it not been for his association with Krafft. Through him the young lawyer came into intimate personal touch with a large class of people who would otherwise have been remote from him. He heard of their difficulties and problems at first hand, saw the actual effect of abuses that, looked at from above, were abstract or academic. Police brutality as a phrase carried little significance; police brutality as a clubbing of Malachi Hogan, who was brought in with his skull crushed, and whose blood stained Keith's new coat, meant something. Waste of public funds, translated before his eyes into eviction for nonpayment of taxes, took on a new significance. Keith saw plainly that a reform was needed. He was not, on that account, in the least sympathetic with King's methods. Like Judge Girvin, he felt them revolutionary and subversive. But he could not share the contempt of his class; rather he respected the editor as a sincere but mistaken man. When his name came up for discussion or bitter vituperation, Keith was silent. He read the _Bulletin_ editorials; and while he in no way endorsed their conclusions or recommendations, he could not but acknowledge their general accuracy. Without his knowing it, he was being educated. He came to realize the need for better administration by the city's officers and a better enforcement of the laws. Very quietly, deep down within himself, he made up his mind that in the Assistant District Attorney's office, at least, the old order of things should cease. XXXIX One afternoon Keith walked down Kearney Street deep in discussion of an important Federal case with his friend, Billy Richardson, the United States Marshal. Although both just and an official, Richardson was popular with all classes save those with whom his duty brought him into conflict. They found their way deliberately blocked, and came out of the absorption of their discussion to recognize before them Charles Cora, an Italian gambler of considerable prominence and wealth. Cora was a small, dark man, nervously built, dressed neatly and carefully in the height of gambler fashion. He seemed to be terribly excited, and at once launched a stream of oaths at Richardson. "What's the matter with you, Charley?" asked the latter, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise. Cora, evidently too incoherent to speak, leaped at the marshal, his fist drawn back. Keith seized him around the body, holding his arms to his sides. "Hold on; take it easy!" he panted. "What's up, anyway?" Cora, struggling violently, gritted out: "He knows damn well what's up." "I'll swear I don't!" denied Richardson. "Then what do you mean telling every one that my Belle insulted your wife last night at the opera house?" demanded Cora, ceasing to struggle.