News had come in early spring of Robert Windham senior's death in Monterey; less than two months afterward his wife, Anita, lay beside him in the Spanish cemetery.
The old Californians were passing; here and there some venerable Hidalgo played the host upon broad acres as in ancient days and came to San Francisco, booted, spurred, attended by a guard of vaqueros. But a new generation gazed at him curiously and, after a lonely interval, he departed.
Market street was now a lordly thoroughfare; horse-cars jingled merrily along the leading streets. Up Clay street ran that wonder of the age, a cable-tram invented by old Hallidie, the engineer. They had made game of him for years until he demonstrated his invention for the conquering of hills. Now the world was seeking him to solve its transportation problems.
Ralston, as usual, was riding on the crest of fortune. His was a veritable lust for city building. Each successive day he founded some new enterprise.
"Like a master juggler," said Benito to his wife, "he keeps a hundred interests in the air. Let's see. There are the Mission Woolen Mills, the Kimball Carriage Works, the Cornell Watch Factory--of all things--the West Coast Furniture plant, the San Francisco Sugar Refinery, the Grand Hotel, a dry dock at Hunter's Point, the California Theater, a reclamation scheme at Sherman Island, the San Joaquin Valley irrigating system, the Rincon Hill cut, the extension of Montgomery street ..." he checked them off on his fingers, pausing finally for lack of breath.
"You've forgotten the Palace Hotel," said Alice smiling.
"No," Benito said, "I hadn't got that far. But the Palace is typical. Ralston wants San Francisco to have the best of everything the world can give. He's mad about this town. It's wife and child to him. Why it's almost his God!"
Alice looked into his eyes. "You're fearful for your prince! You Monte Cristo!"
"Yes," he said, "I'm frankly worried. Something's got to drop.... It's too--too splendid."
As he went down Market street toward Montgomery, Benito paused to observe the new Palace Hotel. Hundreds of bricklayers, carpenters and other workmen were raising it with astonishing speed. Hod-carriers raced up swaying ladders, steam-winches puffed and snorted; great vats of lime and mortar blockaded the street. It was to have a great inner court upon which seven galleries would look down. Ralston boasted he would make it a hotel for travelers to talk of round the world. And no one in San Francisco doubted it.
Benito, eyes upraised to view the labors of a bustling human hive, almost collided with two gentlemen, who were strolling westward, arm in arm. He apologized. They roared endearing curses at him and insisted that he join them in a drink.
They were J.C. Flood and W.S. O'Brien, former saloon proprietors now reputed multi-millionaires.
Early in the seventies they had joined forces with Jim Mackey, a blaster, at Virginia City and a mining man named J.G. Fair. Between them they bought up the supposedly depleted Consolidated Virginia Mine, paying from $4 to $9 each for its 10,700 shares. Mining experts smiled good naturedly, forgot the matter. Then the world was brought upstanding by the news of a bonanza hitherto unrivaled.
Con. Virginia had gained a value of $150,000,000.
After he had sipped the French champagne, on which Flood insisted and which Windham disliked, the latter spoke of Ralston and his trouble with the editors. "Some of the newspapers would have us think he's playing recklessly, with other people's money," he said with irritation.
'"Well, well, and maybe he is, me b'y," returned O'Brien. "Don't blame the newspaper fellahs.... They've raison to be suspicious, Hiven knows.... Ralston's a prince. We all love the man. It's not that. But--," he came closer, caught both of Benito's coat lapels in a confidential grasp, "I'm tellin' ye this, me lad: If it should come to a show-down ... if certain enemies should have a chance to call Bill Ralston's hand, I tell ye, it would mean dee-saster!"
At 9 o'clock on the morning of August 25, Francisco Stanley entered the private door of Windham's office. He was now an under-editor on The Chronicle, which had developed from the old Dramatic Chronicle, into a daily newspaper. Benito glanced up from his desk a bit impatiently; it was a busy day.
"What's the matter, Francisco? You're excited."
"I've a right to be," the journalist spoke sharply. He glanced at his uncle's secretary. "I must see you alone."
"Can't you come in later? I've a lot of clients waiting."
"For God's sake, Uncle Ben," the younger man said desperately, "send them off."
Benito gazed at him, astonished. Then convinced by something in Francisco's eyes, he nodded to the secretary who departed.
"It's Ralston ... word has reached the newspapers ... his bank has failed."
Benito sprang to his feet. "You're crazy! It's--impossible!"
"Uncle Ben, IT'S TRUE!" His fingers closed almost spasmodically upon the other's arm.
"How do you know?"
"RALSTON SAYS SO. I've just come from there.... He wants you."
Benito reached dazedly for his hat.
Benito found "Bill" Ralston in his private office, head bowed; eyes dully hopeless. He looked ten years older.
"The Bank of California has failed," he said before the younger man could ask a question. "It will never reopen its doors."
"I--I simply can't believe it!" After a stunned silence Benito spoke. He laid a hand on the banker's shoulder. "All I have is at your service, Ralston."
"Thank you ... but it isn't any use." He looked up misty-eyed. "I tried to make this town the greatest in the world.... I went too far.... I played too big a stake. Now--" he tried to smile. "Now comes the reckoning."
"But, God Almighty! Ralston," cried Benito, "your assets must be enormous.... It's only a matter of time. You'll pull through."
"They won't give me time," he spoke no names, yet Windham knew he meant those who had turned from friends to enemies.
Two days later Francisco met Ralston coming out of the bank. His face was haggard. His eyes had the look of one who has been struck an unexpected blow.
"Will the directors' meeting take place today, Mr. Ralston?"
"It's in session now," he answered dully.
"Ah, I thought, perhaps--since you are leaving--it had been postponed."
Spots of red flamed in the banker's cheeks. "They've barred me from the meeting," he replied and hurried on.
Several hours later newsboys ran through San Francisco's streets: "EXTRA! EXTRA!" they screamed, "ALL ABOUT RALSTON'S SUICIDE."
About the Bank of California was a surging press of men and women. The doors of that great financial institution were closed, blinds drawn, as on the previous day. Now and then an officer or director passed the guarded portals. D.O. Mills was one of these, his stern, ascetic face more severe than usual.
Francisco Stanley pushed his way up to the carriage as it started.
"Will the bank reopen, Mr. Mills?" he asked, walking along beside the moving vehicle.
The financier's eyes glared from the inner shadows. "Yes, yes. Certainly," he snapped. "Very shortly ... as soon as we can levy an assessment" The coachman whipped up his horses; the carriage rolled off. Francisco turned to face his uncle. "What did he say?" asked Benito. Others crowded close to hear the young editor's answer. The word found it way through the crowd. "The bank will reopen.... They'll levy an assessment.... We won't lose a cent."
Gradually the throng disbanded. Everywhere one heard expressions of sorrow for Ralston; doubt of the story that he had destroyed his life. As a matter of fact a coroner's jury found that death resulted from cerebral attack. An insurance company waived its suicide exemption clause and paid his widow $50,000.
The Bank of California was reopened. Ralston, buried with the pomp and splendor of a sorrowing multitude, was presently forgotten. Few new troubles came upon the land. Overspeculation in the Comstock lode brought economic unrest.
Thousands were unemployed in San Francisco. Agitators rallied them at public meetings into furious and morbid groups. From the Eastern States came telegraphic news of strikes and violence. Adrian returned one evening, tired and harassed.
"I don't know what's got into the working people," he said to Inez.
"Oh, they'll get over that," pronounced Francisco, with the sweeping confidence of youth. "These intervals of discontent are periodical--like epidemics of diseases."
Adrian glanced at the treatise on Political Economy in his son's hand. "And what would you suggest, my boy?" he asked with a faint smile.
"Leave them alone," said Francisco. "It goes through a regular form. They have agitators who talk of Bloodsucking Plutocrats, Rights of the People and all that. But it generally ends in mere words."
"The Paris Commune didn't end in mere words," reminded Adrian.
"Oh, that!" Francisco was a trifle nonplussed. "Well, of course--"
"There have been serious riots in Eastern States."
"But--they had leaders. Here we've none."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Adrian thoughtfully. "D'ye know that Irish drayman, Dennis Kearney?"
"Y-e-s ... the one who used to be a sailor?"
"That's the man. He's clever; knows men like a book.... Has power and a knack for words. He calls our Legislature 'The Honorable Bilks.' Wants to start a Workingmen's Party. And he'll do it, too, or I'm mistaken. His motto is 'The Chinese Must Go!'"
"By Harry! There's a story for the paper," said Francisco. "I must see the fellow."
Robert Windham and Po Lun were out for a morning promenade. They often walked together of a Sunday. Robert, though he was now twenty-six, still retained his childhood friendship for the Chinese servitor; found him an agreeable, often-times a sage companion. Urged by Alice, whose ambitious love included all within her ken, Po Lun attended night school; he could read and write English passably, though the letter "r" still foiled his Oriental tongue. Today they were out to have a look at the new city hall.
On a sand lot opposite several hundred men had gathered, pressing round a figure mounted on a barrel. The orator gesticulated violently. Now and then there were cheers. A brandishing of fists and canes. Po Lun halted in sudden alarm. "Plitty soon they get excited. They don't like Chinese. I think maybe best we go back."
But already Po's "pig-tail" had attracted attention. The speaker pointed to him.
"There's one of them Heathen Chinese," he cried shrilly. "The dirty yaller boys what's takin' bread out of our mouths. Down with them, I say. Make this a white man's country."
An ominous growl came from the crowd. Several rough-looking fellows started toward Robert and Po Lun. The latter was for taking to his heels, but Robert stood his ground.
"What do you fellows want?"
They paused, abashed by his intrepid manner. "No offense, young man. We ain't after you. It's that Yaller Heathen.... The kind that robs us of a chance to live."
"Po Lun has never robbed anyone of a chance to live. He's our cook ... and my friend. You leave him alone."
"He sends all his money back to China," sneered another coming closer, brandishing a stick. "A fine American, ain't he?"
"A better one than you," said Robert hotly. Anger got the better of his judgment and he snatched the stick out of the fellow's hand, broke it, threw it to the ground.
Savagely they fell upon him. He went down, stunned by a blow on the head, a sense of crushing weight that overwhelmed his strength. He was vaguely conscious of a tirade of strange words, of an arm at the end of which was a meat cleaver, lashing about. The vindictive bark of a pistol. Shouts, feet running. A blue-coated form. A vehicle with champing horses that stood by.
"Are you hurt very bad, young feller?"
Robert moved his arms and legs. They appeared intact. He rose, stiffly. "Where's Po Lun?"
"In the wagon."
Robert, turning, observed an ambulance. "Not--dead?"
"Well, pretty near it," said the policeman. "He saved your life though, the yellow devil. Laid out half a dozen of them hoodlums with a hatchet. He's shot through the lungs. But Doc. says he's got a chance."
Late that afternoon William T. Coleman sat closeted with Chief Ellis of the San Francisco police. Coleman bore but scant resemblance to the youth of 1856. He was heavier, almost bald, moustached, more settled, less alert in manner. Yet his eyes had in them still the old invincible gleam of leadership.
"But," he was saying to the man in uniform, "that was twenty years ago. Can't you find a younger chap to head your Citizens' Committee?"
"No," said Ellis shortly. "You're the one we need. You know the way to deal with outlaws ... how to make the citizens respond. Do you know that the gang wrecked several Chinese laundries after the attack on Windham? That they threaten to burn the Pacific Mail docks?"
Chief Ellis drew a little nearer. "General McComb of the State forces has called a mass meeting. He wishes you to take charge...."
Benito found his son awaiting when he returned from the Citizens' Mass Meeting at midnight. Robert, insisting that he was "fit as a fiddle," had nevertheless been put to bed through the connivance of an anxious mother and the family physician, who found him to have suffered some severe contusions and lacerations in the morning's fray. But he was wide awake and curious when his father's latch key grated in the door.
"It must have seemed like old times, didn't it, dad?" he asked with enthusiasm. The Vigilance Committee of the Fifties in his young mind was a knightly company. As a boy he used to listen, eager and excited, to his father's tales of Coleman. Now his hero was again to take the stage.
"Yes, it took me back," said Windham. "I was about your age then and Coleman was just in his thirties." He sat down a trifle wearily. "The years aren't kind. Some of the fellows who were young in '56 seemed old tonight.... But they have the same spirit."
"Tell me what happened," said Robert, after a pause.
Benito's eyes flashed. "You should have heard them cheer when Coleman rose. He called for his old comrades and we stood up. Then there was more cheering. Coleman is all business. He commenced at once enrolling men for his pick-handle brigade; he's refused fire-arms. He has fifteen hundred already, divided into companies of a hundred each--with their own officers."
"And are you an officer, dad?" asked Robert.
"Yes," Benito smiled. "But my company is one man short. We've only ninety-nine."
"How's that?" Robert's tone was puzzled.
Windham rose. "I'm saving it," he answered, "for a wounded hero, who, I rather hope, will volunteer."
"FATHER!" cried the young man rapturously.
At the Mount Zion Hospital Po Lun fought with death on Tuesday. The bullet was removed; but though this brought relief, there came an aftermath of fever and destroying weakness. Alice and her son were at his bedside, but Po Lun did not recognize them.
Mrs. Windham turned a tear-stained face to the physician. "Can nothing be done?" she pleaded. "He saved my boy.... Oh, doctor! You won't let him die."
The young physician's sympathy showed plainly in his eyes. "I've done everything," he said. "He's sinking. If I knew a way to rouse him there might be a chance."
As he spoke Francisco Stanley entered, viewed the silent figure on the cot and shook his head. "Poor Po Lun. At any rate he's been a hero in the papers. I've seen to that ..."
"He was delirious all morning ... stretching out his arms and calling 'Hang Far! Hang Far!' Do you know what it means?"
"I do," Alice answered; "it's the girl from whom he was separated nearly twenty years ago."
"Why--that's funny," said Francisco. "Yesterday a woman by that name was captured by the mission-workers in a raid on Chinatown. I wonder.... Could it be the same one?"
"Not likely," the physician answered. "It's a common name, I think. Still--" he looked at Po Lun.
"Run and get her," Alice urged. "It's a chance. Go quickly."
Half an hour passed; an hour, while the watchers waited at the bedside of Po Lun. Gradually his respiration waned. Several times the nurse called the physician, thinking death had come. But a spark still lingered, growing fainter with the minutes till a mist upon a mirror was the only sign that breath remained.
Suddenly there was a rush of feet, a door flung open and Francisco entered, half dragging a Chinese woman by the arm. She gazed with frantic eyes from Alice to Robert till her glance took in the figure on the bed. She stared at it curiously, incredulously. Then she gave a little cry and flung herself toward Po Lun.
What she said no one there present knew. What strange cabal she invoked is still a mystery. Be that as it may, eyes which had seemed closed forever, opened. Lips white, bloodless, breathed a scarce-heard whisper.
"Hang Far!"
"Come," said Alice. "Let us leave them together."
Half an later, in an ante-room, the doctor told them: "He will live, I think. It's very like a miracle...."
At the foot of Brannan street lay the Pacific Mail docks, where the Chinese laborers were landed. Many thousands of them had been brought there by the steamers from Canton. They had solved vexed problems as house servants, fruit pickers, tillers of the soil; they had done the rough work in the building of many bridges, the stemming of turbulent streams, the construction of highways. And while there was work for all, they had caused little trouble.
Now half a thousand jobless workers, armed and reckless, marched toward the docks. They bore torches, which illuminated fitfully their flushed, impassioned faces. Here and there one carried a transparency described, "The Chinese Must Go."
Half a thousand jobless workers, armed and reckless, marched toward the docks. They bore torches.... "A hell-bent crew," said Ellis.
Chief Ellis and a squad of mounted policemen watched them as they marched down Second street, shouting threats and waving their firebrands. "They're a hell-bent crew," he said to William Coleman. "Is your posse ready?"
"Yes," he answered, "they've assembled near the dock. I've twenty companies."
"Good.... You'll need 'em all."
As he spoke a tongue of flame leaped upward from the darkness. Another and another.
"They've fired the lumber yards," the chief said. "I expected that. There is fire apparatus on the spot.... It's time to move."
He spurred forward, rounding up his officers. Coleman rode silently toward the entrance of the docks. Very soon a bugle sounded. There were staccato orders; then a tramp of feet.
The Citizens' army moved in perfect unison toward the fires. Already engines were at work. One blaze was extinguished. Then came sounds of battle. Cries, shots. Coleman and his men rushed forward.
Stones and sticks flew through the air. Now and then a pistol barked. The mounted police descended with a clatter, clubbing their way into the throng. But they did not penetrate far, so dense was the pack; it hemmed them about, pulling officers from their horses. The fire engines had been stopped. One of them was pushed into the bay.
More fires leaped from incendiary torches. The rioters seemed triumphant. Then Coleman's brigade fell upon them.
Whack, whack, whack, fell the pick-handles upon the backs, shoulders, sometimes heads of rioters. It was like a systematic tattoo. Coleman's voice was heard directing, here and there, cool and dispassionate. A couple of locomotive headlights threw their glare upon the now disordered gangsters. Whack! Whack! Whack!
Suddenly the rioters, bleating, panic-stricken, fled like frightened sheep. They scattered in every direction leader*-less, completely routed. The fire engines resumed work. An ambulance came up and the work of attending the wounded began. The fight was over.
Weeks went by and brought no further outbreak. Chinatown which, for a time, was shuttered, fortified, almost deserted, once again resumed its feverish activities. In the theaters, funny men made jokes about the labor trouble. In the East strikes had abated. All seemed safe and orderly again.
But San Francisco had yet to deal with Dennis Kearney.
Dennis, born in County Cork just thirty years before, filled adventurous roles since his eleventh year, mostly on the so-called "hell-ships" which beat up and down the mains of trade. In 1868 he first set foot in San Francisco as an officer of the clipper "Shooting Star." Tiring of the sea he put his earnings in a draying enterprise. This, for half a dozen years, had prospered.
Suddenly he cast his business interests to the winds. Became a labor agitator.
Francisco Stanley, who had sought him, questing for an interview since morning, cornered him at last in Bob Woodward's What Cheer House at Sacramento and Leidesdorff streets. It was one of those odd institutions found only in this vividly bizarre metropolis of the West. For "two bits" you could get a bed and breakfast at the What Cheer House, both clean and wholesome enough for the proudest. If you had not the coin, it made little difference. One room was fitted out as a museum and contained the many curious articles which had found their way into Woodward's hands. Another room was the hotel library; the first free reading room in San Francisco.
At the What Cheer House all kinds of people gathered. Stanley, as he peeped into the library, noted a judge of the Superior Court poring over a volume of Dickens. He waved a salute to tousle-haired, eagle-beaked Sam Clemens, whose Mark Twain articles were beginning to attract attention from the Eastern publishers. Near him, quietly sedate, absorbed in Macaulay, was Bret Harte. He had been a Wells-Fargo messenger, miner, clerk and steam-boat hand, so rumor said, and now he was writing stories of the West. Stanley would have liked to stop and chat ... but Kearney must be found and interviewed before The Chronicle went to press.
Presently a loud, insistent voice attracted his attention. It was penetrating, violent, denunciatory. Francisco knew that voice. He went into an outer room where perhaps a dozen rough-clad men were gathered about a figure of medium height, compactly built, with a broad head, shifting blue eyes and a dynamic, nervous manner.
"Don't forget," he pounded fist on palm for emphasis, "on August 18 we organize the party. Johnny Day will be the prisident. We'll make thim bloody plutocrats take notice." He paused, catching sight of Stanley. Instantly his frowning face became all smiles. "Ah, here's me young friend, the reporter," he said. "Come along Misther Stanley, and I'll give yez a yarn for the paper. Lave me tell ye of the Workingmen's Trade and Labor Union."
He kept Francisco's pencil busy.
"There ain't no strings on us. We're free from all political connections. We're for oursilves. Get that."
"Our password's 'The Chinese Must Go.'"
"How do you propose to accomplish this?" asked Stanley.
"Aisy enough," returned the other with supreme confidence. "We'll have the treaty wid Chiny changed. We'll sind back all the yellow divils if they interfere wid us Americans."
Stanley could not repress a smile. Kearney himself had been naturalized only a year before.
For an hour he unfolded principles, threatened men of wealth, pounded Stanley's knee until it was sore and finally stalked off, highly pleased with himself.
"He's amusing enough," said Francisco to his father that evening. "But we mustn't underrate him as you said. The fellow has force. He knows the way to stir up human passion and he'll use his knowledge to the full. Also he knows equity and law. Some of his ideas are altruistic."
"What is he going to do to the Central Pacific nabobs if they don't discharge their Chinese laborers?" asked Adrian.
Young Stanley laughed. "He threatens to dynamite their castles on the hill."
His father did not answer immediately. "It may not be as funny as you think," he commented.
With the weeks Po Lun mended rapidly. Hang Far was at his bedside many hours each day. Alice often found them chatting animatedly.
"When I get plenty well, we mally," Po informed her. "Maybeso go back to China. What you say, Missee Alice?"
"I think you'd better stay with me," she countered. "As for Hang Far, we'll find room for her." She smiled dolefully. "I'm getting to be an old lady, Po Lun ... I need more help in the house."
"You nebbeh get old, Missee Alice," said the sick man. "Twenty yea' I know you--always like li'l gi'l."
"Nonsense, Po!" cried Alice. Nevertheless she was pleased. "Will you and Hang Far stay with me?"
"I t'ink so, Missee," Po replied. "By 'n' by we take one li'l tlip fo' honeymoon. But plitty soon come back."
The labor movement grew and Dennis with it--both in self-importance and in popularity. He went about the State making speeches, threatening the "shoddy aristocrats who want an emperor and a standing army to shoot down the people."
Every Sunday he harangued a crowd of his adherents on a sand-lot near the city hall and owing to this fact his followers were dubbed "The Sand-Lot Party." One day Robert, after hearing them discourse, returned home shaken and angry.
"The man's a maniac," he told his father; "he talked of nothing but lynching railroad magnates and destroying their property. He wants to blow up the Pacific Mail docks and burn the steamers ... to drop dynamite from balloons on Chinatown."
Young Stanley joined them, smiling, and dropped into a chair. "Whew!" he exclaimed, "it's been a busy day down at the office. Have you heard that Dennis Kearney's been arrested?"
Francisco stayed for tea and chatted of events. Yes, Dennis Kearney was in jail and making a great hullabaloo about it. He and five of his lieutenants had been arrested after an enthusiastic meeting on the Barbary Coast.
"And what's the Workingmen's Trade and Labor Union doing?" Robert asked.
"Oh, muttering and threatening as usual," Francisco laughed. "They'll not do anything--with the memory of Coleman's 1500 pick-handles fresh in their minds...."
"Well, I'm glad those murderous ruffians are behind the bars," said Alice. But Francisco took her up. "That's rather hard on them, Aunt Alice," he retorted. "They're only a social reaction of the times ... when railroad millionaires have our Legislature by the throat and land barons refuse to divide their great holdings and give the small farmer a chance.... Kearney, aside from his rant of violence, which he doesn't mean, is advocating much-needed reforms.... I was talking with Henry George today...."
"He's the new city gas and water inspector, isn't he?" asked Benito. "They tell me he's writing a book."
"Yes, 'Progress and Poverty.' George believes the single tax will cure all social wrongs. But Jean...." He hesitated, flushing.
"Jean?" His aunt was quick to sense a mystery. "Who is Jean?"
"Oh, she's the new woman reporter," said Francisco hastily. He rose, "Well, I'll be going now."
His aunt looked after him in silent speculation. "So!" she spoke half to herself. "Jean's the woman reporter." And for some occult reason she smiled.
Robert saw them together some days later, talking very earnestly as they walked through "Pauper Alley." Such was the title bestowed upon Leidesdorff street between California and Pine streets, where the "mudhens"--those bedraggled, wretched women speculators who still waited hungrily for scanty crumbs from Fortune's table--chatted with broken-down and shabby men in endless reminiscent gabble of great fortunes they had "almost won."
"Miss Norwall's going to do some 'human interest sketches,' as they call 'em," Francisco explained as he introduced his cousin. "Our editor believes in a 'literary touch' for the paper. Something rather new."
Jean Norwall held out her hand. She was an attractive, bright-eyed girl in her early twenties, with a searching, friendly look, as though life were full of surprises which she was eager to probe. "So you are Robert," she remarked. "Francisco's talked a lot about you."
"That was good of him," the young man answered. "He's talked a deal of you as well, Miss Norwall."
"Oh, indeed!"' She reddened slightly. "Well, we must be getting on."
Robert raised his hat and watched them disappear around the corner. There was a vaguely lonesome feeling somewhere in the region of his heart. He went on past the entrance of the San Francisco Stock Exchange and almost collided with a bent-over, shrewd-faced man, whose eagle-beak and penetrating eyes were a familiar sight along California street.
He was E.J. (better known as "Lucky") Baldwin, who had started the Pacific Stock Exchange.
Baldwin had a great ranch in the South, where he bred blooded horses. He owned the Baldwin theater and the Baldwin Hotel, which rivaled the Palace. Women, racing and stocks were his hobbies. Benito had done some legal work for Baldwin and Robert knew him casually. Rather to his surprise Baldwin stopped, laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Hello, lad," he greeted; "want a tip on the stock market?"
Tips from "Lucky" were worth their weight in gold. Robert was astonished. "Why--yes, thank you, sir," he stammered.
"Well, don't play it ... that's the best tip in the world." The operator walked off chuckling.
Robert continued his walk along Montgomery street to Market, where he turned westward. It was Saturday and his father's office, where he was now studying law, had been closed since noon. It had become a custom--almost an unwritten law--to promenade San Francisco's lordly thoroughfare on the last afternoon of the week, especially the northern side. For Market street was now a social barrier. South of it were smaller, meaner shops, saloons, beer-swilling "cafe chantants," workmen's eating houses and the like, with, of course, the notable exceptions of the Grand and Palace Hotels.
On the northern side were the gay haberdasheries, millinery stores, cafes and various business marts, where fashionable San Francisco shopped. Where men with top hats, walking sticks and lavender silk waistcoats ogled the feminine fashion parade.
As he passed the Baldwin Hotel with its broadside of bow-windows, Robert became aware of some disturbance. A large dray drawn by four horses, plumed and flower garlanded, was wending a triumphal course up Market street. A man stood in the center of it waving his hat--a stocky fellow in soiled trousers and an old gray sweater. Shouts of welcome hailed him as the dray rolled on; most of them came from the opposite or southern side.
"It's Dennis Kearney," said a man near Robert. "He and his gang were released from custody today.... Now we'll have more trouble."
Robert followed the dray expectantly. But Kearney made no overt demonstration. He seemed much subdued by his fortnight in jail.
The swift California dusk was falling. The afternoon was gone. And Robert, realizing that it was past the dinner hour at his home, decided to find his evening meal at a restaurant. One of these, with a display of shell-fish grouped about a miniature fountain in its window, confronted him ere long and he entered a rococo interior of mirrored walls. What caught his fancy more than the ornate furnishings, however, was a very pretty girl sitting within a cashier's cage of iron grill-work.
It happened that she was smiling as he glanced her way. She had golden hair with a hint of red in it, a dainty oval face, like his mother's; eyes that were friendly and eager with youth. Robert smiled back at her involuntarily.
The smile still lingered as a man came forward to adjust his score. A keen, dynamic-looking man of middle years and an imposing presence. Robert watched him just a little envious of his assured manner as he threw down a gold-piece. While the fair cashier was making change he grinned at her. "How's my little girl tonight?" Reaching through the aperture, he chucked her suddenly beneath the chin. Tears of mortification sprang into her eyes. Impulsively Robert stepped forward, crowding the other aside none too gently.
"I beg your pardon," he was breathless, half astounded by his own temerity. "But--can I be of any--ah--service?"
"Puppy!" stormed the elder man and stalked out haughtily. The girl's eyes encountered Robert's, shining, grateful for an instant. Then they fell. Her face grew grave. "You shouldn't have ... really.... That was Isaac J. Kalloch."
"Oh, the preacher that's running for Mayor," Robert's tone was abashed. "But I don't care," he added, "I'm glad I did."
Once again the girl's eyes met his, shyly. "So am I," she whispered.
Isaac S. Kalloch was the labor candidate for mayor. People said he was the greatest pulpit orator in San Francisco since Starr King. His Sunday sermons at the Metropolitan Temple were crowded; as a campaign orator he drew great throngs.
Robert's dislike for the man was mitigated by a queer involuntary gratitude. Without that bit of paternal familiarity, which had goaded the young lawyer to impulsive protective championship, he and Maizie Carter, the little golden-haired cashier, might have found the road to comradeship much longer.
For comrades they had become almost at once. At least so they fondly fancied. Robert's mother wondered why he missed so many meals from home. The rococo restaurant gained a steady customer. And the host of cavaliers who lingered in the hope of seeing Maizie home each evening diminished to one. He was often invited into the vine-clad cottage at the top of Powell street hill. Sometimes he sat with Maizie on a haircloth sofa and looked at Mrs. Carter's autograph album. It contained some great names that were now no longer written. James Lick, David Broderick, Colonel E.D. Baker and the still lamented Ralston, of whom Maizie's mother never tired of talking. He, it seems, was wont to give her tips on mining stocks. Acting on them, she had once amassed $10,000.
"But I lost it all after the poor, dear man passed away," she would say, with a tear in her eye. "Once that fellow Mills--I hate his fishy eyes!--looked straight at me and said, 'See the poor old mud-hen'!"
She began to weep softly. Maizie sprang to comfort her, stroking the stringy gray hair with tender, youthful fingers. "Mother quit the market after that. She hasn't been near Pauper Alley for a year ... not since I've been working at the Mineral Cafe. And we've three hundred dollars in the bank."
"Ah, yes," said the mother, fondly. "Maizie's a brave girl and a thrifty one. We're comfortable--and independent, even though the rich grind down the poor." Her eyes lighted. "Wait till Kalloch is elected ... then we'll see better times, I'll warrant."
Robert was too courteous to express his doubts.
Later he discussed the situation with Francisco. His paper had printed an "expose" of Kalloch, who struck back with bitter personal denunciation of his editorial foes. "It's a nasty mess," Francisco said disgustedly.
"Broderick used to tell my father that politics had always been a rascal's paradise because decent men wouldn't run for office--nor vote half of the time.... I'm going to write an article about it for The Overland. And Pixley of the Argonaut has given me a chance to do some stories. I shall be an author pretty soon--like Harte and Clemens."
"Or a poet like this Cincinnatus Heinie Miller, whom one hears about. Fancy such a name. I should think he'd change it."
"He has already," laughed Francisco. "Calls himself Joaquin--after Marietta, the bandit. Joaquin Miller--rather catchy, isn't it? And he's written some really fine lines. Showed me one the other day that's called 'Columbus.' It's majestic. I tell you that fellow will be famous one day."
"Pooh!" scoffed Robert; "he's a poseur--ought to be an actor, with his long hair and boots and sash.... How is the fair Jeanne?"
Francisco's face clouded. "I want her to leave newspaper work and try literature," he said, "but Jeanne's afraid to cut loose. She's earning her living ... and she's alone in the world. No one to fall back on, you know."
"But she'd make more money at real writing, wouldn't she?" asked Robert. "Ever since Harte wrote that thing about 'The Luck of Roaring Camp,' which the lady proofreader said was indecent, he's had offers from the Eastern magazines. John Carmony's paying him $5,000 a year to edit the Overland and $100 for each poem or story he writes."
"Ah, yes, but Bret Harte is a genius."
"Maybe Jeanne's another," Robert ventured.
Francisco laughed ruefully. "I've told her that ... but she says no.... 'I'm just a woman,' she insists, 'and not a very bright one at that.' She has all kinds of faith in me, but little in herself." He made an impatient gesture. "What can a fellow do?"
Robert looked at him a moment thoughtfully. "Why not--marry Jeanne?"
Dull red crept into Francisco's cheeks. Then he laughed. "Well--er--probably she wouldn't have me."
"There's only one way to find out," his cousin persisted. "She's alone ... and you're soon going to be. When do your folks start on their 'second honeymoon,' as they call it?"
"Oh, that trip around the world--why, in a month or two. As soon as father closes out his business."
"You could have the house then--you and Jeanne."
"Say!" exclaimed Francisco suddenly, "you're such a Jim Dandy to manage love affairs! Why don't you get married yourself?"
It was Robert's turn to flush. "I'm quite willing," he said shortly.
"Won't she have you?" asked his cousin sympathetically.
"'Tisn't that ... it's her mother. Maizie won't leave her ... and she won't bring her into our home. Mrs. Carter's peculiar ... and Maizie says we're young. Young enough to be unselfish."
"She's a fine girl," returned Francisco. "Well, good bye." He held out a cordial hand.
"I--I'll think over what you said."
"Good luck, then," Robert answered as they gripped.
Adrian Stanley was closing up his affairs. As a contractor he had prospered; his reclaimed city lots had realized their purchase price a hundred fold and his judiciously conservative investments yielded golden fruit. Adrian was not a plunger. But in thirty years he had accumulated something of a fortune.... And now they were to travel, he and Inez, for a year or so.
He had provided, too, for Francisco. The latter, though he did not know it, would have $20,000 to his credit in the Bank of California. Adrian planned to hand his son the bank deposit book across the gang plank as the ship cast off. They were going first to the Sandwich Islands. Then on to China, India, the South Seas. Each evening, sometimes until midnight, they perused the illustrated travel-folders, describing routes, hotels, trains, steamships.
"You're like a couple of children," smiled Francisco on the evening before their departure. He was writing a novel, in addition to the other work for Carmony and Pixley. Sometimes it was hard work amid this unusual prattle by his usually sedate and silent parents. He tried to imagine the house without them; his life, without their familiar and cherished companionship.... It would be lonely. Probably he would rent the place, when his novel was finished ... take lodgings down town.