The wrong boy!
For a moment I could not understand nor believe; and when the meaning of the words came to me, I groped in mental darkness, unable to come in touch with the significant facts by which I was surrounded. The solid earth had fallen from under me, and I struggled vainly to get footing in my new position.
But there was no time for speculation. Half in a daze I heard a roar of curses, orders, a crash of glass as the lamp was extinguished, and over all came the prolonged growl of a wolf-voice, hoarse and shaken with anger. There was a vision of a wolf-head rising above the outline of faces a few yards away, dark, distorted, fierce, with eyes that blazed threats, and in an instant I found myself in the center of a struggling, shouting, swearing mass of savage men, fighting with naught but the instinct of blind rage. Shots were fired, but for the most part it was a hand-to-hand struggle. The clearest picture that comes to me out of the confused tangle is that of Wainwright handling his pistol like a bowie knife, and trying to perform a surgical operation extensive enough to let a joke into Darby Meeker's skull.
I doubt not that I was as crazy as the rest. The berserker rage was on me, and I struck right and left. But in my madness there was one idea strong in my mind. It was to reach the evil face and snake-eyes of Tom Terrill, and stamp the life out of him. With desperate rage I shouldered and fought till his white face with its venomous hatred was next to mine, till the fingers of my left hand gripped his throat, and my right hand tried to beat out his brains with a six-shooter.
“Damn you!” he gasped, striking fiercely at me. “I've been waiting for you!”
I tightened my grip and spoke no word. He writhed and turned, striving to free himself. I had knocked his revolver from his hand, and he tried in vain to reach it. My grip was strong with the strength of madness, and the white face before me grew whiter except where a smear of blood closed the left eye and trickled down over the cheek beneath. A trace of fear stole into the venomous anger of the one eye that was unobscured, as he strove without success to guard himself from my blows. But he gave a sudden thrust, and with a sinuous writhe he was free, while I was carried back by the rush of men with the vague impression that something was amiss with me. Then a great light flamed up before me in which the struggling, shouting mob, the close hall and room, and the universe itself melted away, and I was alone.
The next impression that came to me was that of a voice from an immeasurable distance.
“He's coming to,” it said; and then beside it I heard a strange wailing cry.
“What is it?” I asked, trying to sit up. My voice seemed to come from miles away, and to belong to some other man.
“That's it, you're all right,” said the voice encouragingly, and about the half of Niagara fell on my face.
I sat up and beheld the room whirling about, the walls, the furniture, and the people dancing madly together to a strange wailing sound that carried me back to the dens of Chinatown. Then the mists before my eyes cleared away, and I found that I was on the floor of the inner bedroom and Wainwright had emptied a water-jug over me. The light of a small kerosene lamp gave a gloomy illumination to the place. Lockhart and Fitzhugh leaned against the door, and Wilson bent with Wainwright over me. The boy was sitting on the bed, crying shrilly over the melancholy situation.
I tried to stagger to my feet.
“Wait a bit,” said Wainwright. “You'll get your head in a minute.”
I felt acutely conscious already that I had my head. It seemed a very large head that had suffered from an internal explosion.
“What is it?” I asked, gathering my scattered wits. “What has happened?”
“We've been licked,” said Wainwright regretfully. “The rest of the boys got took, but we got in here. Fitz and me seen the nasty knock you got, and dragged you back, and when we got you here the parlor was full of the hounds, and Porter and Abrams and Brown was missing. We found you was cut, and we've tried to fix you up.”
I looked at my bandaged arm, and put one more count in the indictment against Terrill. He had tried to stab me over the heart at the time he had wrenched free, but he had merely slashed my arm. It was not a severe wound, but it gave me pain.
“Only a scratch,” said Wainwright.
I envied the philosophic calm with which he regarded it.
“It'll heal,” I returned shortly. “Where is the other gang? Are they gone?”
“No; there's half a dozen of 'em out in the parlor, I reckon.”
“You'd better tell him,” said Fitzhugh, shifting an unpleasant task.
“Well,” said Wainwright, “we heard orders given to shoot the first man that comes out before morning, but before all to kill you if you sticks your nose outside before sun-up.”
The amiable intentions of the victors set me to thinking. If it was important to keep me here till morning, it must be important to me to get out. There was no duty to keep me here, for I need fear no attack on the boy who was with us. I looked at my watch, and found it was near one o'clock.
“Tie those blankets together,” I ordered, as soon as I was able to get my feet.
The men obeyed me in silence, while Wainwright vainly tried to quiet the child. I was satisfied to have him cry, for the more noise he made the less our movements would be heard. I had a plan that I thought might be carried out.
While the others were at work, I cautiously raised the window and peered through the shutters. The rain was falling briskly, and the wind still blew a gale. I thought I distinguished the dark figure of a man on guard within a few feet of the building, and my heart sank.
“How many are in the parlor, Wilson?” I asked.
Wilson applied his eye to the keyhole.
“Can't see anybody but that one-eyed fellow, Broderick, but there might be more.”
A flash of memory came to me, and I felt in my pocket for Mother Borton's mysterious scrawl. “Give that to a one-eyed man,” she had said. It was a forlorn hope, but worth the trying.
“Hand this to Broderick,” I said, “as soon as you can do it without any one's seeing you.”
Wilson did not like the task, but he took the envelope and silently brought the door ajar. His first investigations were evidently reassuring, for he soon had half his body outside.
“He's got it,” he said on reappearing.
A little later there was a gentle tap at the door, and the head of the one-eyed man was thrust in.
“It's as much as my life's worth,” he whispered. “What do you want me to do?”
“How many men are in the street below here?”
“There's one; but more are in call.”
“Well, I want him got out of the way.”
“That's easy,” said Broderick, with a diabolical wink of his one eye. “I'll have him change places with me.”
“Good! How many men are here?”
“You don't need to know that. There's enough to bury you.”
“Have Meeker and Terrill gone?”
“Tom? He's in the next room here, and can count it a mercy of the saints if he gits out in a week. Meeker's gone with the old man. Well, I can't stay a-gabbin' any longer, or I'll be caught, and then the divil himsilf couldn't save me.”
I shuddered at the thought of the “old man,” and the shadow of Doddridge Knapp weighed on my spirits.
“Are you ready for an excursion, Fitzhugh?” I whispered.
He nodded assent.
“Well, we'll be out of here in a minute or two. Take that overcoat. I've got one. Now tie that blanket to the bedpost. No, it won't be long enough. You'll have to hold it for us, boys.”
I heard the change of guards below, and, giving directions to Wainwright, with funds to settle our account with the house, I blew out the lamp, quietly swung open the shutter and leaned over the sill.
“Hold on to the blanket, boys. Follow me, Fitz,” I whispered, and climbed out. The strain on my injured arm as I swung off gave me a burning pain, but I repressed the groan that came into my throat. I half-expected a bullet to bring me to the ground in a hurry, for I was not over-trustful of the good faith of Mother Borton's friend. But I got to the ground in safety, and was relieved when Fitzhugh stood beside me, and the improvised rope was drawn up.
“Where now?” whispered Fitzhugh.
“To the stable.”
As we slipped along to the corner a man stepped out before us.
“Don't shoot,” he said; “it's me,—Broderick. Tell Mother Borton I wouldn't have done it for anybody but her.”
“I'm obliged to you just the same,” I said. “And here's a bit of drink money. Now, where are my men?”
“Don't know. In the lockup, I reckon.”
“How is that?”
“Why, you see, Meeker tells the fellows here he has a warrant for you,—that you're the gang of burglars that's wanted for the Parrott murder. And he had to show the constable and the landlord and some others the warrant, too.”
“How many were hurt?”
“Six or seven. Two of your fellows looked pretty bad when they was carried out.”
We turned down a by-street, but as soon as the guard had disappeared we retraced our steps and hastened to the Thatcher stables.
The rain was whipped into our faces as we bent against the wind, and the whish and roar of the gale among the trees, and the rattle of loose boards and tins, as they were tossed and shaken behind the houses, gave a melancholy accompaniment to our hasty march.
“Hist!” said Fitzhugh in my ear. “Is that some one following us?”
I drew him into a corner, and peered back into the darkness.
“I can see no one.”
“I thought I heard a man running.”
“Wait a minute. If there is any one after us he must lose us right here.”
We listened in silence. Only the plash of water and the voice of the storm came to our ears.
“Well, if they are looking for us they have gone the other way. Come along,” I said.
We nearly missed the stable in the darkness, and it was several minutes before we roused Thatcher to a state in which he could put together the two ideas that we wanted to get in, and that it was his place to get up and let us in.
“Horses to-night?” he gasped, throwing up his hands. “Holy Moses! I couldn't think of letting the worst plug of the lot out in this storm.”
“Well, I want your best.”
“You'll have to do it, Dick,” said Fitzhugh with a few words of explanation. “He'll make it all right for you.”
“Where are you going?” said Thatcher.
“Oakland.”
He threw up his hands once more.
“Great Scott! you can't do it. The horses can't travel fifty miles at night and in this weather. You'd best wait for the morning train. The express will be through here before five.”
I hesitated a moment, but the chances of being stopped were too great.
“I must go,” I said decidedly. “I can't wait here.”
“I have it,” said Thatcher. “By hard riding you can get to Niles in time to catch the freight as it goes up from San Jose. It will get you down in time for the first boat, if that's what you want.”
“Good! How far is it?”
“We call it eighteen miles,—it's a little over that by the road. There's only one nasty bit. That's in the canyon.”
“I think we shall need the pleasure of your company,” I said.
The stableman was moved by a conflict of feelings. He was much indisposed to a twenty-mile ride in the storm and darkness; yet he was plainly unwilling to trust his horses unless he went with them. I offered him a liberal price for the service.
“It's a bad job, but if you must, you must,” he groaned. And he soon had three horses under the saddle.
I eyed the beasts with some disfavor. They were evidently half-mustang, and I thought undersized for such a journey. But I was to learn before the night was out the virtues of strength and endurance that lie in the blood of the Indian horse.
“Hist! What's that?” said Fitzhugh, extinguishing the light.
The voices of the storm and the uneasy champing of the horses were the only sounds that rewarded a minute's listening.
“We must chance it,” said I, after looking cautiously into the darkness, and finding no signs of a foe.
And in a moment more we were galloping down the street, the hoof-beats scarcely sounding in the softened earth of the roadway. Not a word was spoken after the start as we turned through the side streets to avoid the approaches to the hotel. I looked and listened intently, expecting each bunch of deeper darkness in the streets to start into life with shouts of men and crack of revolvers in an effort to stay our flight. Thatcher led the way, and Fitzhugh rode by my side.
“Look there!” cried Fitzhugh in my ear. “There's some one running to the hotel!”
I looked, and thought I could see a form moving through the blackness. The hotel could just be distinguished two blocks away. It might well be a scout of the enemy hastening to give the alarm.
“Never mind,” I said. “We've got the start.”
Thatcher suddenly turned to the west, and in another minute we were on the open highway, with the steady beat of the horses' hoofs splashing a wild rhythm on the muddy road.
The wind, which had been behind us, now whipped the rain into our faces from the left, half blinding us as the gusts sent the spray into our eyes, then tugged fiercely at coats and hats as if nothing could be so pleasing to the powers of the air as to send our raiment in a witch's flight through the clouds.
With the town once behind us, I felt my spirits rise with every stroke of the horse's hoofs beneath me. The rain and the wind were friends rather than foes. Yet my arm pained me sharply, and I was forced to carry the reins in the whip hand.
Here the road was broader, and we rode three abreast, silent, watchful, each busy with his own thoughts, and all alert for the signs of chase behind. Thrice my heart beat fast with the sound in my ears of galloping pursuers. Thrice I laughed to think that the patter of falling drops on the roadway should deceive my sense of sound. Here the track narrowed, and Thatcher shot ahead, flinging mud and water from his horse's heels fair upon us. There it broadened once more, and our willing beasts pressed forward and galloped beside the stableman's till the hoofs beat in unison.
“There!” said Thatcher, suddenly pulling his horse up to a walk. “We're five miles out, and they've got a big piece to make up if they're on our track. We'll breathe the horses a bit.”
The beasts were panting a little, but chafed at the bits as we walked them, and tossed their heads uneasily to the pelting of the storm.
“Hark!” I cried. “Did you hear that?” I was almost certain that the sound of a faint halloo came from behind us. I was not alone in the thought.
“The dern fools!” said Fitzhugh. “They want a long chase, I guess, to go through the country yelling like a pack of wild Injuns.”
“I reckon 'twas an owl,” said Thatcher; “but we might as well be moving. We needn't take no chances while we've got a good set of heels under us. Get up, boys.”
The willing brutes shot forward into the darkness at the word, and tossed the rain-drops from their ears with many an angry nod.
Of the latter part of the journey I have but a confused remembrance. I had counted myself a good rider in former days, but I had not mounted a horse for years. I had slept but little in forty-eight hours, and, worst of all, my arm pained me more and more. With the fatigue and the jar of the steady gallop, it seemed to swell until it was the body and I the poor appendage to it. My head ached from the blow it had got, and in a stupor of dull pain I covered the weary miles. But for the comfortable Mexican saddle I fear I should have sunk under the fatigue and distress of the journey and left friends and enemies to find their way out of the maze as best they might.
I have a dim recollection of splashing over miles of level road, drenched with water and buffeted by gusts of wind that faced us more and more, with the monotonous beat of hoofs ever in my ears, and the monotonous stride of the horse beneath me ever racking my tired muscles. Then we slackened pace in a road that wound in sharp descent through a gap in the hills, with the rush and roar of a torrent beneath and beside us, the wind sweeping with wild blasts through the trees that lined the way and covered the hillside and seeming to change the direction of its attack at every moment.
“We'll make it, I reckon,” said Thatcher, at last. “It's only two miles farther, and the train hasn't gone up yet.”
The horses by this time were well-blown. The road was heavy, and we had pressed them hard. Yet they struggled with spirit as they panted, and answered to the whip when we called on them for the last stretch as we once more found a level road.
There was no sign of life about the station as we drew our panting, steaming horses to a halt before it, and no train was in sight. The rain dripping heavily from the eaves was the only sound that came from it, and a dull glow from an engine that lay alone on a siding was the only light that was to be seen.
“What's the time?” asked Thatcher. “We must have made a quick trip.”
“Twenty minutes past three,” said I, striking a match under my coat to see my watch-face.
“Immortal snakes!” cried Thatcher. “I'm an idiot. This is Sunday night.”
I failed to see the connection of these startling discoveries, but I had spirit enough to argue the case. “It's Monday morning, now.”
“Well, it's the same thing. The freight doesn't run to-night.”
I awoke to some interest at this announcement.
“Why, it's got to run, or we must take to saddle again for the rest of the way.”
“These horses can't go five miles more at that gait, let alone twenty-five,” protested Thatcher.
“Well, then, we must get other horses here.”
“Come,” said Fitzhugh; “what's the use of that when there's an engine on the siding doing nothing?”
“Just the idea. Find the man in charge.”
But there did not appear to be any man in charge. The engineer and fireman were gone, and the watchman had been driven to cover by the foul weather.
We looked the iron horse over enviously.
“Why, this is the engine that came up with the special this noon,” said Fitzhugh. “I remember the number.”
“Good! We are ahead of the enemy, then. They haven't had a chance to get the wire, and we beat them on the road. We must find the engineer and get it ourselves.”
“I've got an idea,” said Fitzhugh. “It's this: why not take the machine without asking? I was a fireman once, and I can run it pretty well.”
I thought a moment on the risk, but the need was greater.
“Just the thing. Take the money for the horses to your friend there. I'll open the switch.”
In a few minutes Fitzhugh was back.
“I told him,” he chuckled. “He says it's a jail offense, but it's the only thing we can do.”
“It may be a case of life and death,” I said. “Pull out.”
“There's mighty little steam here—hardly enough to move her,” said Fitzhugh from the cab, stirring the fire.
But as he put his hand to the lever she did move easily on to the main track, and rested while I reset the switch.
Then I climbed back into the cab, and sank down before the warm blaze in a stupor of faintness as the engine glided smoothly and swiftly down the track.
The gray pall of the storm hung over San Francisco. The dim light of the morning scarcely penetrated into the hallways as we climbed the stairs that led to our lodgings, leaving behind us the trail of dripping garments. I heaved a sigh of relief as Trent opened the door, and we once more faced the pleasing prospect of warmth, dry clothing and friends.
We had made the run from Niles without incident, and had left the engine on a siding at Brooklyn without being observed. If the railroad company still has curiosity, after all these years, to know how that engine got from Niles to Brooklyn, I trust that the words I have just written may be taken as an explanation and apology.
“Where's Barkhouse?” I asked, becoming comfortable once more with dry clothes, a warm room and a fresh bandage on my arm.
“He hasn't shown up, sir,” said Trent. “Owens and Larson went out to look for him toward evening yesterday, but there wasn't a sign of him.”
“Try again to-day. You may pick up news at Borton's or some of the water-front saloons.”
“Oh, there was a letter for you,” said Trent. “I near forgot.”
I snatched the envelope, for the address was in the hand of the Unknown. The sheet within bore the words:
“Where is the boy? Have you removed him? Send the key to Richmond. Let me know when you return, for I must see you as soon as it is safe.”
I read the note three or four times, and each time I was more bewildered than before. I had left the boy in Livermore, but certainly he was not the one she meant. He was the “wrong boy,” and my employer must be well aware that I had taken him at her orders. Or could that expedition be a jest of the enemy to divert my attention? I dismissed this theory as soon as it suggested itself.
But where was the “right boy”? I had for a moment a sinking feeling of terror in the thought that the enemy had captured him. Mother Borton's warning that they had found his place of hiding returned to confirm this thought. But in an instant I remembered that the enemy had followed me in force to Livermore in chase of the wrong boy, and had attacked me in pure chagrin at the trick that had been played on them. That showed me beyond question that they had not obtained possession of the right boy. And the “key” that I was to send to Richmond, what was that?
The closing portion of the note set my heart beating fast. At last I was to have the opportunity to meet my mysterious employer face to face. But what explanation was I to make? What reception would I meet when she learned that Henry Wilton had given up his life in her service, and that I, who had taken his place, could tell nothing of the things she wished to know?
I wrote a brief note to Richmond stating that I had no key, inclosed the Unknown's note, with the remark that I had returned, and gave it to Owens to deliver. I was in some anxiety lest he might not know where Richmond was to be found. But he took the note without question, and I lay down with orders that I was to be called in time to reach the opening session of the stock market, and in a moment was fast asleep.
The Stock Exchange was a boiling and bubbling mass of excited men as I reached it. Pine Street, wet and sloppy, was lined with a mob of umbrellas that sheltered anxious speculators of small degree, and the great building was thronged with the larger dealers—with millionaires and brokers, with men who were on their way to fortune, and those who had been millionaires and now were desperately struggling against the odds of fate as they saw their wealth swept away in the gamblers' whirlpool.
I shouldered my way through the crowd into the buzzing Board-room as the session opened. Excitement thrilled the air, but the opening was listless. All knew that the struggle over Omega was to be settled that day, and that Doddridge Knapp or George Decker was to find ruin at the end of the call, and all were eager to hasten the decisive moment.
Wallbridge came panting before me, his round, bald head bobbing with excitement.
“Ready for the fray, eh? Oh, it's worth money to see this. Talk of your theaters now, eh? Got any orders?”
“Not yet,” I returned, hardly sharing the little man's enjoyment of the scene. The size of the stakes made me tremble.
I could see nothing of Doddridge Knapp, and the uneasy feeling that he was at Livermore came over me. What was my duty in case he did not appear? Had he left his fortune at the mercy of the market to follow his lawless schemes? Had he been caught in his own trap, and was he now to be ruined as the result of his own acts? For a moment I felt a vengeful hope that he might have come to grief. But when I remembered that it was Luella who must suffer with him, I determined to make an effort to save the deal, even without authority, if the money or credit for buying the remaining shares was to be had.
I might have spared my worry. The call had not proceeded far, when the massive form of Doddridge Knapp appeared at the railing. The strong wolf-marks of the face were stronger than ever as he watched the scene on the floor. I looked in vain for a trace upon him of last night's work. If he had been at Livermore, he showed no sign of the passions or anxieties that had filled the dark hours.
He nodded carelessly for me to come to him as he caught my eye.
“You have the stock?”
“All safe.”
“And the proxies?”
“Just as you ordered.”
The King of the Street looked at me sharply.
“I told you to keep sober till this deal was over,” he growled.
“You are obeyed,” I said. “I have not touched a drop.”
“Well, you look as though you had taken a romp with the devil,” he said.
“I have,” I returned with a meaning look.
His eyes fell before my steady gaze, and he turned them on the noisy throng before us.
“Any orders?” I asked at last.
“Be where I can call you the minute I want you,” he replied.
“Now, my boy,” he continued after a minute, “you are going to see what hasn't been seen in the Boards for years, and I reckon you'll never see it again.”
“What is it?” I asked politely. I was prepared for almost any kind of fire-works in that arena.
Doddridge Knapp made no reply, but raised his hand as if to command silence, and a moment later the call of Omega was heard. And, for a marvel, a strange stillness did fall on the throng.
At the word of call I saw Doddridge Knapp step down to the floor of the pit, calm, self-possessed, his shoulders squared and his look as proud and forceful as that of a monarch who ruled by the might of his sword, while a grim smile played about his stern mouth.
The silence of the moment that followed was almost painful. In that place it seemed the most unnatural of prodigies. Brokers, speculators and spectators were as surprised as I, and a long-drawn “Ah-h!” followed by a buzzing as of a great swarm of bees greeted his appearance. The stillness and the buzzing seemed to take an hour, but it could not have been as much as a minute when the voice of Doddridge Knapp rang like a trumpet through the Boardroom.
“Five hundred for Omega!”
This was a wild jump from the three hundred and twenty-five that was marked against the stock at the close on Saturday, but I supposed the King of the Street knew what he was about.
At the bid of Doddridge Knapp a few cries rose here and there, and he was at once the center of a group of gesticulating brokers. Then I saw Decker, pale, eager, alert, standing by the rail across the room, signaling orders to men who howled bids and plunged wildly into the crowd that surrounded his rival.
The bids and offers came back and forth with shouts and barks, yet they made but a murmur compared to the whirlwind of sound that had arisen from the pit at the former struggles I had witnessed. There seemed but few blocks of the stock on the market. Yet the air was electric with the tense strain of thousands of minds eager to catch the faintest indication of the final result, and I found it more exciting than the wildest days of clamor and struggle.
“This is great,” chuckled Wallbridge, taking post before me. “There hasn't been anything like it since Decker captured Chollar in the election of seventy-three. You don't remember that, I guess?”
“I wasn't in the market then,” I admitted.
“Lord! Just to hear that!” cried the stout little man, mopping his glistening head frantically and quivering with nervous excitement. “Doddridge Knapp bids fifteen hundred for the stock and only gets five shares. Oh, why ain't I a chance to get into this?”
I heard a confused roar, above which rose the fierce tones of Doddridge Knapp.
“How many shares has he got to-day?” I asked.
“Not forty yet.”
“And the others?”
“There's been about two thousand sold.”
I gripped the rail in nervous tension. The battle seemed to be going against the King of the Street.
“Oh!” gasped Wallbridge, trembling with excitement. “Did you hear that? There! It's seventeen hundred—now it's seventeen-fifty! Whew!”
I echoed the exclamation.
“Oh, why haven't I got ten thousand shares?” he groaned.
“Who is getting them?”
“Knapp got the last lot. O-oh, look there! Did you ever see the like of that?”
I looked. Decker, hatless, with hair disheveled, had leaped the rail and was hurrying into the throng that surrounded Doddridge Knapp.
“There was never two of 'em on the floor before,” cried Wallbridge.
At Decker's appearance the brokers opened a lane to him, the cries fell, and there was an instant of silence, as the kings of the market thus came face to face.
I shall never forget the sight. Doddridge Knapp, massive, calm, forceful, surveyed his opponent with unruffled composure. He was dressed in a light gray-brown suit that made him seem larger than ever. Decker was nervous, disheveled, his dress of black setting off the pallor of his face, till it seemed as white as his shirt bosom, as he fronted the King of the Street.
The foes faced each other, watchful as two wrestlers looking to seize an opening, and the Board-room held its breath. Then the crowd of brokers closed in again and the clamor rose once more.
I could not make out the progress of the contest, but the trained ear of Wallbridge interpreted the explosions of inarticulate sound.
“Phew! listen to that! Two thousand, twenty-one hundred, twenty-one fifty. Great snakes! See her jump!” he cried. “Decker's getting it.”
My heart sank. Doddridge Knapp must have smothered his brain once more in the Black Smoke, and was now paying the price of indulgence. And his plans of wealth were a sacrifice to the wild and criminal scheme into which he had entered in his contest against the Unknown. I saw the wreck of fortune engulf Mrs. Knapp and Luella, and groaned in spirit. Then a flash of hope shot through me. Luella Knapp, the heiress to millions, was beyond my dreams, but Luella Knapp, the daughter of a ruined speculator, would not be too high a prize for a poor man to set his eyes upon.
The clang of the gong recalled me from the reverie that had shut out the details of the scene before me.
“There! Did you hear that?” groaned Wall-bridge. “Omega closes at two thousand six hundred and Decker takes every trick. Oh, why didn't you have me on the floor out there? By the great horn spoon, I'd 'a' had every share of that stock, and wouldn't 'a' paid more than half as much for it, neither.”
I sighed and turned, sick at heart, to meet the King of the Street as he shouldered his way from the floor.
There was not a trace of his misfortune to be read in his face. But Decker, the victor, moved away like a man oppressed, pale, staggering, half-fainting, as though the nervous strain had brought him to the edge of collapse.
Doddridge Knapp made his way to the doors and signed me to follow him, but spoke no word until we stood beside the columns that guard the entrance.
The rain fell in a drizzle, but anxious crowds lined the streets, dodged into doorways for shelter, or boldly moved across the walks and the cobbled roadway under the protection of bobbing umbrellas. The news of the unprecedented jump in Omega in which the price had doubled thrice in a few minutes, had flown from mouth to mouth, and excitement was at fever heat.
“That was warm work,” said Doddridge Knapp after a moment's halt.
“I was very sorry to have it turn out so,” I said.
A grim smile passed over his face.
“I wasn't,” he growled good-humoredly. “I thought it was rather neatly done.”
I looked at him in surprise.
“Oh, I forgot that I hadn't seen you,” he continued. “And like enough I shouldn't have told you if I had. The truth is, I found a block of four thousand shares on Saturday night, and made a combination with them.”
“Then the mine is yours?”
“The directors will be.”
“But you were buying shares this morning.”
“A mere optical illusion, Wilton. I was in fact a seller, for I had shares to spare.”
“It was a very good imitation.”
“I don't wonder you were taken in, my boy. Decker was fooled to the tune of about a million dollars this morning. I thought it was rather neat for a clean-up.”
I thought so, too, and the King of the Street smiled at my exclamations over his cleverness. But my congratulations were cut short as a small dark man pressed his way to the corner where we stood, and whispered in Doddridge Knapp's ear.
“Was he sure?” asked the King of the Street.
“Those were his exact words.”
“When was this?”
“Not five minutes ago.”
“Run to Caswell's. Tell him to wait for me.”
The messenger darted off and we followed briskly. Caswell, I found, was an attorney, and we were led at once to the inner office.
“Come in with me,” said my employer. “I expect I shall need you, and it will save explanations.”
The lawyer was a tall, thin man, with chalky, expressionless features, but his eyes gave life to his face with their keen, almost brilliant, vision.
“Decker's playing the joker,” said the King of the Street. “I've beaten him in the market, but he's going to make a last play with the directors. There's a meeting called for twelve-thirty. They are going to give him a two years' contract for milling, and they talk of declaring twenty thousand shares of my stock invalid.”
“How many directors have you got?”
“Two—Barber and myself. Decker thinks he has Barber.”
“Then you want an injunction?”
“Yes.”
The lawyer looked at his watch.
“The meeting is at twelve-thirty. H'm. You'll have to hold them for half an hour—maybe an hour.”
“Make it half an hour,” growled Doddridge Knapp. “Just remember that time is worth a thousand dollars a second till that injunction is served.”
He went out without another word, and there was a commotion of clerks as we left.
“How's your nerve, Wilton?” inquired the King of the Street calmly. “Are you ready for some hot work?”
“Quite ready.”
“Have you a revolver about you?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. I don't want you to kill any one, but it may come in handy as an evidence of your good intentions.”
He led the way to California Street below Sansome, where we climbed a flight of stairs and went down a hall to a glass door that bore the gilt and painted letters, “Omega Mining Co., J. D. Storey, Pres't.”
“There's five minutes to spare,” said my employer. “He may be alone.”
A stout, florid man, with red side-whiskers and a general air of good living, sat by an over-shadowing desk in the handsome office, and looked sourly at us as we entered. He was not alone, for a young man could be seen in a side room that was lettered “Secretary's Office.”
“Ah, Mr. Knapp,” he said, bowing deferentially to the millionaire, and rubbing his fat red hands. “Can I do anything for you to-day?”
“I reckon so, Storey. Let me introduce you to Mr. Wilton, one of our coming directors.”
I had an inward start at this information, and Mr. Storey regarded me unfavorably. We professed ourselves charmed to see each other.
“I suppose it was an oversight that you didn't send me a notice of the directors' meeting,” said Doddridge Knapp.
Mr. Storey turned very red, and the King of the Street said in an undertone: “Just lock that door, Wilton.”
“It must have been sent by mail,” stammered Storey. “Hi, there! young man, what are you doing?” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as I turned the key in the lock. “Open that door again!”
“No you don't, Storey,” came the fierce growl from the throat of the Wolf. “Your game is up.”
“The devil it is!” cried Storey, making a dash past Doddridge Knapp and coming with a rush straight for me.
“Stop him!” roared my employer.
I sprang forward and grappled Mr. Storey, but I found him rather a large contract, for I had to favor my left arm. Then he suddenly turned limp and rolled to the floor, his head thumping noisily on a corner of the desk.
Doddridge Knapp coolly laid a hard rubber ruler down on the desk, and I recognized the source of Mr. Storey's discomfiture.
“I reckon he's safe for a bit,” he growled. “Hullo, what's this?”
I noted a very pale young man in the doorway of the secretary's office, apparently doubtful whether he should attempt to raise an alarm or hide.
“You go back in your room and mind your own business, Dodson,” said the King of the Street. “Go!” he growled fiercely, as the young man still hesitated. “You know I can make or break you.”
The young man disappeared, and I closed and locked the door on him.
“There they come,” said I, as steps sounded in the hall.
“Stand by the door and keep them out,” whispered my employer. “I'll see that Storey doesn't get up. Keep still now. Every minute we gain is worth ten thousand dollars.”
I took station by the door as the knob was tried. More steps were heard, and the knob was tried again. Then the door was shaken and picturesque comments were made on the dilatory president.
Doddridge Knapp looked grim, but serene, as he sat on the desk with his foot on the prostrate Storey. I breathed softly, and listened to the rising complaints from without.
There were thumps and kicks on the door, and at last a voice roared:
“What are you waiting for? Break it in.”
A crash followed, and the ground-glass upper section of the door fell in fragments.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” I said, as a man put his hand through the opening. “This revolver is loaded, and the first man to come through there will get a little cold lead in him.”
There was a pause and then a storm of oaths.
“Get in there!” cried Decker's voice from the rear. “What are you afraid of?”
“He's got a gun.”
“Well, get in, three or four of you at once. He can't shoot you all.”
This spirited advice did not seem to find favor with the front-rank men, and the enemy retired for consultation. At last a messenger came forward.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I want you to keep out.”
“Who is he?” asked Decker's voice.
“There's another one there,” cried another voice. “Why, it's Doddridge Knapp!”
Decker made use of some language not intended for publication, and there was whispering for a few minutes, followed by silence.
I looked at Doddridge Knapp, sitting grim and unmoved, counting the minutes till the injunction should come. Suddenly a man bounded through the broken upper section of the door, tossed by his companions, and I found myself in a grapple before I could raise my revolver.
We went down on the floor together, and I had a confused notion that the door swung open and four or five others rushed into the room.
I squirmed free from my opponent, and sprang to my feet in time to see the whole pack around Doddridge Knapp.
The King of the Street sat calm and forceful with a revolver in his hand, and all had halted, fearing to go farther.
“Don't come too close, gentlemen,” growled the Wolf.
Then I saw one of the men raise a six-shooter to aim at the defiant figure that faced them. I gave a spring and with one blow laid the man on the floor. There was a flash of fire as he fell, and a deafening noise was in my ears. Men all about me were striking at me. I scarcely felt their blows as I warded them off and returned them, for I was half-mad with the desperate sense of conflict against odds. But at last I felt myself seized in an iron grip, and in a moment was seated beside Doddridge Knapp on the desk.
“The time is up,” he said. “There's the sheriff and Caswell with the writ.”
“I congratulate you,” I answered, my head still swimming, noting that the enemy had drawn back at the coming of reinforcements.
“Good heavens, man, you're hurt!” he cried, pointing to my left sleeve where a blood stain was spreading. The wound I had received in the night conflict at Livermore had reopened in the struggle.
“It's nothing,” said I. “Just a scratch.”
“Here! get a doctor!” cried the King of the Street. “Gentlemen, the directors' meeting is postponed, by order of court.”