"I guess you've just hit the bull's-eye there," replied Ezekiel, coolly,
"for it's that HALF-freedom and HALF-truth that doesn't pay. I kalkilate
gin'rally to speak my hull mind--and I DO. Wot's the consequence? Why,
when folks find I ain't afeard to speak my mind on their affairs, they
kinder guess I'm tellin' the truth about my own. Folks don't like the
man that truckles to 'em, whether it's in the sellin' of a box of pills
or a principle. When they re-cognize Ezekiel Corwin ain't goin' to lie
about 'em to curry favor with 'em, they're ready to believe he ain't
goin' to lie about Jones' Bitters or Wozun's Panacea. And, wa'al, I've
been on the road just about a fortnit, and I haven't yet discovered that
the original independent style introduced by Ezekiel Corwin ever broke
anybody's bones or didn't pay."

And he told the truth. That remarkably unfair and unpleasant spoken man
had actually frozen Hanley's Ford into icy astonishment at his
audacity, and he had sold them an invoice of the Panacea before they had
recovered; he had insulted Chipitas into giving an extensive order in
bitters; he had left Hayward's Creek pledged to Burne's pills--with
drawn revolvers still in their hands.

At another time Demorest might have been amused at his guest's audacity,
or have combated it with his old imperiousness, but he only remained
looking at him in a dull sort of way as if yielding to his influence.
It was part of the phenomenon that the two men seemed to have changed
character since they last met, and when Ezekiel said confidentially: "I
reckon you're goin' to show me what room I ken stow these duds o' mine
in," Demorest replied hurriedly, "Yes, certainly," and taking up
his guest's carpet-bag preceded him through the hall to one of the
apartments.