.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 52180
   :PG.Title: The Apple of Discord
   :PG.Released: 2016-05-28
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Earle Ashley Walcott
   :MARCREL.ill: Alice Barber Stephens
   :DC.Title: The Apple of Discord
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1907
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE APPLE OF DISCORD
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      THE APPLE OF DISCORD

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      BY

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      EARLE ASHLEY WALCOTT

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      Author of
      "Blindfolded"

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      WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
      ALICE BARBER STEPHENS

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      GROSSET & DUNLAP
      Publishers :: :: New York

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      COPYRIGHT 1907
      THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

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      OCTOBER

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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I  `I am Presented with an Overcoat`_
II  `The House of Blazes`_
III  `A Glimpse of Sunshine`_
IV  `Machiavelli in Bronze`_
V  `Miss Kendrick's Pleasure`_
VI  `Big Sam's Diplomacy`_
VII  `In the Current`_
VIII  `A Contribution to the Cause`_
IX  `Peter Bolton`_
X  `A Council of War`_
XI  `Troubles in the Market`_
XII  `The Lottery Ticket`_
XII  `The Wisdom of His Ancestors`_
XIV  `Bargaining`_
XV  `A Ripple of Trouble`_
XVI  `Laying Down the Law`_
XVII  `Big Sam's Warning`_
XVIII  `Little John as a Man of Action`_
XIX  `Mischief Afoot`_
XX  `On the Sand-Lots`_
XXI  `Battle`_
XXII  `I Become a Man of Business`_
XXIII  `The Committee of Safety`_
XXIV  `The Justice of Big Sam`_
XXV  `Facing a Crisis`_
XXVI  `On the Precipice`_
XXVII  `A Call to Arms`_
XXVIII  `With the Pick-Handle Brigade`_
XXIX  `A Tongue of Fire`_
XXX  `The End of the Feud`_
XXXI  `The Broken Web`_
XXXII  `The Answer`_

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`Epilogue`_
`Postscript`_

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.. _`I AM PRESENTED WITH AN OVERCOAT`:

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   THE APPLE OF DISCORD

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   CHAPTER I

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   I AM PRESENTED WITH AN OVERCOAT

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Colonel Wharton Kendrick leaned back in his
chair, stroked his red side-whiskers reflectively, and
looked across the table with an expression of
embarrassment on his round ruddy face.  For the moment
his command of words had evidently failed him.

As embarrassment and failure of language were
equally foreign to his nature, I was confirmed in a
growing suspicion that there had been an ulterior
purpose behind his cordial invitation to luncheon.
The meal had been a good one, and he was paying
for it, and so I felt that I owed him my moral
support.  Therefore, I returned such a look of
encouragement as might properly express the feelings of a
fledgling attorney toward a millionaire who was the
probable source of active litigation, and waited for
him to speak.

"See here, Hampden," he said at last; "you know
something about my row with Peter Bolton, don't you?"

"The Bolton-Kendrick feud is a part of my very
earliest recollections," I admitted.  "When I was a
small boy I was convinced that it was quite as much
a part of the institutions of the country as the Fourth
of July.  You may remember that my father took
something of an interest in your affairs."

"Good old Dick Hampden--the best friend a
man ever had!"  And there was a note of tenderness
in his voice that touched my heart-strings.  "It was
a sad loss when he went, my boy.  Well, then I
needn't go into the beginning of the feud, as no
doubt he explained it all to you."

"I should like very much to have an account of it
at first hand," I replied.  In spite of my familiarity
with the quarrels between Bolton and Kendrick, I
had never solved the mystery of the beginning of
the feud.  Its origin was as deeply buried in the haze
of historic doubts as the causes of the Trojan War.
I had heard it assigned to a dozen different
beginnings, ranging from a boyhood battle for the
possession of a red apple to a maturer rivalry for the hand
of the village belle, who had finally bestowed herself
on a suitor whose very name was forgotten.  None
of the explanations seemed adequate.  The first could
scarce account for the depth of hatred that each felt
for the other.  As for the last--imagination refused
to picture Peter Bolton in the figure of a sighing
swain; the caricature was too monstrous for credit.
Therefore, I spoke hopefully, as one who sees the
doors of mystery ajar.  But Wharton Kendrick
shrank from the task of enlightening me, and with a
shake of his head he replied:

"Well, there's no need to go into it all now.  It
began back in the Ohio village where we were born--long
before the days we heard of California--and
it'll end when one of us is carried out feet foremost."

"I hope you're not expecting anything of that
sort," I said.

"No, I can't say that I am.  I'm expecting
something, and I don't know what it is.  But what I
want to know is this: Have you any objections to
doing a bit of secret service?"  The manner in which
he plunged through his sentence, and the air of
visible relief on his face when he had done, told me
that this was what he had been leading toward.

"Well, that depends.  You know there are some
things considered unprofessional--"

"Even in the law!" said Wharton Kendrick with
a jovial laugh.  "Oh, thunder!  What would the game
be if we didn't pretend to have rules?  Well, I don't
think this is anything that would get you on the
black books, though some of you fellows are so
confounded touchy that I've shied away from mentioning
it to you.  I want you to keep an eye on Bolton
for a while, and find out what he is up to."

"That sounds as though you wanted a private
detective agency," I said dubiously, with distrust of
my ability to fill the bill.

"If I had wanted one I should have sent for it,"
replied Wharton Kendrick dryly.  "I've had enough
experience of them to know that I don't want them.
I want you because I must have some one I can
trust."

I murmured my thanks at this expression of esteem.
It was the more gratifying as, like the rest of
my father's old friends, he had carefully avoided
giving me his legal business, with a wise but annoying
preference for having me try my 'prentice hand
on the litigation of strangers.  So at this I professed
my entire willingness to be of service.

"That's good," he said.  "Now, I've had warning
from a source I trust that Bolton is fixing up some
sort of surprise for me.  I want you to find out what
it is.  Six months ago I got the same sort of hint
that came to me this morning, and I forgot all about
it.  Then one day I got a jolt that cost me a cool
hundred thousand dollars when I found that Bolton
had taken the Golden West Land and Water
Company away from me.  He got hold of some of the
stock that I thought was in safe hands, and I had
to pay four prices to get it.  I've a notion that the
thing is more serious this time."

Something in his voice suggested alarming possibilities.

"Do you mean that Bolton is plotting against your
life?"

"Oh, I don't say that.  But, oh, thunder!  You
wouldn't put it beyond him, would you?"

"Not beyond his morals, perhaps; but I should
certainly put it beyond his courage."

"Oh, P. Bolton isn't the man to go gunning for
any one.  But he hasn't any scruples against getting
another man to do it for him.  That's why he owns
the Miroban mine."

"You don't mean to say so?  I never heard of that."

"I suppose not.  You're too young to remember
the murder of the Eddy boys.  They had located the
Miroban mine, and one day they struck it rich.
Bolton put in a claim that he had bought it from a prior
locator, and pretty soon they were all tangled up in
litigation.  One night somebody poked a double-barreled
shot-gun through a window in the Eddy boys'
cabin, and filled them full of buckshot.  There was a
good deal of excitement about it for a while, but
nobody could find out the man who did the shooting,
and we were all too busy in those days to waste
much time hunting criminals.  When the talk died
down, Bolton was found in possession of the Miroban."

"And you think--"

"I don't know who pulled the trigger, but I know
well enough that Bolton pointed the gun."

"Old Bolton is a more interesting character than
I had supposed," I confessed.

"You'll have a chance to get better acquainted
with him," said Kendrick, "but I can't promise you
that he improves on acquaintance."  He smoothed
his ruddy cheeks, and ran his fingers through his
side-whiskers, and then continued: "You'd better
not come to see me till you have something important
to report.  You'll find it easier to get hold of
things if the old spider doesn't know that you are in
my employ.  Send word around to my office when
you want to see me.  I suppose you'll want some
money.  You needn't spare expense.  I guess this will
do for a starter."  And, reaching into his pocket, he
brought up a handful of twenties and passed them
over.  And in this pleasant way began my active
relations with the famous feud that was to shake San
Francisco to its foundations.

Several days of cautious but diligent inquiry
followed before my industry was rewarded with an
insight into Peter Bolton's purposes.  Then a lead of
much promise opened, and I sent word to my employer
that I was prepared to make a progress report.

"Come around to the office to-night--nine-thirty,"
was the reply; and prompt to the minute I mounted
the stairs of the California Street building in which
Wharton Kendrick kept his business quarters, and
knocked at his private door.

At his brusk "Come in," I entered, and found him
seated behind his wide desk busily running over a
bundle of papers.  The gas-light fell on his ruddy
face and was reflected in glints from his red
side-whiskers with which he eked out the fullness of his
cheeks.  He was indeed a handsome man, and
carried his sixty years with the ease of forty.

"So you have brought news," he said, thrusting
his papers into a drawer and leaning back to receive
my communication.  "Well, what is the old fox up
to now?"

"I have the honor," I returned, "to report that the
old fox has turned reformer."

"Reformer?"  And a puzzled look overspread his
face.  "Well, if he wants a job in that line he won't
have to leave home to get it.  He can spend the rest
of his life reforming himself and not have time
enough by half."

"He is not so selfish as all that.  His zeal has
reached out to embrace the regeneration of the whole
human race--or at least the part of it that inhabits
San Francisco."

"What do you mean?  I may be thick-headed, but
I don't get your meaning."

"Oh, it is just as I say.  And to carry out his
benevolent purposes he has engaged the services of
the Council of Nine--or at least has entered into
active cooperation with it."

"The Council of Nine!  I never heard of it."  Wharton
Kendrick looked at me in amazement.

"Well, to confess the truth, I never heard of it
myself until to-day.  However, you are likely to hear
more of it later.  It has a valiant recruit in Bolton."

"But what is it?  What is it trying to do?"

"So far as I can find out, it is the head-center of
the local organization of the International Reds.  It
is made up of anarchists, socialists, communists, and
the discontented of all sorts.  I'll admit that I don't
understand fully the distinctions between these
elements, and they are so mixed up here that you can't
tell one from another."

"That's a promising combination," laughed Wharton
Kendrick; and then a thoughtful look followed
his laughter, as he added: "But what does P. Bolton
think he can get out of that crowd?"

"A liberal education--or at least an education in
liberality.  He has given a handsome contribution to
their funds--"

"What!" ejaculated Kendrick, starting forward
in astonishment.  "You don't mean to say that he
has given them money?"

"I have the authority of a good witness--to wit,
a man who saw the money paid."

"Whew!  That's pretty hard to swallow.  What is
the man's name?"

"Clark--Jonas Clark."

"Who is he?"

"Why, he's a shining light in the Carpenters'
Union.  He's a decent chap who is a little carried
away by the eloquence of the agitators, but he is all
right.  He has been a messenger back and forth
between Bolton and some members of the Council, but
he had the fault of being too scrupulous, and Bolton
gave him the sack.  So now he is employee number
one of our detective bureau."

"Hm-m!  And maybe you can give a guess why
P. Bolton is putting up his good money for that
crazy crowd?  You are not trying to tell me it's a
case of pure philanthropy?"

"That is what he wants them to believe.  He told
Clark that before he gave any money he must be
satisfied that the aims and methods of the Council
were for the benefit of the people."

"Oh, thunder!  To think of P. Bolton playing a
game like that!  Well, did they satisfy him?"

"Clark took him any quantity of documents.  They
fed him first with the brotherhood-of-man and the
one-for-all-and-all-for-one course of lectures.  He
thought there was too much milk-and-water about
that, so they gradually worked up to the dynamiting
of royal oppressors and the extinction of capitalistic
robbers.  At this he gave up some good coin--five
hundred dollars, as near as I can learn--paid in
person at midnight to three members of the Council of
Nine."

Kendrick leaned back in his chair, and meditatively
stroked his red side-whiskers once more,
while the thoughtful wrinkles chased each other
about his eyes.

"That begins to look like business," he said at last.
"I'm sure I could put a name to the capitalistic
robber he would like to see extinguished.  Still, I don't
see what he is driving at.  Have you got any light
on his plans?"

"No.  So far as I can find out, he has made no
suggestions.  He has only approved their propaganda,
and hinted that they might look for more
money if their course was such as to satisfy him."

"Then you think their schemes worth looking into?"

"Indeed I do.  I have an engagement to meet
Clark at their headquarters, down at the House of
Blazes to-morrow night.  He is going to introduce
me to some of the leaders, and I hope to get a line
on what they are planning."

"The House of Blazes?  What's that?"

"Oh, it's a saloon down on Tar Flat.  The socialists
and anarchists and a lot of other 'ists' loaf
around there and drink beer in their hours of ease,
and I believe there is a hall there where they hold
their meetings."

"Umph!  I hope you'll enjoy your evening.  But
don't get your head smashed."  Wharton Kendrick
was silent a little, and then continued thoughtfully:
"I don't see what P. Bolton can expect to gain out
of a lot of crack-brained fanatics like that, but you
can do as you like about looking into them.  I
suspect, though, that this is just a blind for something
else.  Just remember that if you are expecting
P. Bolton to show himself in one place, he's sure to
turn up in another.  Now, is that all your budget?"

"One thing more.  Bolton has a little detective
bureau of his own.  He has engaged Jim Morgan,
the prize-fighter, with three or four more of the
same sort, and you're being watched.  I've no doubt
there's a fellow out by the door, waiting to follow
you home.  So I'll take the liberty of walking with
you, and engage a few reliable body-guards to-morrow."

Wharton Kendrick's mouth closed with a snap.

"Not much--no body-guards for me!  I've walked
San Francisco for twenty years in the face of Peter
Bolton, and I'm not going to be afraid of him at
this day.  Hire all the men you want, but set them
to looking after P. Bolton--not after me."

"There are two at his heels already."

"Good; but I'm afraid a hundred wouldn't be
enough to keep track of the old fox," laughed
Kendrick.  "Well, it's time to be getting home.  Reach
me my hat there, will you?  Make sure of the door--here
goes the light."  And he followed me into the
hall and turned the key behind him.  "Now, there's
no need for you to go home with me," he continued.

"It's my way as well as yours," I replied, "and
unless you object to my company, we'll go together."

We faced the west wind that came in gusts from
over Nob Hill, with the salt freshness of the ocean
fog heavy upon it, turned north at Kearny Street,
and at Clay Street took the hill-climbing cable-car
that still passed as one of the city's novelties.  From
the western end of the line we walked to the
Kendrick residence on Van Ness Avenue.

"Well, good night, my boy," he said.  "Sorry to
have brought you up here for nothing.  If you
should get any light on the Council's plans to-morrow
night, come up here next evening--say at eight
o'clock.  I may have an idea of my own by that
time."  And he closed the door.

As I turned to descend the steps, my eye was
startled by a glimpse of movement among the shrubs
that decorated the Kendrick lawn.  At first I thought
it but a branch tossed by the wind; but an incautious
movement revealed the figure of a man silhouetted
against the faint illumination from a distant
street-lamp, and I felt a momentary gratification that my
precaution had been justified.

I descended the flight of steps to the garden with
assumed unconcern.  Then, instead of following the
second flight to the street, I turned, made a sudden
spring on to the lawn, straight for the shrub behind
which I had seen the man hide himself.  It was but
twenty-five feet away, and I reached it in an instant.
No one was there.  For a moment I thought my
eyes must have deceived me.  Then the rustle of a
bush by the fence attracted my attention, and I made
a dash for the spot.  Before I could reach it a man
rose from behind the bush, vaulted the fence,
disappeared for a second of time, and then could be seen
running swiftly down the street.

There was an eight-foot drop from the garden to
the sidewalk, but I made the leap in my turn
without mishap, and was running in the wake of the
flying night-hawk before I had time to draw breath.  I
soon gained upon him, and as I came nearer I could
hear his hoarse gasps, as the unaccustomed pace told
upon him.  At the corner of Sacramento Street I
was near enough to reach out and grasp him by the
coat.

He halted and turned.

"What do you want?" he growled, and then
struck at me with sudden movement.  "Take that!"
he cried, striking again as I tried to close with him,
and I felt the shearing of cloth before a sharp blade.

As I staggered back from the impact of the blow,
my foot caught on the curb, the earth whirled about,
the stone sidewalk gave me a thump alongside the
head, and I witnessed a private meteoric display of
unrivaled splendor.

I was stunned for a minute, but collecting my wits
I scrambled to my feet, cleared my eyes, and looked
for the flying enemy.  He was nowhere to be seen,
and no sound of his footfalls came to my ear.
Making sure that he had escaped, I turned to take stock
of my injuries.  I could find no wound, though a
rent through my coat showed how near I had come
to the end of all my adventures.  A memorandum-book
in my inside pocket had stopped the blade with
which the spy had struck at me.  Then I recovered
from my daze enough to become aware that I was
holding an overcoat that was none of mine.  The
enemy had slipped from the garment to secure his
escape, and had left it in my hands.





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.. _`THE HOUSE OF BLAZES`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   THE HOUSE OF BLAZES

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With the morning's light I looked carefully over
the captured overcoat for identifying marks by
which I might trace the elusive spy who was so near
ending my life.  A hasty survey of the garment when
I had reached my room had revealed nothing by
which I might learn of the owner; but after a night's
sleep the detective instinct burned within me, and I
was persuaded that there was something about it to
differentiate it from other overcoats, if only I had
the keenness to discover it.  The garment was of
cheap material, and even the maker's name had
disappeared from it.  There was nothing individual
about it, and not even a handkerchief was to be
found in its pockets.  But when I was about to abandon
search once more, a small inside pocket attracted
my attention, and, diving within it, I brought out a
square of paper, three or four inches wide.  The
detective instinct within me raised a shout of triumph,
and I opened the paper with the conviction that it
would bear some address that would lead me to the
spy.  The detective instinct became more humble to
find that the paper bore only a few sprawling
characters that were reminiscent of a Chinese laundry or
a Canton tea-chest.

Nevertheless, it was the only clue in my possession,
and during the day I made several attempts to
secure a translation of the marks.  But nightfall
came without success, and, reinforced by a good
dinner, I turned my steps south of Market Street to
keep my appointment with Clark.

"Here's the place," said the policeman, pointing
across Natoma Street to the corner building, from
which lights flashed and sounds of laughter and
drunken song floated out on the night air.  "We
call it the House of Blazes."

Even in the semi-darkness left by the street-lamps
and the lights that streamed from the windows, I
could see that it was a rambling two-story frame
building, with signs of premature age upon it.  The
neighborhood was far from select, but the House of
Blazes had characteristics of evil all its own.  Above,
the small windows scowled dark, stealthy, mistrustful,
as though they sought to escape the eye of the
officer of the law who stood by my side.  Below, the
broader windows, ablaze with lamps, and the swinging
half-doors, through which we could see the feet
of men and the occasional hat of a taller customer,
made a show of openness.  But it all seemed the
bravado of the criminal who ventures forth by daylight,
aggressively assertive of his self-confidence
and ready to take to his heels at the first sign that he
is recognized by the police.  Across the windows and
on a swinging sign were painted letters proclaiming
that wines and liquors were to be had within and
that H. Blasius was the owner.

"It doesn't look to be just the place for a stranger
to show his money in," I said lightly.

"It's about as tough as they make 'em," growled
the policeman.  "There's a sight more throuble in
that darty den than in all the others on the beat."

I thanked the policeman and bade him good night.

"Good night, sor.  I'm hoping you won't need
anything more from me, sor.  But just blow a whistle
if ye are in chance of throuble, and I'll do my best
for ye."

And with this cheerful parting ringing in my
ears, I swung back the doors and stepped into the
saloon, with the shadow of a wish that the Council
of Nine had shown better taste in headquarters.

I found myself in a long, low-ceiled room, lighted
by a dozen lamps that struggled to overpower the
tobacco smoke that filled it.  A dingy, painted bar
stretched half-way down the side of the room, and
behind it a cracked mirror and a gaudy array of
bottles served for ornament and use.  Below the bar
the room jutted back into an L, where a half-dozen
tables were scattered about.  The floor was littered
with sawdust, trampled and soiled with many feet,
and mottled with many a splotch of tobacco juice.

I looked about for Clark and his companions.
Five or six loungers leaned against the bar, listening
to a stout, red-faced Irishman, who was shaking his
fist vigorously as an accompaniment to a loud
denunciation of the Chinese.  There was something
about the man that drew a second look, though at
first glance I thought I had recognized the symptoms
of the saloon politician.  He had a bristling brown
mustache, a shrewd mouth, and a strong aggressive
jaw.  A little above the medium height, with
compact, heavy frame, and broad shoulders that
betokened strength, he was a type of the substantial
workman.

Beyond the oratorical Irishman with his denunciations
of "the haythen divils," stood a man with hat
drawn down over his eyes, half hiding his sallow
face, and with hands deep in his pockets, who
glanced furtively from side to side, as if in suspicion
that an enemy was about.  Something faintly stirred
in memory at the sight of him, but he shuffled out of
the saloon as I passed him, and it was not until he
was gone that I connected him with the spy whose
overcoat lay in my room.  It was too late to follow
him, for, before I had recalled the vagrant memory, a
short fat old man waddled slowly forward and stood
before me with the air of a proprietor.  I divined that
I was face to face with H. Blasius.

"Vat vill you have, mine friend?" he inquired
deliberately.

I looked into his fat pasty face, that gave back an
unhealthy almost livid pallor to the light that shone
upon it, and caught the glance of his shifty bleary
eyes under their puffy lids, and a shudder of
repulsion ran through me.  He was a man of sixty or
more.  His face, clean-shaven except for a mustache
and chin-tuft stained with tobacco juice, revealed to
the world every line that a wicked life had left
upon it.

He rubbed his fat, moist hands on the dingy white
apron that he wore, gave a tug at his mustache, and
waited for my reply.

"I'm looking for Mr. Clark," I said.

"*Non*--no soch man is here," he said suspiciously.
"I have no one of zat name."

"I'm quite sure he's here," I said.  "And I must
see him."

The brow of H. Blasius darkened, and he looked
about slowly as though he meditated calling for
assistance to hasten my departure.

"I don't vant ze trouble," he had begun, when I
caught sight of my man at a table in the alcove at
the other end of the long room.

"There he is now," I interrupted.  "There'll be no
trouble, if you don't make it yourself."

I was gone before H. Blasius had brought his wits
to understand my meaning, and in a moment stood
beside a group of men who were sitting around the
farther table, beer glasses before them and pipes in
hand, listening to an excited young man with a
shock of long, tawny hair, who pounded the table
to strengthen the force of his argument.  As he came
to a pause, I put my hand on the shoulder of a tall,
awkward, spare-built man, with a stubby red beard,
who was listening with effort, and evidently burning
to reply to the fervid young orator.  It was Clark,
and he rose clumsily and shook hands with effusion.

"I'm glad you come, Mr. Hampden; I'd about
give you up.  Boys, this is Mr. Hampden, the friend
I was telling you about.  Won't you take this chair,
sir, and spend the evening with us?  We was having
a little discussion about the Revolution."

"The Revolution!" I exclaimed.  "Well, that's a
safe antiquarian topic."

"Oh," stammered Clark, "it isn't the old Revolution.
That's too far back for us.  It's the coming
Revolution we're talking about, when all men are to
be equal and share alike in the good things of the
earth.  Parks, here, thinks he knows all about it."  And
he waved his hand toward the oratorical young
man, who looked on the world with eyes that seemed
to burn with the light of fever.

Parks accepted this as an introduction, and
acknowledged it with a nod as I took a seat.  I looked
at him with keen interest, for I knew his name as
one of the nine leaders who had banded themselves
to right the wrongs of the world--with the incidental
assistance of Peter Bolton.  Then I looked about the
rest of the group as Clark spoke their names, and
was disappointed to find that a little spectacled
German, with a bristling black beard, was the only other
member of the Council at the table.

"Hope to know you better, Mr. Hampden," said
Parks.  "You don't look to be one of us."

"If it's a secret society, I can't say that I've been
initiated," I said.  "But I hope you'll count me as
one of you for an occasional evening.  What do you
happen to be, if I may ask?"

"We," said Parks, leaning forward and gazing
fiercely into my eyes, "we represent the people.  We
are from the masses."

"I'm afraid, then," I returned with a laugh, "you'll
have to count me as one of you.  I can't think of any
way in which my name gets above the level of the
lower ten million."

"Sir," cried Parks, shaking his finger in my face
and speaking rapidly and excitedly, "your speech
betrays you.  You speak of the lower ten million.  They
are not the lower--no, by Heaven!  Your heart is
not with the people.  There is nothing in you that
beats responsive to their cry of distress.  You may
be as poor as the rest of us, but your feelings, your
prejudices are with the despoilers of labor, the
oppressors of the lowly.  You are--"

What further offense of aristocracy he would have
charged upon my head I know not, for Clark reached
over and seized his arm.

"Hold on!" he cried.  "Mr. Hampden is our guest
and a good fellow, so don't be too hard on him.  He
ain't educated yet.  That's all the matter with him.
Give him time."

Parks' voice had been rising and his utterance had
been growing more rapid and excited, but he
lowered his tones once more.

"No offense, Hampden, but my blood boils at the
wrongs inflicted on the downtrodden slaves of the
wage system, and I speak my mind."

"Oh, go ahead," I said.  "It doesn't worry me.
Come to think of it, Mr. Parks, you don't seem to
be one of the slaves of the wage system yourself.
You are, I take it from your words and ways, a man
of education and something more."

"Sir," said Parks, striking the table angrily, "it is
my misfortune."

"Misfortune?" I laughed inquiringly, and the
others laughed in sympathy.

"Misfortune--yes, sir.  I repeat it.  I have had
schooling and to spare.  And if it wasn't for that, I
could raise this city in arms in a month."

My left-hand neighbor was an old man, a little
bent with years, who had been looking about the
table with dreamy eye.  But at Parks' boastful words
his face lighted and he gave a cackling laugh.

"Heh, heh!  He's right," he said, addressing the
rest of us.  "There's a crowd of thieves and robbers
on top and they need a taking-down.  Parks is just
the one to do it."

"You're wrong, Merwin," said Parks, calming
down and looking at the old man reflectively.  "I'm
not the one to do it."

"And why not?" I asked.

"It's the cursed education you speak of," said
Parks fiercely.  "I am with the masses, but not of
them.  They mistrust me.  Try as I will I can't get
their confidence.  I can't rouse them.  They shout
for me, they applaud me, but I can't stir them as
they must be stirred before the Revolution can begin."

"What sort of man do you want?" I asked.

"He must be a man of the people," said Parks.

"By which you mean a day-laborer, I judge."

Parks ignored the interruption and went on:

"He must have eloquence, courage, and he must
understand men; he must be a statesman by nature--a
man of brains.  But he must be one of the class
he addresses."

"But how are you going to get a man of brains
out of that class?" I inquired.

Parks struck the table a sounding blow with his
fist, shook his head until his shock of hair stood out
in protest, and glared at me fiercely.

"Do you mean to deny," he began hotly, "that
brains are born to what you call the lowest classes?
Do you deny the divine spark of intelligence to the
sons of toil?  Do you say that genius is sent to the
houses of the rich and not to those of the poor?  Do
you dare to say that the son of a banker may have
brains and that the son of a hodman may not?"

"By no means, my dear fellow.  I only say if he
has brains he won't be a hodman."

"I've known some pretty smart hodmen in my
time," said Clark, when he saw that Parks had no
answer ready.  "I knew a fellow who made four
hundred dollars on a contract.  But," he added
regretfully, "he lost it in stocks."

"I'm afraid that instance doesn't prove anything,
Clark," said Merwin with a thin laugh.  "He should
have had brains enough to keep out of stocks."

"There's not many as has that," said a heavy-jowled
Englishman who sat across the table.  "I
wish I had 'em myself."

"I'm afraid you're right, Mr. Hampden," said
Clark.  "We can't get a leader from the hodman
class."

Parks leaned forward and spoke quietly and
impressively.

"By God, we must!" he said.  "*I'll* be the brains.
I'll find the hodman for the mouth, and I'll teach
him to talk in a way to set the world on fire."

"And then what?" I asked.

Parks gave his head a shake, and closed his lips
tightly as though he feared that some secret would
escape them.  But the excitable little German with
spectacles and a bushy black beard gave me an answer.

"Leeberty, equality, fraternity!" he exclaimed.

"And justice," added the heavy-jowled Englishman.

"These are words, and very good ones," I
returned.  "But what do you mean by them?  You
have these things now, or you don't have them--just
as you happen to look at it.  It usually depends
on whether you are successful or not.  What does all
this mean in action?"

"For one thing," said the square-jawed man seriously,
"it means an end of the sort of robbery by law
that our friend Merwin here has suffered.  Now,
twenty years ago he was a prosperous contractor.
He took a lot of contracts from old Peter Bolton
for filling in some of these water-front blocks down
here.  He spent two hundred and fifty thousand
dollars, d'ye know, and has been lawing for it ever
since."

I turned and looked at the face of the old man
with more interest.  The case of Merwin against
Bolton was celebrated in the law books.  It was now
before the Supreme Court for the sixth time.  In the
trial court the juries had invariably found for
Merwin with costs and interest, and the appellate court
had as invariably sent the case back for retrial on
errors committed by the lower court, until it had
become an impersonal issue, a jest of the law, a legal
ghost, almost as far removed from affairs of to-day
as "Shelley's case" of unblessed memory.

Merwin looked up quickly, the dreamy gaze no
longer clouding his eye.

"I have been kept out of my property for more
than twenty years, sir," he said.  "It has been a
great wrong.  If you are interested I should like to
tell you about it."

"I am pretty well informed about it already," I
replied.  "You have been much abused."  The legal
jest had become a living tragedy, and I felt a glow
of shame for the futility of the law that had been
unable to do justice to this man.

"I have been made a poor man," said Merwin.
"My money was stolen from me by Peter Bolton,
and I tell you, sir, he is the greatest scoundrel in
the city."  And in a sudden flash of temper he struck
his fist upon the table.

"He ought to be hanged," said the heavy-jowled man.

"No, no," cried Parks.  "It isn't Bolton you
should blame.  It is the system that makes such
things possible.  Bolton himself is but the creature of
circumstances.  As I have reason to know, his heart
is stirred by thoughts of better things for humanity.
Hang Bolton and another Bolton would take his
place to-morrow.  Abolish the system, and no man
could oppress his neighbor."

"But how are you going to abolish it?" I asked.
"It won't go for fine words."

"Rouse the people," cried Parks with passion.
"The men who are suffering from these evils are the
strength of the nation.  Those who profit by the evils
are a small minority.  Once the people rise in their
might the oppressors must fly or be overwhelmed."

"Here's to guns, and the men who know how to
use them!" said the heavy-jowled man, draining his
glass.

"*Oui, oui!  Vive la barricade!*" croaked a harsh
voice behind me, and I turned to see the pasty face
of H. Blasius over my shoulder.

"Shut up!" said Parks.  "We're not ready to talk
of guns and barricades."

At this moment a sudden noise of scuffle and
angry voices rose above the sounds of conversation
and argument that filled the room.  Some one made
an abortive attempt to blow a police whistle; curses
and blows thrilled the air; and then the swinging
doors fell apart and a man staggered in, holding
dizzily to the door-post for support.  His hat was
crushed, his clothing torn, and his face covered with
blood that seemed to blind him.

As he staggered into the saloon, ten or twelve
young men, hardly more than boys, crowded after
him, striking at him with fists and clubs.  Their
faces were hard at best, the lines written upon them
by vice and crime giving plain warning to all who
might read; but now rage and hatred and lust for
blood lighted their eyes and flushed their cheeks,
till they might have stood as models for escapes
from the infernal regions.

"The cop!" cried a voice; and others took it up,
and I recognized in the battered man the policeman
who had shown me my way.

"He's the cop as got Paddy Rafferty sent across
the bay for ten years," shouted one of the hoodlums,
striking a blow that was barely warded off.

"Kick him!" "Do him up!" "Kill him!" came in
excited chorus from all parts of the room and
swelled into a roar that lost semblance of articulate
sound.

Parks and I jumped to our feet at the first sound
of the riot.

"Here! this won't do!" said Parks roughly,
throwing me back in my chair.  "Sit down!  You'll
get killed without doing any good.  I'll settle
this."  And before I could remonstrate he was running
down the room shouting wrathfully.

As I got to my feet again, I saw him pulling and
hauling at the mob, shouting lustily in the ears of
the men as he threw them aside.

"Come on!" I cried.  "We must take a hand in
this."  And at my call Clark and the Englishman and
the little German rose and followed in the wake of
the young agitator.

Parks worked his way into the crowd, shouting,
appealing, using hands and tongue and body at once
to carry his point.  He was soon at the side of the
policeman, who swayed, half raised his arms, and
would have fallen had Parks' arm not come to steady
him.  The shouting hoodlums paused at this
reinforcement.  Then the leader, with a curse, struck
wildly at Parks' face, and the cries of rage rose
louder than before.  At this moment, however, the
tall, broad-shouldered Irishman, whom I had noticed
at my entrance, deftly caught the hoodlum with
a blow on the chin that sent him back into the midst
of his band.

"Hould on!" he shouted in a resonant voice.
"There's to be fair play here!  Here's two against
the crowd to save a man's life.  If there's any more
men here let them come next us."

"Here are four," I cried, and our reinforcement
shouldered through the throng to the side of the two
defenders.  The tumult stilled for a little, and Parks
seized the moment to burst into indignant speech.
He had a high, keen, not unpleasant voice, though
it thrilled now with anger and scorn, as he
denounced the assault.

"He's the cop that got Paddy Rafferty sent up, I
tell you," replied one of the hoodlums.  "We said
we'd fix him and we done it."

"Well, you get home now or you'll be fixed yourself,
sonny," said Parks.  "The cops will be on you
in just three minutes by the watch.  Git!"

"Come on, youse!" said the leader sullenly,
rubbing his jaw and giving a spiteful glance at the
stout Irishman.  "We'll fix these tarriers some other
time,"--and the band slunk out into the darkness.

"That's the kind of cattle that keep back the
cause," cried Parks, turning to the crowd with keen
eye for the opportunity for speech.  And he went on
with rude eloquence to expound the "rights of the
people," which I judged from his language to be the
right to work eight hours for about eight dollars a
day and own nobody for master.

"Well said for you, Mr. Parks!" said the Irishman.
"I'm of your way of thinkin'.  My name's
Kearney--Denis Kearney--maybe you've heard of me."

"Maybe I have," said Parks.  "I hope to hear
more of you, Mr. Kearney.  You came in the nick of
time to-night."

The policeman now sat in a chair with his face
washed and his head bound up in a cloth, and with
a sip of liquor was recovering strength and spirit.

"There comes the boys," he said.  "They've heard
of the shindy."  And in another minute four
policemen burst into the place.

"Cowdery's gang!" was the brief comment of the
commanding officer.  "We'll have them under lock
and key before morning."

H. Blasius had assumed a most pious expression
in a most inconspicuous position behind the bar, but
dropped it as the policemen left.

"I've found my hodman," whispered Parks to me.

"Where?"

"Here.  He isn't a hodman, but he's just as good.
He's a drayman with a voice like a fog-horn and a
gift of tongue."

"And the brains?"

"I carry them under my hat," said Parks.

"What's his name?"

"Mr. Kearney--Mr. Hampden," said Parks, raising
his voice and introducing me gravely.  Then, taking
the arm of his new-found treasure, Parks walked
out of the saloon.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A GLIMPSE OF SUNSHINE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   A GLIMPSE OF SUNSHINE

.. vspace:: 2

My watch-hands pointed to eight o'clock as I was
ushered into Wharton Kendrick's library.  It was a
handsome room, with handsome books and handsome
solid leather-covered furniture to match the
leather-covered volumes that lined its walls, but the
effect of dark walls, dark ceilings, and dark
bindings was a trifle gloomy.  I made up my mind that
my library should be a light and cheerful room with
white and gold trimmings, and was trying to decide
whether it should be in the southwest or southeast
corner of my château in Spain, when my architectural
studies were interrupted by the opening of a
door.

I rose in the expectation of meeting my employer;
but it was not my employer who entered.  Instead
of Wharton Kendrick I found myself facing a young
woman, who halted, irresolute and surprised, a pace
or two from the door.  Had it not been for her
trailing dress I should at first glance have thought her
but a young girl.  She was short of stature and
slender of figure, and for an instant I had the idea
that the long gown and the arrangement of the
yellow hair that crowned her head were part of a
masquerade.  But when I looked in her face I saw
that she was a woman grown, and her years might
have reached twenty.

"Why, I didn't know you were here," said the
startled intruder.  Her voice was even-pitched, but
it had a curious piquant quality about it.

As I hesitated in surprise, she repeated her
thought in more positive form: "I didn't know that
any one was here."

"I was waiting for Mr. Kendrick.  I was told to
wait here," I said apologetically.

The gas-light fell on her face and I saw that she
was pretty.  Her head was small, but well shaped.
Her color was that of the delicate blonde type, but
her large eyes were of a deep brown.

"I don't believe you know me, after all," she said,
with a sudden mischievous look.

I wanted to lie, but my tongue refused its office.

"You'd better not tell any stories," she added.

"I'm afraid--" I began.

"Oh, if you're afraid I shall go away.  I was
going to read a book, but it doesn't matter."

"I'm sure it does matter," I said.  "If you go away
I shall certainly feel as though I'm the one who
ought to have gone."

"I don't believe I ought to stay here talking with
a man who thinks he doesn't know me."

"I'm a very stupid person, I fear," I said.

"I'm afraid some people would say so," she said
with another mischievous look, though her face was
perfectly grave; "but I shouldn't dare."

"I'm on the lookout for a good bargain," I said
desperately.  "I should like very much to exchange
names with you."

"Oh, that wouldn't be a fair exchange at all," said
the girl, shaking her head gravely.  "I know
Mr. Hampden's name already.  You must offer a better
bargain than that."

"Then I must sue for pardon for a treacherous
memory," I said.

"It's a very serious matter," said the girl, "but
I'll give you three chances to guess.  If that's not
enough, you'll have to ask uncle."

"Miss Laura--Miss Kendrick!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, did I tell you, after all?" she cried in
dismay.  "I said uncle, didn't I?  Now, you see, I'm
quite as stupid as other people."

"Indeed, no," I said.  "It's quite unpardonable
that I should have forgotten."

"It ought to be, but I'm afraid I shall have to
forgive you," she said, dropping into a chair.  "It's a
longish time."

"How many years has it been?" I asked.

"I'm afraid you're adding to your offenses," she
said, with a shake of the head.  "You should
certainly remember that it was five years ago this
summer."

"Have you been away so long?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, dear! what shall I do with such a man?
First he doesn't remember me at all, and then he
doesn't know how many years I've been gone, and
then he has no idea it was so long."

"But you were only a little girl then," I urged.

"And not worth noticing, would you say if you
dared?  I used to think I was quite grown up in
those days."

"You didn't--er--quite give the impression."

"I see I didn't make one," she said.  "It's a very
good lesson for one's vanity, isn't it?"

"And haven't you been back in all these years?"

"'All these years' sounds better," she said.  "I
believe you are learning.  I've been back twice, if you
want your question answered."

"It was kept quite a secret."

"Oh, dear, no!  Everybody knew who cared anything
about knowing."

"And where have you been, and what doing?"

"I was in the East.  First I finished the seminary."

"And then?"

"Then I went through college."

"Indeed?"

"Oh, you needn't be so surprised.  It's nothing so
very wonderful.  You didn't suspect it from my
looks?"

"You certainly don't look like a blue-stocking."

"I'm afraid I'm not.  I never could get enough into
my head at one time to be worthy of such a title.  I
believe a blue-stocking is a lady who has a great deal
of learning."

"Or at least," I said, "is very fond of showing it."

"Oh, I think I have her main characteristic then,"
laughed my companion.  "If I know anything I can't
rest till I let somebody else know about it, too."

"I believe you're not alone.  They say that failing
has descended to all the daughters of Mother Eve.
How long are you to be here?" I asked.

"Ages, I'm afraid," said Miss Kendrick.  "Six
months at least--maybe a year."

"Then I can hope for the pleasure of seeing you
sometimes?" I said.

"I don't know," she answered, appealing to a bust
of Homer on a book-shelf.  "Do you think a man
with such an uncertain memory could be trusted to
keep it in mind that such a person is here?"

"I can vouch for him," I said.

"If you're quite sure--" she said.

"Quite sure," I repeated positively.

"Then you can be told that we are at home on
Thursdays.  There--I hear uncle showing that comical
General Wilson out the door, so I'll be getting
my book and go.  It was uncle you came to see, I
believe."

"It was Mr. Kendrick I called for, but--"

"You needn't go on," interrupted Miss Kendrick
calmly.  "I suppose you think it is only a white one,
but I'd rather not hear it.  Now if you wouldn't
mind reaching that fourth book from the end of the
second row from the top, you'll save me from the
mortification of climbing on a chair."

"This one?"

"Yes, please," she said.  "Thank you.  Good
night.  I really don't see why I've talked so much."

"It was very good of you," I protested.  "Good
night."

The swish of her skirts had hardly died away
when the opposite door--the one by which I had
entered--opened, and Wharton Kendrick walked in.

"Come this way, Wilson.  I can put my hand on
the book in one second."

"You can't find your citation, Kendrick--it isn't
there," said a short, stout, red-faced man, with short
yellow-gray side-whiskers, as he bustled in the wake
of my client.  "I tell you you can't find it.  I know
the whole thing from cover to cover.  Just give me
the first line of any page and I'll repeat it right to
the bottom.  I never have to read a thing more than
once and I can carry it on the tip of my tongue for
years afterward.  Lord bless us, whom have we here?"

"Oh, Hampden," said Kendrick.  "I didn't see
you.  General Wilson, allow me to introduce you."  And
the magnate gave me a kind word of identification.

"A lawyer?" exclaimed General Wilson, his red
face beaming in the frame of his yellow-gray
side-whiskers.  "Young man, you are entering on the
greatest and noblest profession that the human mind
has devised.  You are following the most elevated
and grandest principles that the wit of mankind is
capable of evolving from the truths of the ages.  I
am a humble follower of the profession myself, and
am proud to take you by the hand."

He was not proud enough to make the most of
the honor, for he gave but a perfunctory grasp as
I made some appropriate reply.

"I've been in the profession more decades than I
like to tell about," said General Wilson, with a lofty
wave of the hand, "but I've been trying to get out
of it for the last five years.  Perhaps you can't
appreciate that, Hampden.  Here you're trying to get
into it, and I dare say finding it devilish hard; but if
you're like me you'll be trying to get out of it some
day and finding it a damned sight harder yet."

"I don't doubt it," said I with pious mendacity.

"Here's the book," said Kendrick.  But General
Wilson waved him aside.

"It's wonderful the way business sticks to a man.
I've got clients who just won't be discharged.  I
thought a year ago that I was going to see the last
of them, but no sooner did I mention it than they
were all up in arms.  'We can't spare you,' they said.
'I must take a rest,' I told them.  'Take it at our
expense,' they said.  And the Ohio Midland gave me a
special car and paid the expenses of a trip around
the country, and the Pennsylvania Southern gave me
a twenty-thousand-dollar check to settle for a
vacation in Europe, and the Rockland and Western made
me the present of a country place where I could go
and have quiet; and after that what could I do?"

"They must have been irresistible," I admitted.

"Just so; but even then I tried to beg off.  I told
'em I had enough money.  It wasn't money I wanted.
It was rest--freedom from worry of business, the
grinding care of law cases--that I was after.  But
it wouldn't do.  The Ohio Midland said, 'Wilson, if
you can't be with us, you mustn't be against us.  We
know you'll be back again.  Take twenty thousand a
year as a retainer and count yourself as one of us
yet.  We shouldn't be easy else.'  But the
Pennsylvania Southern and the Rockland and Western
wouldn't allow even that.  They said, 'Wilson, we
can't do without you.  We'll give you all the help
you want, but we must have you at the head.  Name
your own figures.  It isn't a question of money.
You must be our leading counsel, even if you don't
look in on us more than once a quarter.'  I couldn't
shake 'em off, so, as I've been saying to Kendrick,
I'm like to die in harness, though I'd give anything
to be free and enjoy life as you young fellows do."

"Just so," said Kendrick cheerily; "but you're
way out of the running about that Mosely matter.
Here's the book, and here's the page, and it was just
as I was telling you."

"Ahem!" growled General Wilson, turning redder
than ever and taking the book gingerly.  "Oh,
this is the thing you were talking about, is it?
Of course, of course, you were quite right--Mosely,
of course.  I don't need to read a word of it.  I
thought you were talking about that Moberly case.
Mosely, of course.  Well, I'll send you those papers
as soon as I get to New York.  I must be off now.
I've got to see Governor Stanford to-night, and he's
one of your early-to-bed men; so good night."

"You'll call in on me within the week, then?" said
Kendrick, taking him to the door.

"Oh, I shall see you in two days.  We must press
this business to an issue.  They are waiting for me
in New York, and I can't waste much time in small
affairs like this.  Well, good night, Kendrick, God
bless you!  There ought to be more men like you.
Good night."  And the outer door closed behind him.

Kendrick suppressed a burst of laughter with a
muscular effort that appeared to threaten apoplexy.

"The old humbug!" he gasped.  "Hampden,
you've seen the most picturesque liar that ever struck
the Golden Gate.  He is a regular Roman candle of
romances."

"Is he a fraud?  Is it all a case of imagination run
wild?"

"No, not altogether, I should say.  Half of it
seems to be the truth, though which half to believe
I'm blest if I can make out.  He brings good letters."

"From New York?"

"Yes; and Chicago, too.  He came out two weeks
ago to work up a land deal.  Represents a million
dollars in a syndicate, though I fancy he's not so big
a part of it as he makes out.  He's full of these tall
stories, though they don't all of them hang together
well.  It's fun to listen to him, though.  I couldn't
help taking him down about that Mosely affair.  He
was so cock-sure of knowing everything that I
couldn't resist the temptation."

"You did give his vanity a singe."

"It wasn't the politic thing to do with a million-dollar
trade hanging in the balance, but I reckon
he's got enough of his feathers left to carry him
through the deal."

Wharton Kendrick leaned back in his chair, and
his face glowed in amusement.

Then on a sudden he straightened up, all gravity.

"Did you bring any news?" he asked.

"I have a present of an overcoat," I answered.
And I gave him the story of the adventure of the
night.

"That was a rash play of yours," he said gravely.
"Don't do it again.  It wasn't necessary."

"Are you certain that Bolton is the only man who
has an interest in setting a watch on you?" I inquired.

"Why, what have you found?" asked Kendrick,
a little startled.

"I haven't found anything but an idea--and
that," I said, handing him a bit of paper.

"What's this?" asked Kendrick, putting on his
eye-glasses.  "Your wash bill?  China lottery? or
what?"

"That's the thing that has puzzled me.  You see,
there's quite a bit of Chinese writing on it."

"Well, what of it?"

"I got it out of the overcoat that the fellow left
in my hands."

"Ah-ha!" said Kendrick.  "And you don't see
what one of Bolton's men would be doing with a
Chinese letter in his pocket?"

"That was just my idea--in part, at least.  The
letter was a clue, anyhow, and I took it to a Chinese
firm I have done some law business for and know
pretty well.  I showed it to the boss partner.  He
talks English like a native, and chatters like a
magpie.  But when he saw that slip of paper he shut up
like a clam, and all I could get out of him was 'No
sabby.'  You know the look of stolid ignorance they
can put on when there's anything they don't want to
tell."

"It's the most exasperating thing you can run
against."

"Well, when my merchant failed me, I went to
another I knew slightly, then to an interpreter, then
to the boss of the Chinese guides.  The same 'No
sabby,' and the same stolid look everywhere."

"Why didn't you go to the Chinese interpreter at
the City Hall?  He's a white man, and wouldn't be
afraid to give away secrets."

"I tried him, but he said it was nonsense.  It's
evidently a cipher, though it's one pretty well known
in Chinatown."

"I'll tell you what to do then, Hampden,"--and
he took out his pencil and wrote a few words on a
card.  "Take this to Big Sam at his Chinatown
office to-morrow.  Show him the paper, and he'll give
you the reading.  He is under some obligations to
me, and he can hardly refuse."

"Just the thing!  As Big Sam comes pretty near
being the King of Chinatown, he will have no one
to fear."

"Now about the Council of Nine.  What did you get?"

"Well, I saw two members of the Council and a
few of their followers.  I tried to pump them, and
I dare say I shall become as good a convert to their
propaganda as old Bolton himself.  They have some
crack-brained notions of an uprising of the people,
but they don't appear to have anything definite in
view at present."  And I gave my employer an
account of my visit to the House of Blazes.

He stroked his red whiskers meditatively, and
then said:

"Well, that doesn't sound as though they could
amount to much, but as long as P. Bolton is
backing them, you'd better keep a close eye on them."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MACHIAVELLI IN BRONZE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   MACHIAVELLI IN BRONZE

.. vspace:: 2

Waverly Place was in the full tide of business.
The little brown man in his blue blouse and clattering
shoes was seen in his endless variety, chattering,
bargaining, working, lounging, moving; and the
short street, with its American architecture half
orientalized, was gay with colors and foul with odors.

Patient coolies trotted past, bending between the
heavily laden baskets that swung upon the poles
passed over the shoulder.  On the corner an itinerant
merchant sat under an improvised awning with a
rude bench before him on which to display his wares,
and a big Chinese basket beside him from which
his stock might be renewed as it was sold.  Here
was a store with a window display of fine porcelains,
silks, padded coats and gowns covered with
grotesque figures, everything about it denoting neatness
and order.  Next it was a barber shop where two
Chinese customers were undergoing the ordeal of
a shave.

Beyond the barber shop was a stairway leading
to the depths, from which the odors of opium and a
sickening compound of indescribable smells floated
on the morning air.  Brown men could be seen
through the smoke and darkness, moving silently as
though in dreams, or listlessly gazing at nothing.
Here was a shop of many goods, with fish and fruits
exposed to tempt the palates and purses of the
passer: Chinese nut-fruits, dried and smoked to
please the Chinese taste, candied cocoanut chips that
form the most popular of Chinese confections, with
roots and nuts and preserves in variety, appealing
temptingly to the eyes of the Chinese who passed.
Behind, were boxes and bales and cans, big chests
and little chests, bright chests and dingy chests, in
endless confusion.  The blackened walls and ceilings
gave such an air of age that the shop seemed as
though it might have come out of the ancient
Chinese cities as a relic of the days of Kublai Khan.
Shoe factories, clothing factories, and cigar factories,
were scattered along the street, with wares made and
displayed in the American fashion, and here and
there, as if in mockery, hung signs that bore the
legend "White Labor Goods."

The little brown men sewed and hammered and
smoothed and polished and smoked and chaffered
and traded--the great hive of Chinatown was astir;
and over all rose the murmur of the strange sing-song
tongue that finds its home on the banks of the
Yellow River.  Here and there a white face showed.
But where it belonged to a dweller in Waverly
Place it was sodden, brutal, depraved.  Waverly
Place got only the dregs and seepage of the white
race, and such as dwelt there boasted of an intimate
knowledge and possession of the vices of three continents.

Half-way up the block from Clay Street I paused
before a dingy doorway.  The building had been one
of the substantial structures of early San Francisco,
but the coolie occupation had orientalized it with a
coating of dirt and a mask of decay.

"This is an unpromising place to look for the
richest Chinaman in San Francisco," was my mental
comment.  "But it is surely the number given me."

As I moved to enter the door, a stout, well-fed
Chinaman, with a pockmarked face, his hands hidden
in the sleeves of his thick blue blouse, put his
body in the way.

"What you wan'?" he asked, with a trace of
aggression in his voice.

"I want see Big Sam," I said.

The Chinaman's face took on the blank, stolid
look of utter ignorance.

"No sabby Big Sam.  No Big Sam heah."

"Nonsense!  You know Big Sam.  Every Chinaman
in San Francisco knows Big Sam.  This is
where I'm told he lives.  I've got to see him."

"No sabby Big Sam heah.  One Big Sam he live
Stockton St'eet, one Big Sam he live Oakyland.
You go Stockton St'eet, you go Oakyland.  No Big
Sam heah."

"See here, John," I said, "I've got to see Big
Sam, and I know he's here, and I'm going to see
him.  So get out of the way."

The Chinaman straightened up in offended dignity.
"John" was a term of insult, or at least of
derogation in the Chinese mind.  Then he called
back into the darkness and two other Chinese
appeared.  They were better dressed than the
ordinary, and were evidently some grades above the
Chinese laborers who thronged the street.

There was a minute or two of conversation in
the high-pitched singsong tongue that is so well
adapted to the purpose of concealing thought--from
the white race, at least--and then one of the others
stepped forward.

"I must see Big Sam," I said in a determined tone.
"You can tell him first, or I'll go in without it, just
as you please."

Before he could speak there was a shout and a
scream behind me, and I turned to see a Chinese
girl running out of the fruit and variety store across
the way.  She was probably fifteen years old and had
that clear, brilliant, creamy complexion that is
sometimes seen in Chinese women.  Though her round
flat face was not beautiful to the western eye, it
represented one of the highest types of oriental
attractiveness.  Even the clumsy garments in which the
Chinese dress their women, with their long sleeves
and armless coat and baggy trousers, were not able
to conceal the fact that she was graceful and well
formed.  I noted these details more in memory than
in the moment when she clattered into view, her
clumsy Chinese shoes beating a tattoo on the boards.
She had hardly reached the sidewalk when a
half-dozen blue-bloused heathen surrounded her.  She
gave a scream, but she was seized by two of the
band, a cloth was thrown over her head, and her
cries were silenced.  If I had taken time for thought,
I should have sought the police instead of the center
of disturbance, for I understood how little chance
I should have in a contest with a band of highbinders.
But I could not see murder or kidnapping
done before my eyes without lifting a hand, and I
raised a cry and started across the way.

The street suddenly became alive with shouts and
screams, and a hundred Chinamen came running, all
with hands under their blouses, chattering ferociously
as they pressed toward the struggling group.
Before I could reach the other side of the way the girl
and her captors had mysteriously disappeared,
whisked through some of the doors that looked
blankly upon the street, and in their place was a
mob of Chinamen, shouting, gesticulating, and blowing
police whistles, while threats of slaughter flashed
from their ugly faces.  Two policemen appeared
on the run and there was a sudden melting away of
the crowd.  Hands came out from under the blouses
and from inside the long roomy sleeves.  Threats
and hatred faded out of the faces of the quarreling
men, and in their place came the stolid mask of the
"no sabby."

"What's the matter here?" panted one of the
policemen, while the other hustled the Chinese from
one side of the walk to the other with gruff orders
to "move on."

I told of what I had seen.

"Highbinders," said the policeman.  "I thought it
was time they was breakin' out again.  Oh, murther,
but there'll be killin' over this before the day's at
an end.  Hullo! what's this?"

An old Chinaman came forward at this moment,
wringing his hands and chattering like a monkey.
His face was stricken with signs of heart-breaking woe.

"He says it was his daughter," said the other
policeman.

"Yes--all same daughtah--my gell--you sabby?"
wailed the old man.  "She go down store one minute
all 'long boy--all same my boy--you sabby?  One
man come, say 'you come 'long me.'  She heap cly.
Boy heap cly.  Two men come 'long--catch gell--so.
One man hit boy 'long side head.  Tlee, fo' men
thlow cloth over gell's head--she no cly no mo'.
Tlee, fo', fi' men take gell.  Boy lun home.  All same
I sabby no mo'.  Gell all steal."  And the old man
wrung his hands with mournful cries.

"H-m! the old girl-stealing trick of the highbinders,"
said the first policeman, whom I took to
be a sergeant of the force.

"Does he suspect anybody?" I asked.

The old man caught the idea.

"Maybe--I no know," he cried.  "One day two
men come.  All same they say heap like my gell.  I
say no got gell.  One man say all same give me
t'ousand dolla'.  I say I no want t'ousand dolla'.
Othe' man he say twel' hund' dolla'.  I say all same
I no want twel' hund' dolla'.  Two men say bad
word, all same Clistian, you sabby?"

"What men were they?" asked the sergeant.

"You sabby Suey Sing men?" said the old man.
"Two men all same Suey Sing."

"The Suey Sing Tong--I'll bet he's lying," said
the sergeant.  "It's more like the Sare Bo Tong.
Well, go along with him and get the boy's story.
Maybe the kid can't lie so fast.  I'll go down to the
hall and send up a squad.  There's like to be trouble
over this."

"Do you think there will be a fight?" I asked.

"There was a lot of the Hop Sings about as we
came up," said the officer, "and I reckon the old man
belongs to 'em.  The others was mostly Sare Bos.
There's bad blood between 'em, anyhow, and I look
for some killing out of it.  Are you walking down?"

"No, I've a bit of business here."  And I turned
back to the door that had barred the way to the
rooms of Big Sam.

As I reached the threshold I drew back before the
advance of a party of Chinese, who filed out of the
shop one by one to the number of a dozen or more.
Their stolid faces showed no interest in me or
anything else, and half of them turned to the south, half
to the north, and they followed the uncompanionable
Chinese habit of straggling in single file.  A
tall stout Chinaman, dressed in baggy trousers and
a padded Chinese coat of fine blue cloth, stood just
inside the door and watched them narrowly as they
went out.  As the last coolie passed I stepped
forward and into the doorway.

The tall Chinaman looked at me blandly.

"Were you not a little indiscreet to think of
interfering in one of our family quarrels?" he said,
with a ghost of a smile on his full smooth face.  He
spoke English fluently, with just a trace of the
Chinese intonation.  The "r" that is the despair of
the Chinese tongue rolled full and clear from his lips.
I had been on the point of addressing him in the
"pidgin English" considered necessary in communicating
with the heathen intelligence, and was stricken
with surprise.

"I--I didn't think of interfering," I replied.

"One would not have suspected you of so much
discretion to see you running across the street," he
said, with the same bland look.  "The next time you
think of taking part in such an entertainment, I
beg of you to reflect that half the men in the crowd
carried something like this."  And with a smile he
drew back the Chinese jacket and touched the
handle of a big navy six-shooter.  The weapon was
eighteen inches long and would carry a forty-four
caliber bullet for a hundred yards.  "If he didn't
have that he probably had something of this sort
about him."  He gave his voluminous sleeve a shake,
and a big knife with a ten-inch blade was in his hand.
"These pleasant little parties are not always what
they seem," he continued, "and it is just as well to
watch them from a distance."

"Thank you," I said.  "I'd prefer not to be on
close acquaintance with anything of the kind you are
hinting at.  That wasn't what I came for."

"I understand that you were looking for me, Mr.--"

"Hampden," I supplied the name.  "I believe I am
speaking to--"  Then I hesitated.  I really did not
know his name, and it struck me as something of an
absurdity to call the dignified and forceful man
before me by the nickname that was on the tip of my
tongue.

He smiled.

"Sometimes I am known as Kwan Sam Suey," he
said, "but your people call me 'Big Sam.'  Won't
you step this way?"

He turned back into the dingy shop, passed into
a dingy hallway, and led to a dingy stairway beyond.
It was something worse than shabby.  I reflected
with wonder that one of the richest of the Chinese,
and by report the most powerful man in Chinatown,
should be content to dwell in such a barn.  On the
third floor Big Sam opened a door and stood aside
bowing me to enter.

"My office," said he.

As I passed the threshold I was overwhelmed with
amazement.  Instead of the bare walls and dingy
cobwebbed den the entrance had led me to expect, I
was ushered into a room fitted up with a wealth of
decoration and discomfort that was thoroughly
oriental.  The walls were covered with woven tapestry,
grotesque in figures and bright with colors.  Dark
cabinets, rich with carving, stood about the room;
the desk and chairs showed the patient handicraft
of the Ancient Empire; the floor was inlaid with
varied woods, and beaten brass and copper were
freely used for decorative effect.  To the western
mind the colors and the ornamentation were garish,
yet I could see that the fittings were costly and a
striking example of Chinese artistic taste.

Big Sam waved me to a seat and took his place
at the desk.

"I assume, Mr. Hampden, that you did not come
here out of idle curiosity?"

"That depends," said I, repressing with difficulty
the instinct to address him in the "pidgin" dialect.
"You might call it curiosity, and idle at that; but it
is of some concern to me."

"I can believe it," he said politely.

"But before I enter on the errand that brings me
here, I should present you with my credentials."  And
I handed him the card from Kendrick.

He scarcely glanced at it.

"Any friend of Mr. Kendrick's is welcome to
any service in my power to give," he said, with a
bow.

"I have a paper written in your tongue that I
should like explained to me," I said, bringing forth
the sheet and unfolding it.

Big Sam leaned across the desk to receive it.  I
put it in his hand and kept one eye on his face, the
other on the sheet of paper.

There was no trace of surprise on the bronze
mask of the Oriental.  For an instant I thought I
could detect a shadow of the stolid "no-sabby" look
of the coolie, but it was gone with the dropping of
an eyelid.  There was before me only the grave,
impassive face of the Chinese merchant.

"What is the difficulty?" he asked with a polite
smile, after he had glanced over the paper.

"The difficulty is that none of your countrymen
seems to be able to translate it."

"I can not believe it."

"I have asked a dozen."

"They were very busy."  The voice was a combination
of assertion and inquiry, but my ear warned
me of something mocking in it, too.

"They concealed it most successfully, if they
were," I retorted.

Big Sam smiled again, and took up the paper.  It
slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor.

"Excuse my clumsiness," he said, diving after it.

I sprang around the corner of the desk to assist
in recovering it, and dropped to one knee.

"I beg your pardon," I said, catching at the paper
that Big Sam was stowing away in his capacious
sleeve.  "I believe this is the document."  And I held
it up.

"I think not," said Big Sam, straightening up
and looking me blandly in the eye.  "I believe this
is it."  And he handed me another paper with a
bewildering maze of Chinese characters straggling
across it.

I was puzzled and rose, looking first at the sheets
of paper and then at Big Sam.  There was a flash
of triumph in his eye that made me suspect that
neither sheet was mine, after all.  I cursed my
ill-luck in not knowing something of Chinese writing.

"Allow me to assist you," said Big Sam politely.
"This is your paper."  And he indicated one of the
two in my hand with his long brown finger.

I saw that I was beaten.  The clever Oriental had
been one too many for me.  I raged inwardly as I
looked at that bland, courteous, impassive face
before me, and for an instant thought of attempting
to search him by force.  The thought was gone as
soon as it came.  Even with a fair field the result of
a personal encounter between us would have been
in doubt.  Big Sam was a well-built, powerful man,
able to give a good account of himself in a
rough-and-tumble fight.  But in that den it would have been
madness to raise a finger against him.  I should but
add another to the long list of mysterious disappearances.
I swallowed my discomfiture and said as
blandly as Big Sam himself:

"If you have no objections I'll take a translation
of both documents."

Big Sam paid my request the tribute of a smile.
I read in the turn of his lips a confirmation of my
suspicion that neither paper was the one I had
brought.

"Certainly," he said.  "I will read them both to
you.  After that you can say more wisely which is
yours."

He reached out his hand to take one of the papers,
when a triple rap sounded at one of the panels.  He
straightened up and looked at me gravely.

"If you have no objections, Mr. Hampden, I shall
do a little business.  Can you spare the time for the
interruption?"

"Certainly.  When shall I come back?" said I,
rising.

"Don't move," said the Oriental courteously.  "It
will be but a few minutes, and it may interest you."  He
rapped on the desk before him, the door swung
open, and in filed a dozen or more Chinese.

In the midst of the band were two men whose
coarse dark faces stirred a ripple of memory.  Where
had I seen them?  For a moment I could not recall
them, searching too far back in time to cross their
trail.  Then it came to me that these were the two
villains who had seized the Chinese girl across the
way but a few minutes before.  Their stolid faces
were hardly more expressive than a mask, yet under
the "no-sabby" look there was an indefinable trace
of fear.  In the rear of the band was the old man
whose girl had been stolen.  None of them paid the
slightest attention to my presence, yet I felt well
assured that not a detail of my appearance was lost
to them, as they huddled about the desk before Big Sam.

The face of Big Sam had changed.  In place of the
bland and courteous diplomat was the stern judge
and ruler.  In his eye was the anger that he could
not wholly conceal.  His voice gave no sign of
emotion.  He spoke in even tones, yet there was a force
behind them that made every word a threat.

It might all have been in dumb show for the
understanding I got of it.  On the one side was
accusation and reproach.  On the other was sullen excuse
and defense.  I could see that the anger of Big Sam
grew as he spoke.  Then at some denial or evasion
of the men before him he clapped his hands, a door
opened and the young girl whose abduction I had
witnessed stepped in.  She gave a cry as she saw
the two men who had seized her, and would have
shrunk back.

The old man, who had been standing in dejection
in the rear of the crowd, made an inarticulate sound
of satisfaction and started toward her.

Big Sam jumped to his feet; the rage in his eyes
overflowed into his face, and his voice rang out
sharply.  The girl ran to Big Sam and clasped her
hands, then threw herself on the floor before him.

.. _`The girl threw herself on the floor`:

.. figure:: images/img-054.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: The girl threw herself on the floor

   The girl threw herself on the floor

At the sound of Big Sam's words the old man
stepped back mumbling.  Big Sam waved his hand,
the abductors and the old man were led away, and
the girl, with hands clasped, lay bowed to the floor
beside me.

The rage slowly faded out of the face of Big
Sam.  With a word he raised the girl to her feet,
motioned her to a chair and seated himself.

"Of what use is it to hold the power of life and
death over men, when folly and greed are more
powerful than your will?"

Big Sam spoke with a smile, but there was a
bitterness in his tone.

"Neither money nor fear can put brains into the
head of a fool," he continued, with the same acrid
savor to his words.  "I suppose you have hardly
understood what has gone on, Mr. Hampden."

"I confess I am much in the dark."

"Necessarily, as you do not understand our language.
You saw the beginning of the trouble.  You
have seen what followed.  I wish you could tell me
the end."

"I'm sorry," I answered, "that I'm not a
prophet--"

"It would be worth something to me--to both of
us--if you were."

He paused a moment and turned to his charge
before he continued: "This girl, as you may
suppose, is a valuable piece of property."

"I had not looked at her in that light."

"A defect of your western training, Mr. Hampden.
She belongs to one of our tongs--or to the
leading men of that tong, which amounts to the same
thing.  Another tong has been most anxious to
secure her, and has offered as high as three thousand
dollars for her possession.  It was refused and four
thousand demanded.  I interfered so far as to order
that the girl should be reserved until some man
offered to make her his wife.  She is pretty--very
pretty, to our notions--and I have interested myself
so much in her welfare as to think that she would
grace a home.  I suppose I do not need to tell you
that the leaders of the two tongs have no such
destiny in view for her."

"Well, no, if rumor does them no injustice," I
assented.

"It was promised that I should be obeyed.  I have
been obeyed for many months.  Yet just at this
moment, when it is of the utmost importance that we
should be a peaceful, united body, these dogs of the
gutter start a war between the tongs."

"You have shown your power to end it," I said.

"You are too flattering, I fear," said the King of
Chinatown.  "Fire in flax, you say.  It is so much
easier to keep fire out of flax than to stamp it out
after it starts.  It is in my power to punish these
men, but I fear that it is beyond my power to
smother their enmity.  In the code of the tongs
blood or blood-money must pay for this."  He mused
for a little and seemed to be speaking to himself as
much as to me.  "That this should happen at such
a time, when everything depends on our self-control!
It is shameful--shameful--a reproach to our race."

"At such a time?  I do not understand you," I
ventured.  The hint in his words was too plain to
miss.

He looked at me sharply.

"You do not know what is going on in your own
city, Mr. Hampden," he said politely.

"I confess to a lack of information on the point
you mention."

"It will be brought to your attention later," said
Big Sam dryly.  "But I am detaining you with matters
of no interest.  You wished a translation of these
papers?"

His face was bland and impassive, yet I had the
impression that he felt he had said too much.

"It has been deeply interesting," I said.  "But I
am imposing on your good nature."  It was of no
use to seek to learn from Big Sam anything that he
thought fit to conceal, and I placed the slips before
him.

He read them off gravely.  One was a polite note
of invitation to dinner.  The other a memorandum
of goods bought, or to be bought.

I thanked him and raged inwardly that I should
have been outwitted.

Big Sam smiled blandly.  "It is nothing in the
way of treason, whichever paper you may choose."

"Quite innocent," I said, looking in his half veiled
eyes.  I read that he was under no delusion that he
had deceived me.  I rose to go.

"One moment, Mr. Hampden," he said.  "You
have asked a trifling favor of me.  May I ask a much
greater one of you?"

"Certainly."

"This girl--I am perplexed to know what to do
with her."

"Is there a more proper custodian than her father?"

"Father?"

"The old man--you know."

Big Sam laughed--a most unpleasant laugh, too.

"Quite as near a relation as yourself, Mr. Hampden.
He is merely the custodian for his tong."

"Then his pitiful tale to the police--"

"Oh, we do not want for the inventive faculty."

"Then what better guardian could you suggest
than yourself," I said, "or what better place than in
your own home--or one of your homes?"  Big Sam
was reported to have one white wife and two
Chinese wives, and it seemed to me that he might
provide for her safety with one of the three, in case he
did not wish to add to his matrimonial blessings.

"I have thought of that, but there are difficulties,"
he said, as a man considering.  "I shall excite
less enmity if I can provide for her safety in another
way."

"The Mission--" I suggested.

"I should have both tongs at my throat at once,"
he laughed.  "She must be where she can be returned
at my will.  And it is best that she should
be with some good white woman."

"I'm afraid that the good white woman you have
in mind would not care to take her in charge on
those terms," I said.

Big Sam looked at the girl thoughtfully.

"Well, then, I must let my benevolent plans for
her welfare go.  It is a pity, too.  I do not often
indulge in such a luxury.  But there are more
important matters at stake than the life of a girl."

I looked at the girl and remembered a painted
face that had grinned at me from behind a wicket a
little while before.  At the thought of what it meant
to her, I took a sudden resolve.

"If I can be of service, I shall be happy."

"I don't think you will regret it," said Big Sam.
"Can you arrange it by this evening?"

"I can not promise.  The conditions make a difficulty."

"True.  But they are imperative.  I must trust to
your honor to carry them out.  But I hope that you
will remember that I stake my life on it."

I looked my surprise.

"It is quite true," he said simply.  "My people
are not troubled with scruples in the matter, and I
must be security that the girl will be returned when
the conditions I make are complied with."

"And these are--"

"That a worthy man of her race wishes to make
her his wife, and is willing to settle the claims of
the two tongs."

"The two tongs?"

"Yes.  He must pay the price demanded by the
one, and the--the--"

"Blackmail," I suggested, as Big Sam hesitated
for a word.

"Well, yes--not a pleasant word, I believe, but
accurate--the blackmail demanded by the other."

"I will do my best to find a guardian who will
meet your conditions."

"Can you make it convenient to bring your word
this evening?"

"That is short notice."

"It is important.  I shall be here from nine to
twelve."

"I shall do my best."

"I shall be deeply in your debt," he said.

I looked at him closely.

"You can cancel it readily."

"I shall be most happy.  How?"

I hesitated a moment and rose.

"By telling me what is the business of your
communications with Mr. Peter Bolton."

We had come to such confidential terms on the
matter of the maiden that Big Sam allowed himself
to be surprised.  His discomposure flashed in his
eyes for but an instant, and was gone.

"I do not understand you," he said politely, rising
in his turn.

"The memorandum that I brought might remind
you," I said dryly.

I could see that I had risen a notch in Big Sam's
estimation; and he was uncertain how much more
I knew than was on the surface.

"You have the advantage of me," he said.  "I
furnished Mr. Bolton a thousand men three months
ago, but we have had no transactions since.  I wish
you good morning.  I shall expect you to-night
between nine o'clock and midnight."

And he bowed me out.





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.. _`MISS KENDRICK'S PLEASURE`:

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   CHAPTER V


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   MISS KENDRICK'S PLEASURE

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"I suppose it's my uncle you want to see, so I'll
be going," said Miss Kendrick in her piquant voice.
She had been reading as I was ushered into the
library, and now stood, book in hand, in a graceful
attitude of meditated flight.

"If you please," I said, "it's not your uncle I want
to see.  I want to ask a favor of you."

"A favor?  Of me?  Well, I hope it has nothing
to do with the Bellinger ball, for I'm trying to
invent an excuse for not going."  And Miss Kendrick
tilted her nose and looked defiantly at me.

"I had no idea such an atrocity was in contemplation,"
I said.  "What I want is some advice."

"Oh, how delightful!" cried Miss Kendrick, sinking
into her chair and motioning me to a seat.  "I
always did dearly love to give advice.  It's such fun,
for nobody ever follows it, and I can always tell them
how much better things would have turned out if
they had.  But I never had anybody come and ask
for it before."  There was a sarcastic note in her
piquant voice that made me wonder, after all,
whether I liked it.

"Now you are making sport of me," I said.

"Not at all.  I am quite serious, and shall listen
with all my ears.  Who is she, and what is the
difficulty?"

"*Cherchez la femme*--I see you have learned your
proverbs.  She's a little heathen and I forgot to ask
her name, and--"

"You're a heathen yourself, then.  Why don't you
tell your story straight?"

"You interrupted me.  She's a Chinese girl--"

"Oh," cried Miss Kendrick, "I don't want to criticize,
but if she isn't prettier than the ones I've seen,
it's due my conscience to tell you that I don't
admire your taste.  And you might at least have
inquired her name."

"Good heavens!" I gasped.  "It's not a love affair."

"How disappointing!" she sighed, with an affectation
of addressing the bust of Homer that frowned
from the top of the bookcase.  "I thought he was going
to be interesting.  Well, if it isn't a love affair,
I don't see what you want my advice for; but if
you'll have the goodness to explain the matter, I'll
do my best for you."

Thereupon I told her the story of my morning's
adventure, or so much as concerned the Chinese
maiden, and set forth the wish of Big Sam to have
the girl in the hands of a white woman who would
surrender her on demand.

"Now, I've gone to three ladies I thought might
be willing to undertake the charge," I concluded,
"but they would hear nothing of it unless she was
to be converted and stay with the whites, or with
Christian Chinese.  That is out of the question.  I'm
at the end of my list, and I'm looking for another;
so I've come to you."

Miss Kendrick listened with absorbed interest.
Whatever of raillery or affectation there had been
in her manner was gone.

"I'm not wise about such matters," she said
soberly, "but I think you have done what you ought.
I've heard of this dreadful slavery from the girls
who teach at the Mission, but I can hardly believe
it.  I'm sure we must do what we can to save this
girl."  She was silent for a little, and then went on.
"I'm afraid my list is the Mission list.  And you're
quite certain the Mission list won't do?"

"Quite certain."

She counted her small fingers with an inaudible
moving of the lips, and I watched her with the
pleasure that one takes in watching a pretty child.
She was so small it seemed impossible that she was
seriously considering one of the serious problems of
life.  She gave a little sigh as the last finger was
reached.

"I'm afraid I don't know her," she said regretfully.
"All my ladies are very religious ladies, and
I don't think they would approve your bargain at
all.  I'm not sure, on mature consideration, that I
approve it myself."

"It is that or nothing."

"Isn't there a law, or a habeas corpus writ, or a
policeman, or something?" said Miss Kendrick
anxiously.

"I'm afraid," said I, smiling grimly at the
recollection of Big Sam and his power, "that the law
doesn't afford us much encouragement.  We should
never find her if we tried that policy."

"Well, I suppose you know best about that.  So I
don't see anything to do but to take her in here."

"Why, Miss Kendrick!" I exclaimed.  "I didn't
think of such a thing as that.  What would your
uncle say?"

"Uncle might be a little explosive," admitted Miss
Kendrick with a smile, "but it's just possible that he
could be managed."

I was perplexed to know what to do.  I could see
vague, unformed reasons against accepting her offer,
yet it might prove that there was no other resource,
if I was not to abandon the Chinese girl to her fate.
I was turning over in my mind what to say when a
servant appeared and announced:

"Mr. Baldwin to see you, Miss."

Miss Kendrick blushed very prettily at the name,
and I felt a sudden dislike of any man who should
be so far in her favor that his name should call the
color to her face.

"Here's the man who can help us," she said.  "He's
sure to know somebody who will do."

This confidence in Mr. Baldwin gave me a most
unpleasant shock, nor were my unchristian feelings
softened by the air of confidential proprietorship
with which Mr. Baldwin took Miss Kendrick's hand
and replied to Miss Kendrick's greeting.

Mr. Baldwin proved to be a tall, big-faced young
man, with a black mustache and a pair of snapping
black eyes.  He accepted an introduction with such
frigid politeness that it was only an access of
internal resentment that prevented me from being
frozen.

"I believe we have not met," he said coldly.

"I believe not," I replied cheerfully, "though I
saw you in the last trial of Merwin against Bolton."

He bowed in a superior way at the compliment of
the recollection, though as junior member of the firm
of Hunter, Fessenden and Baldwin he had played in
court what the actors know as a "thinking part" as
the guardian of a stack of law books from which his
more celebrated partners drew their inspiration.

"For the defense," admitted Mr. Baldwin.  "A
very interesting case."

"Oh, don't get him started on that, Mr. Hampden,"
said Miss Kendrick.  "I've lectured him on
the wickedness of being in the hire of that awful
Peter Bolton, but he's quite incorrigible.  I've
something much more important to talk to him about."

"I am all ears," said Mr. Baldwin, unbending
graciously.  It was marvelous to note the difference
in his manner of addressing us.

"Not so bad as that!" said Miss Kendrick.  "Well,
it's a case of knight-errantry that Mr. Hampden
has engaged in, and your help is needed."

"Oh," said Mr. Baldwin, "my services are tendered
only to beauty in distress."

"That's exactly the case," said Miss Kendrick.  "It
isn't Mr. Hampden who is to be rescued.  It's a lady
fair.  She's locked up in the ogre's castle and I want
her taken out."

"Very good," said Mr. Baldwin.  "Would any
particular time suit you?  It lacks three hours yet of
midnight."

"Oh, it must be done right away," said Miss Kendrick.

"Well," I said, "Mr. Baldwin should be enlightened
as to the chief difficulty.  There's no trouble in
getting the lady in the case.  The principal thing is
to know what to do with her after she's rescued."  I
began to hope that Mr. Baldwin might know of some
proper custodian for the Chinese girl.

"Why, Mr. Hampden is to marry her out of hand,
I suppose," said he.  "That's the way it used to run
in the old story-books."

"Thank you, no," I laughed.  "I resign my claim
to Mr. Baldwin in advance."

"I don't think it would do," said Miss Kendrick,
shaking her head sagely.  "Besides, there are other
conditions to be fulfilled.  But I truly want your
counsel, Mr. Baldwin."

"At your service.  Let me hear the case."

Thereupon Miss Kendrick stated the problem of
the Chinese girl.

"Now," she continued, "unless you can suggest
some better way, I want her brought here."

"Well, my advice, since you have asked it, is to
have nothing to do with the affair," said Mr. Baldwin.

"Oh, that wasn't the part I wanted to ask you
about," said Miss Kendrick composedly.  "I want to
find if you know anybody better fitted than I am to
take charge of her under the conditions--some older
person, you know, for I'm not so venerable as I'm
afraid I shall be some day."

Mr. Baldwin appeared to be no better pleased than
I with the idea of having Miss Kendrick take charge
of the girl.

"These are not the sort of people you should have
to do with," he began, when she stopped him.

"Were you going to say that you knew of somebody
who can do it better than I?  Because if you
weren't, the sooner you and Mr. Hampden start on
your expedition the sooner you'll be coming back."

I was not so sure that I cared for the company of
Mr. Baldwin in my visit to Big Sam, but I could see
no way to decline it.

"I think," said Mr. Baldwin with sudden brightening,
"that we want Mercy Fillmore.  She isn't so
old a person as you might like, Miss Kendrick, but
she has taken to charity work and is used to dealing
with this sort of people.  Except for her liking for
that kind of work, she's a reasonable creature and
doesn't make conversion to a church the sole object
of her life.  I don't see why she has gone in for it,
but as she has decided to waste her life in that way
she might as well waste it on this young person as
on any other."

"I remember her," said Miss Kendrick, nodding
her shapely head.  "She was one of the 'big girls'
when I started to school.  She was very good to us
youngsters and I believe the other big girls used to
call her 'a little queer.'  I used to think her quite
grown up, for she was fifteen when I was ten.  But
I dare say she wouldn't seem so venerable now.  I'm
sure she would be just the one--if she'll do it."

"I can answer for her, I think," said Mr. Baldwin.

"Well, you can't see her to-night," said Miss
Kendrick, "so you had better go with Mr. Hampden and
bring the girl here.  Then you can arrange with
Miss Fillmore to-morrow."

Mr. Baldwin looked appealingly at me.

"Why wouldn't it be better," I said, "to leave the
girl where she is till to-morrow?  I shall tell Big
Sam what we have decided and he can keep her safe."

Mr. Baldwin nodded approval.

"I see," said Miss Kendrick, "that you have oceans
of confidence in Big Sam and those murderous
highbinders.  But I'm not a man, and I haven't.  I don't
know what will happen before morning.  Now, if
you'll put on your hats and coats and go, you'll
relieve my mind."

I rose reluctantly.

"If you don't like to go alone," said Miss
Kendrick, with a saucy shake of the head and a very
determined look about the mouth, "I'll ask you to be
my escort."

"But, I was about to ask--what will your uncle say?"

"Say?" cried the hearty voice of Wharton Kendrick,
as his big frame filled the doorway and his
ruddy face shone in the light.  "Why, shovels and
scissors, gentlemen, he would say just what she told
him to.  What's it about?"

Miss Kendrick had risen, and with an emphatic
nod of the head at this indorsement of a blank check
in her favor, looked at us steadily.

"In that case, we'd best be going," said Mr. Baldwin.
"Miss Kendrick can explain the case better
than we."

"I shall expect you back in an hour," she said.





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.. _`BIG SAM'S DIPLOMACY`:

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   CHAPTER VI


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   BIG SAM'S DIPLOMACY

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We walked down the street in silence, and I could
feel Mr. Baldwin's chilling disapproval of our
errand radiating from him at every step.

"We had better take the Clay Street car down to
the City Hall, and get a hack at the Plaza," I said at
last.

"I suppose that will be the best way," he assented
coldly.  "Since we are in for this unfortunate
business, the less notice we attract, the better."

His tone roused a flash of temper in me, and I
replied tartly:

"If the business is so distasteful to you, there are
plenty of streets that lead in the other direction."

"Very true," he said with a shrug.  But his steady
footstep told me that he had no thought of turning
back.  We fell into silence, and so continued until we
reached the Plaza.

"What's this?" I exclaimed, for at the corner of
Clay and Kearny Streets a crowd was gathered, and
a cheer, or rather a confusion of vocal applause,
broke out as we approached.

A man mounted on a cart was shouting fiercely to
several hundred men who had gathered about him,
and I could hear such words as "leprous heathen,"
"cursed Mongols," and other phrases of denunciation
roll from his lips.

I looked at him more closely.  He was tall and
broad-shouldered, and his coarse, florid features
brought in a flash of memory the scene in the House
of Blazes when the bleeding policeman had been
rescued from his hoodlum assailants.

"Why, that's Kearney!" I cried.

"A friend of yours?" asked Mr. Baldwin sarcastically.

"I met him once."

"Perhaps you'd like to renew your acquaintance,"
said Mr. Baldwin, as we paused in curiosity on the
edge of the crowd.  "He seems to have an education
in classical history."

We caught some reference to the labor troubles of
Rome, and the fate of the freeman under the slave
system that destroyed the ancient republic.

"I hadn't suspected it from a moment's speech
with him," I said.  "He has a good voice for this
sort of work."

The crowd again broke out into tumultuous shouts
at some bit of pleasing denunciation.

"Where are the police?" said Mr. Baldwin.  "They
ought to stop this."

I pointed to three or four members of the force
who were standing near the speaker, apparently
indifferent to his language.

"That's a scandalous neglect of duty," said
Mr. Baldwin.  "But we had better go about our
unfortunate errand."

We had gone but two steps, however, before a
hand grasped me by the shoulder.

"Glad to see you, Hampden.  Glad to see you interested
in the cause of the people.  Welcome to our
reception!"

It was the voice of Parks, giving boisterous greeting
as he shook me by the hand.

"Isn't he great?" he continued rapidly.  "What
do you think of his speech?"

There was pride of authorship in his inquiry, and
every movement testified to the excitement and
pleasure that thrilled him.

"Is this your first performance?" I asked.

"No," he said.  "We've been trying it on the street
corners at odd times.  Now we are ready to begin in
earnest.  What do you think of it?"

"I think you are rash to begin your agitation so
near the police station.  Your man will probably find
himself in jail before he gets through his speech."

"The very thing!" said Parks explosively.  "The
best advertisement we could have.  Here's our
motto: 'The Chinese must go.'  You can see it stirs
'em.  Listen to that cheer.  What could rouse the
men of the city faster than to have Kearney thrown
into jail for expressing their sentiments?  Sir, if you
think otherwise, you do not understand the people."

Parks gave an emphatic shake to his head and another
to his warning forefinger that was held before
me, and the wild look of the enthusiast glowed in
his face.

"Doubtless you are right," I admitted.  "But I
must keep an engagement that will deprive me of the
privilege of listening to your orator."

"You will have to listen to him some day," said
Parks, shaking his finger at us once more.  "The day
of the people is coming."

Mr. Baldwin had been watching us with some interest.

"Your friend appears to be very much in earnest,"
he said as we went our way.

"There's a man who's very likely to be hanged
because he thinks he has an idea," I replied.

"I should say he was more likely to end his days
in the violent ward at Stockton," returned Mr. Baldwin.

"Perhaps you are the better guesser," I admitted.
"It will depend on his opportunities."

We had come among the hackmen at the other end
of Portsmouth Square, and I picked out one with
courage in his face and a good span of horses to his
hack.

"This will do, I think," I said.

"Very good," replied Mr. Baldwin, stepping into
the hack.  "Have you arranged any plan of proceeding?
I suppose you know the condition of affairs
better than I."  This last an evident apology for
deferring to my judgment.

"Yes," said I, as we lurched around the corner
and rolled up Washington Street.  "You had better
remain with the hack across the street and a door or
two from Big Sam's.  I shall run up-stairs and tell
him our plans.  If he approves of them we will bring
the girl down, bundle her into the hack and get her
out of here as quick as the fates will let us."

"You are certain you would not like company
when you go up the stairs to see Big Sam?"
inquired Mr. Baldwin carelessly.

"I don't think it necessary," I replied.

"Are you armed?" he asked.

"I have a revolver."

"Very good.  I have nothing but a penknife.  It is
hardly customary to carry firearms when making a
social call."

"I do not make a habit of it," I said coldly.  "I
expected to come here to-night, and I did not foresee
that I was to have company."

He made no reply to this, and the hack drew up
near Big Sam's door as I had directed.

I stepped out and Mr. Baldwin followed.

"I think you had better remain here," I said.

"Perhaps," he replied.  "But if you have no objection
I'll stop at the foot of the stairs.  You might
have occasion to call to me and I should hear you
better there."

"I think there is no danger."

"Big Sam is not as scrupulous as you may think.
It has been said that men have gone up those stairs
who never came down."

I remembered Big Sam's judgment hall, and the
power he had apparently exercised over the warring
tongs, and thought it quite likely that judgments had
been executed as well as passed within its walls.

"Suit yourself," I said.  "But as you are not armed
you can do nothing but raise an alarm if the need
comes.  And you may be in more danger than I."

"Perhaps the hackman has a pistol," said
Mr. Baldwin coolly.  "I may be able to get a loan."

The hackman proved to be supplied with a fire-arm
and he surrendered it cheerfully to Mr. Baldwin.

"Oh, the place has a bad name, but I've been
through it for tin year and niver fired a shot," said
he, laughing at the apprehension of the two innocent
strangers he supposed us to be.  And we crossed
the street and opened the door of the shop that made
the entrance to Big Sam's lodgings.

Four or five Chinese lounged about the place and
one took my name to Big Sam.  The others watched
us furtively, and one made some comment upon us
that caused his companions to give us a quick look
and grim smile.

The action was not lost on Mr. Baldwin.

"Our friend's body-guard do not seem to anticipate
the same ending to the affair that you do,
Mr. Hampden," said he, with a shrug of the shoulder.

"I do not suppose they are in his confidence in
the matter," said I.  Then as the messenger
returned with word that I was to "come up," I
continued: "Keep near the door in yonder corner where
you can not be taken from behind.  If anything
happens, get to the police station as soon as you can.  I
shall probably be back inside of ten minutes."

Mr. Baldwin bowed as his reply to this injunction,
and spoke affably to the shopman who had paused
from the swift reckoning of his accounts on an
abacus, and was watching us furtively with the
innocent pretense of casting up sums in his mind.

I mounted the rough stairs and in another minute
was ushered into Big Sam's office.

The softer lights of the night that came from the
gas-jets brought out the richness of the apartment
far more effectively than the coarse light of day.
The carvings and painted ornaments showed to
more advantage, and the colors were softened into
harmony with the western eye.  In spite of the
preoccupation of my errand, I could not repress an
exclamation of pleasure at the sight.

Big Sam sat at his desk as he had sat when I left
him in the morning, and looked at me with bland
impassiveness.

"Good evening, Mr. Hampden," he said politely.
"Can I serve you again?"

"No," I said, a little taken aback at this greeting.
"It is on your business I have come."

"And your companion down-stairs?" he said,
looking at me out of half-closed oriental eyes.

"He may be of service in case--"

Big Sam raised his hand to check my speech and
spoke in Chinese.  At his words there was the soft
sound of the closing of a door somewhere behind the
screens.

"A prudent precaution," he said.  "You have
found a place for the girl?"

"Yes," I replied.  "I must say I do not fully
approve of what I am going to do.  But it is not on
account of your ward.  Nothing could be better for
her than what I have to offer."

Then I explained with some detail the plans that
had been approved by Miss Kendrick.  He listened
with studious attention.

"Miss Kendrick is too kind," said Big Sam
diplomatically.  "She is young, I believe?"

I bowed.

"And Miss Fillmore also?"

I bowed again.

"And you do not approve?"

"I do not."

"I see your reasons.  Perhaps you are right.  Do
you wish to abandon the girl to her fate?"

"Oh, not at all.  But with more time--"

"There is no more time."

"Not to-morrow?"

"The tongs are even now in session.  I have word
that before morning there will be a demand for the
girl, and if she is not surrendered there will be the
reward of blood."

"You are more powerful than they," said I,
remembering the scene of the morning.

"I have passed the limits of my power," said Big
Sam placidly.  "What is it you say of Russia?
'Despotism tempered by assassination?'  Well, I am but
little of a despot, and the assassin has so much the
better opportunity."

"And by to-morrow you would give her up?" I asked.

"To be frank with you, I would give her up
to-night, Mr. Hampden, if it would purchase peace
and safety."

I looked sharply at Big Sam, but the oriental mask
gave back the record of nothing but bland and
child-like simplicity.

"Then why not?" I asked.

"There is but one girl.  There are two tongs,"
said Big Sam.

"That makes a difficulty," I admitted.  "Yet only
one tong owns the girl."

"I fear I could not explain to you the attitude and
customs of the tongs in this matter," said Big Sam
with a smile.  "One tong demands the delivery of
the girl, or five thousand dollars.  That is the one
you would perhaps call the owner of the girl.  The
other demands the girl, or twenty-five hundred dollars."

"Seventy-five hundred dollars for a girl--that is
a little expensive."

"I believe some of your countrymen have paid
more.  Though the bargain has not been made in
so simple a fashion."

Big Sam allowed himself to smile.

"I don't see how we are to help you then," I said.
"But if you think it will put the tongs in better
humor to have the girl in our custody, we are at your
service."

"This evening," said Big Sam, "I saw three dogs
quarreling over a bone.  A fourth dog much larger
came by and snatched it.  The three dogs ceased to
quarrel and started in chase of the fourth."

"A cheerful augury," I said.  "I wish no quarrel
with assassins, and least of all would I wish to bring
them upon Mr. Kendrick's household."

"The fourth dog," continued Big Sam, "was
larger--much larger--than the three put together.
They ceased the chase before it was fairly begun, and
joined in mourning their loss."

"You put me in doubt," said I.  "I must not bring
danger to others."

"I can guarantee their safety, Mr. Hampden,"
said Big Sam.  "Your police have impressed it
thoroughly on the minds of our people that the white
race is not to be meddled with by any but white men."

I hesitated, still fearful of the dangers that might
follow the custody of the girl.

"There is then no resource but to turn the girl
into the street," said Big Sam decisively.  "I can not
risk my plans merely to secure her safety."

"Nor your life," I retorted.

"Oh, a man will die when he dies.  Life, death,
riches, poverty--they are man's fate.  But my
plans--they are much to me and my people."

Big Sam then pulled a cord that swung behind
him.  The door opened and the Chinese girl,
frightened and tearful, was pushed in.

"The decision is for you, Mr. Hampden," he said.

I looked upon her and thought what the decision
meant to her.

"Does she go with you, or with the tongs?" he
asked.

"I have decided.  I will take her," I said with
sudden resolution.

"On the conditions I mentioned this morning?"

"It is late to bargain," said I.

"On the contrary," he said, "it is necessary.  It is
only with these conditions of compromise that I can
hope to make my peace with the tongs."

"You have my promise," I said, rising.

"One moment," said Big Sam.  "I believe you are
a brave man, Mr. Hampden."

"I really don't know," I replied.

"At least you do not mind hearing a few revolver
shots?"

"Not at all."

"They will serve to amuse some of our friends
who are on the watch."

The implied information that we were spied upon
by sentinels of the tongs startled me for a moment,
though I might have known that they would not
neglect so obvious a precaution.

"If you and your friend wouldn't mind breaking
a window and smashing something and firing a shot
or two yourselves and making a good deal of noise
before you carry off the girl, it would oblige me."

"Why should we attract so much attention?  Is it
not better to slip out quietly?"

"Do you think to avoid the eyes that are watching?"
said Big Sain.  "The bold course is the best.
We make sound as of a fight.  The watchers of the
two tongs will each believe that the other has made
an attack.  They will hasten to the meeting places to
summon help.  For a minute the road will be clear.
Then you must run for it."

This was more of an enterprise than I had bargained
for, and if I had had time to think I should
have got out of Big Sam's net and left him to carry
out his plans through some other agency.  But I did
not stop to reflect and acted at the urging of the
wily Oriental.

"Take the girl," he said, and spoke to her in brief
command.  "My men will assist you to disturb things
down-stairs."

I picked my way down the steps, and the soft clack
of the Chinese shoe sounded behind me as the girl
followed.  Big Sam accompanied me to the lower
floor, and, after making sure that our hack was
where we had left it, he gave orders to his men.  I
hastily explained the situation to Mr. Baldwin.

"Ah--a comedy performance," he said with affected
carelessness.  But I could see that he cursed
himself for a fool for being drawn into the affair.

"Draw your revolver, but don't fire more than one
shot," I said.

Big Sam gave a shout, and in an instant the place
was filled with a medley of voices raised in tones of
anger and alarm.  A table was overturned, boxes
were flung about, cries of men rose, a dozen
revolver shots followed in quick succession, a woman's
scream pierced the air, and there was an excellent
imitation of a highbinder affray on a small scale.  I
fired one shot into the breast of a mandarin, whose
painted outlines ornamented a chest, and providently
reserved the rest of my bullets for possible need.
Then two of the Chinese lifted a heavy box and
flung it at the closed doors.  There was a crash of
wood, a jingle of breaking glass, and the door fell
outward.

"Well, I should judge it was time to go," said
Mr. Baldwin.

"Come on," I said, seizing the Chinese girl.  And
we started on the run for the hack as the lights were
extinguished.

We had just reached it when two or three more
shots were fired and a bullet sang uncomfortably
close to my head.

"In there, quick!" I said to Mr. Baldwin, as I
lifted the girl to her seat "This place is getting too
hot for us."

"Aren't you coming in?" he asked, with a trace
of anxiety in his tone.

"No.  I'll ride with the driver."  I slammed the
door and was climbing to the box when two breathless
Chinese ran to the side of the hack and wrenched
open the door with angry exclamations.  There was
a howl as one of them staggered back from a blow
from Mr. Baldwin's revolver.  I gave the other a
kick alongside the head that sent him in a heap on
his fellow.

It was all done in a second.

"Now!" I said to the driver; and with a cut at his
horses we dashed away as cries and shouts and
sounds of police whistles began to rise behind us.

As we lurched around the corner of Sacramento
Street, I could see three policemen turning into
Waverly Place from Clay Street and hurrying to
the scene of disturbance.  A crowd of shouting
Chinese had already gathered about the entrance to Big
Sam's store, and a man was waving his arm and
pointing after us, while half a dozen Chinese had
started on the run in pursuit.  Then, the corner
turned, the sight was shut out, and we went down
the street on the flying gallop.

We slackened speed as we neared Kearny Street,
for a policeman stood on the corner.  If the sounds
of battle had reached him he must certainly have
suspected and stopped us.  But if he heard anything
of the uproar we had raised he had doubtless placed
it to the credit of the leather-lunged orator and his
clamorous hearers who held forth but a block away.
He scarce looked at us, and we swung into Kearny
Street on a swift trot, and were soon in the quiet
precincts of the shopping district.

The hackman had been silent, heeding only my
directions; but now he said:

"I don't know what you've been a-doin', an' it's
none of my business.  But I'll want pay for this
night's work."

"Make yourself easy," I replied.  "We've done
nothing against the law."

"Oh, it's not the law I'm botherin' about.  There's
little law for a Chaynese; an' it's not me that would
be hollerin' murther if you've sent a dozen of 'em
to sup with the divil to-night.  But you might have
damaged the hack, an' ye'll pay for that."

I promised him a liberal reward, and we rolled
rapidly out Sutter Street to Van Ness Avenue, and
in a few minutes more had drawn up before Wharton
Kendrick's house.

"I am afraid," said Mr. Baldwin as I opened the
door to the hack, "that our charge is hurt.  She has
been groaning for a while, and now I think she has
fainted."

My nerves had served me without flinching
through the dangers of the escape.  But at the
apprehension that all our efforts had been in vain, and
that death, not we, had been the rescuer, I fell
a-trembling.

"I hope not," I cried.  "Perhaps she is only scared.
Let us carry her into the house."

As I put my hand to the girl, however, my fears
received a fresh provocation, for the back of her
dress was wet with the sticky wetness of coagulating
blood.  We lifted her between us, and carried her up
the steps.  We had scarce reached the upper landing
when the door was flung open, and Miss Kendrick
peered out.

"Have you brought her?" she cried.

"She is here," I replied, "but--"

"Oh, what is the matter?" interrupted Miss
Kendrick in a voice of alarm, as she saw that we
carried a senseless burden.

"She is hurt," I explained as we laid our charge
down upon a hall seat.  "There was a row over her,
and she got one of the bullets that was meant for us."

Miss Kendrick grew white, and I looked to see her
follow the Chinese girl by falling in a faint.  But
her small figure straightened as though in rebound
from a physical shock, and in a moment she was
directing servants to carry the girl to the room that
had been prepared for her, ordering hot water, hot
blankets, lint and bandages, and sending me on the
run for the nearest doctor.





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.. _`IN THE CURRENT`:

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   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE CURRENT

.. vspace:: 2

The Chinese girl's wound proved a desperate
matter, and for days she hung between life and death,
dependent for the flickering vital spark upon the
ceaseless ministrations of her self-appointed nurses.
Mercy Fillmore was brought to the house by
Mr. Baldwin at an early hour of the morning that
followed the rescue, and took her place as naturally and
unostentatiously as though she had always been one
of the family.

"She's a thousand times lovelier than I had
expected," confessed Laura Kendrick, "and when you
see her you're to be very nice to her.  I'm sure you
owe her that much, after making her all this trouble."

I promised to use all gentleness and courtesy
toward Miss Fillmore, but the full significance of my
debt to the young lady did not appear to me till later.
Eventually I found that by some inexplicable freak
of logic I was supposed to be chiefly in fault for the
Chinese girl's wound.  I had bungled the enterprise,
it seemed; otherwise she must have been brought
safely off.  The sense of my delinquency was finally
stirred within me by overhearing the comment of
two indignant servants, which ran something like this:

"Those two big men without ever a scratch on
them, and that poor heathen creature bleeding to
death between 'em--that's what I call a shame."

Below stairs, it thus appeared that I shared equally
with Mr. Baldwin in the discredit of the outcome.
In my lady's chamber it was different.  I learned that
in those sacred realms I had all the blame for my
very own.  Mr. Baldwin appeared to be regarded,
like the gallant army of Bazaine or Mack, as merely
the unfortunate victim of an incompetent leader.
Nothing of this judgment came to me directly.  But
it was conveyed delicately, imperceptibly, intangibly,
through the days when the girl's life hung in
suspense, mingled with an unspoken assurance that as
I didn't appear to know any better I should
ultimately be forgiven.

All this was galling enough, but it was nothing
compared to the afflictions I suffered from the sight
of Mr. Baldwin's airs.  He was possessed of a cold
and haughty nature, but the situation roused in him
something approaching an enthusiasm.  For my
sorrow he was endowed with an odious gift of
competency, and no false modesty restrained him from
exhibiting it to the fullest measure.  Whenever I
offered to perform a service, I found that he had
already performed it, or was then engaged upon it,
or was just about to perform it, until I was
consumed with regret that the highbinder bullet had not
found its billet with Mr. Baldwin, instead of with
the Chinese girl.

I should not go so far as to assert that any one of
the self-sufficiency of Mr. Baldwin would be at a
loss for an excuse for following his own inclinations;
yet it struck me that he carried the pretense
of devotion to the interests of the Chinese girl to
an extent altogether indecorous.  The prosperity of
the firm of Hunter, Fessenden and Baldwin had
never before appealed to my fears or my sympathies,
but I was at this period distressed to observe that its
law business appeared to be at a low ebb.  Either
that, or the junior partner was grossly neglecting
his duties.  Whatever time of day or night I called
at the Kendrick house to seek news of the Chinese
girl, and incidentally to enjoy the society of the
ladies, I was sure to find Mr. Baldwin there, or to
learn that he had just gone or was presently expected,
until I grew to resent the sound of his name.
Furthermore, his air of proprietorship in Laura
Kendrick and her affairs, which had disturbed me on
our first meeting, appeared to grow more marked.
If Miss Kendrick, her uncle, and all things beneath
the roof had been turned over to him in fee simple,
the sense of ownership could not have been shown
more clearly in his manner.  And, worst of all, I
could not see that his attitude roused resentment in
any breast but my own.  Miss Kendrick smiled on
him, called him by his first name, and discussed the
theory and practice of surgery with him in a manner
most confidential.

At this day I can confess with freedom that my
dislike of Mr. Baldwin found its root in the fertile
soil of jealousy and envy.  At the time, however, I
stoutly maintained to myself that I hated him for his
faults alone.  In the light of later experience, I am
willing to concede that men are not hated for their
faults, or even for their virtues.  Had Mr. Baldwin
been an angel of light, instead of a cold and
supercilious young attorney who was receiving an
undeserved amount of favor, I should have disliked him
none the less heartily.

Mr. Baldwin returned my dislike with acridity.
Whenever possible, he affected to have forgotten
me, had to be assisted to my name when compelled
to speak to me; and when he did decide to remember
me, was so patronizing in his condescensions that
I longed to throw him through the window.

Miss Kendrick was not long in discovering this
suppressed hostility; and at first alarmed by it, she
presently found it a source of amusement.  Then she
appeared to derive a certain pleasure in blowing the
smoldering coals into a blaze; for she would, with
the most innocent air imaginable, bring forward
topics of discussion that served to range us in hostile
argument.  As we held opposite views on almost
every question of politics, law, sociology, and the
arts, she had usually more difficulty to close the
argument than to inspire it.  Yet she handled the
situation with a skill that would have been the admiration
of a diplomat, and had a tact in diversion that
enabled us both to retire from the heat of battle in
good order with the conviction that we had each
won a substantial victory.

In the anxious days through which the Chinese
girl's life hung by a thread, I learned that Laura
Kendrick's characterization of Mercy Fillmore was
no example of feminine exaggeration.  Miss Fillmore
proved to be a young woman of about twenty-five,
a little above the average height, a little fuller
in outline than was demanded by the rules of
proportion, a little slow in her movements.  Her face
was round, and though lacking in color gave a
distinct impression of prettiness.  But her chief
characteristic was a certain calm sweetness in expression
and manner, a certain gentle tact that made her
presence as soothing as a strain of sweet music.  It was
on the evening following the rescue that Miss
Kendrick introduced us.

"I am glad to meet you," she said in a voice that
was low and melodious.  "I am glad to find a man
who is not afraid to do the right thing because
somebody is going to laugh at him."

Miss Fillmore gave me her hand, and I found that
her touch had the same soothing quality that was
manifest in her voice and presence.

I professed myself gratified at her approval, and
murmured that any one would have done the same in
the circumstances.

"No, indeed," said Miss Fillmore earnestly.  "It
isn't every one who would have followed Mr. Baldwin
to that den and risked his life to rescue a poor
Chinese slave girl."

Mr. Baldwin's part in the affair had evidently
lost nothing in Mr. Baldwin's telling of it, and Miss
Fillmore's imagination had filled out the blanks in
his narrative in a way to make him the promoter of
the enterprise.

He was quick to see the peril of his situation, and
said stiffly:

"Oh, if there's any credit to the affair, it belongs
to Mr. Hampden alone.  He discovered the distressed
damsel, and is entitled to all the rewards."

Laura Kendrick gave him a pleased look and a
gracious nod, which afflicted me with a pang of
unwarranted resentment.

"I claim all the credit myself," she said, with a
little air of importance.  "I seem to remember two
rather reluctant knights who were anything but
pleased to be sent out to storm the ogre's castle at
the call of beauty in distress."

"It was well done, whoever was responsible for
it," said Miss Fillmore gently.  "It is a noble thing
to have rescued Moon Ying."

"Moon Ying!" cried Mr. Baldwin.  "Is that the
creature's name?"

"I never thought to ask it," I said.

"So like a man!" sighed Miss Kendrick.

"I want you to tell me," said Mercy Fillmore,
"how you came to find Moon Ying, and be interested
in her.  How long have you known her?"

"She's a very recent acquaintance.  I first saw her
yesterday morning."  And then I gave in detail the
story of my visit to Chinatown, and the adventures
that came of it.

"And that is all you know about her?" asked Miss
Fillmore, in a voice that imported disappointment.
"I had hoped that you knew more.  She is so much
above the type of Chinese girls that we meet at the
Mission that she has interested me particularly."

"Big Sam gave me the idea that except for her
beauty, which I understand to be of a sort highly
considered among her countrymen, she is not above
the girls you find at the Mission."

"Well, then, it's only another romance spoiled,"
said Miss Fillmore.

"Oh, you needn't despair.  Big Sam appeared to
be dealing frankly with me, but that proves nothing.
Big Sam is an accomplished diplomat and would
tell any story that suited his purpose, and tell it so
neatly that you couldn't distinguish it from the
truth.  For all I know, she may be the daughter of
the Empress of China."

"Nothing so interesting, I fear," said Miss Fillmore,
with a sober shake of the head.

"Well, then, let's make believe.  She shall be a
princess of the blood royal, and shall have a story
suited to her dignity."

Miss Fillmore smiled dubiously, as though she
were not quite certain whether I was in jest or
earnest.

"It isn't necessary," she said, her practical mind
refusing to descend to frivolity.  "Whatever her
origin, we must see that she has a better fate than
the one that threatens her."

"Yes, so far as it can be done within the conditions
laid down by Big Sam."

Miss Fillmore's forehead drew into a knot of lines
in which could be read a mingling of disapproval
and anxiety.

"I have been thinking," she said, with an apologetic
reproach in her voice, "that you didn't do quite
right to make those conditions.  Can't they be--" she
was going to say "evaded" but after a moment's
debate with a feminine conscience changed it to "modified."

"I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear," I said.
"Those were the only conditions on which the girl
could have the opportunity to escape.  Unless Big
Sam can arrange better terms with the tongs, we
have no choice but to live up to them."

Miss Fillmore was silent at this, and I wondered
whether I had not, on my side, given too strong an
emphasis to the reminder that we were discussing a
question of good faith.

"Well," said Miss Kendrick with decision, "we'll
leave all that till Moon Ying is quite well, and then
I'll see Big Sam and the highbinders myself, if
Mr. Hampden can't get them to listen to decency and
reason."

"Good heavens!" cried Mr. Baldwin, with chilling
protest in his tone.  "You surely can't mean to
do anything of that sort.  You don't suppose that
those creatures are open to reason and decency, do you?"

"Oh, indeed," said Miss Kendrick, straightening
her small figure and tip-tilting her small nose, "I
consider Big Sam an interesting man, and I'm sure
I should like to talk with him.  And as for reason,
I have no doubt he's quite as open to conviction as
the rest of his sex.  I shan't have the slightest
hesitation in appealing to him, or even to those
explosive highbinders, if it's necessary to Moon Ying's
interests."

"Why, my dear young lady," protested Mr. Baldwin
in his most superior manner, "you surely can't
be thinking of going down to Chinatown and talking
to those fellows.  It's altogether absurd."

"Well, if you consider it absurd to try to save a
girl's life or happiness, I don't," said Miss Kendrick
tartly.  And for the rest of the evening Mr. Baldwin
sat under a cloud, and I enjoyed a brief period of
sunshine.





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.. _`A CONTRIBUTION TO THE CAUSE`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A CONTRIBUTION TO THE CAUSE

.. vspace:: 2

I confess that, despite all discouragements, I spent
as much time as I could spare from my duties in
haunting the Kendrick house; yet I found the pursuit
of Peter Bolton, and the oversight of the Council of
Nine, a more exacting task than I had expected.

On Peter Bolton's ultimate purposes I could
secure no direct light whatever.  For the time he
appeared to have suspended relations with the Council
of Nine, yet his activities in conferring with bankers,
brokers, merchants, lawyers, and men of no classification,
were so various and bewildering that I was
compelled to keep watch in many directions.  Twice
Parks and Waldorf, the president of the Council of
Nine, visited his office, and were turned away
without seeing him, though on at least one of these visits
he was within.  His plans appeared to have taken
another direction than the schemes of the Council, yet
there was nothing in his movements that revealed
whatever designs he might have against Wharton
Kendrick's property or life.

Nevertheless I took the precaution to station a
number of watchmen about Wharton Kendrick's
house, masqueraded as gardeners and stable-men.
The episode of the spy had shown plainly that Peter
Bolton's emissaries had no scruples about invading
the premises.  Furthermore, Big Sam's assurance
that the highbinders would never dare to attack the
white man's place, confirmed as it was by the history
of San Francisco's Chinese population, did not
justify me in neglecting precautions.  Even a highbinder
might have an exception to his rules, especially when
more than one tong was interested in the recovery of
Moon Ying.  Therefore I kept two men on guard in
the daytime and four at night.

One effect of Peter Bolton's activities was easy to
discover.  His contribution to the cause had inspired
a marvelous activity among the agents of the
Council of Nine.  Clubs were organized, a few for the
propagation of radical ideas, but most of them for
the ostensible purpose of driving the Chinese from
the city.  The intent of the Council was to make the
revolutionary clubs the main strength of their
organization, but it soon became evident that the
anti-Chinese movement had outrun their plans.  "The
Chinese Must Go," was so popular a cry that it was
taken up by elements over which the Council had
no control.  But outwardly the Council was
prospering, and the meetings inaugurated by Parks and
Kearney down by the Old City Hall soon attracted
such crowds that they were encouraged to seek a
larger forum on the sand-lots by the New City Hall.
The plans for driving out the Chinese were seized
upon eagerly by the thousands of unemployed workmen,
as well as by the disorderly elements of the
city's population.  Multitudes attended the meetings
that were held nightly and on Sundays, and sporadic
outbreaks of hoodlums, who beat Chinamen and
plundered wash-houses, were frequently reported.
The newspapers began to pay attention to the
meetings, and as a genuine interest was shown in them
by the working-men of the city, there was soon a hot
rivalry to see which paper should attract the largest
sales by the fullest accounts of the speeches and
the most extended reports of the growth of the
anti-Chinese propaganda.  Under the stimulus of
publicity the movement spread with startling rapidity,
the politicians began to count upon it as a force
to be reckoned with, and serious-minded citizens
were shaking their heads over the possibilities of
disorder that it covered.

These possibilities were increased by the threatening
condition of affairs in the eastern States.  There
was a rapidly increasing tension in the relations
between capital and labor, and a railroad strike was
organizing that would paralyze industry from the
Atlantic to the Mississippi.  It was felt that the
spark of Eastern example might furnish the torch
for San Francisco.

With matters in this state, Clark came to me one
day with every mark of perturbation and alarm.

"The Council of Nine is in funds," he gasped.

"That's an enviable situation," I replied.  "Where
did they get them, and what are they going to do
with them?  Hold a smoker at the House of Blazes?"

Clark looked a little vexed at the bantering tone.

"They've bought guns with them, sir."

"Bought guns?" I said.  "How many?  A dozen?"

"Guess again," said Clark, with an aggrieved air
at my declination to take his information seriously.
"If you'd say a thousand you'd come nearer to it."

"A thousand!" I cried, rousing at last to the gravity
of his information.  "How could they do that?"

"Easy enough," said Clark.  "They got thirty
thousand dollars night before last, and yesterday
they cleaned out all the gun stores in town."

"Thirty thousand dollars!" I exclaimed.  "Whew!
Is this old Bolton's second contribution?"

"I reckon he's the one that give it," said Clark,
"but I can't be sure.  There ain't any one else with
that much money that's interested in the cause.
Habernicht was trying to tell me that it came from
the International Treasury, but I'm willing to bet my
boots that the International Treasury never had
thirty thousand cents in it, let alone thirty thousand
dollars."

It was Peter Bolton, beyond doubt, who had taken
the role of fairy godfather for the Council of Nine,
and I raked my imagination in vain to conceive the
purpose that had inspired this amazing generosity.

"I reckon," continued Clark, "that they've got a
corner on everything that'll shoot, except what's in
the arsenals, and they're counting on getting those
when the time comes to rise."

"Well," said I, "I don't see just how this affects
Colonel Kendrick, for they could get him with one
rifle just as well as with a thousand.  But whatever
the game is, we can block it right now.  Just give me
the number of the building where they have stored
those guns, and I'll see the Chief of Police."

"Good God!" cried Clark, seizing my arm.  "Do
you want to get me killed?"

"Why," I argued, "you aren't the only man who
knows about them.  There must be dozens if not
hundreds of men in the scheme, and there would be
no more reason to put the blame on you than on the
others."

Clark shook his head, and his white face showed
the fierce grip of terror.

"I'm a dead man if you go to the police," he said
huskily, gulping down the lump that rose in his dry
throat.  And no repetition or variation of my
argument could move him.  So at last I promised to keep
the information from the police, and sought Wharton
Kendrick's office to lay this perplexing information
before my client.

Kendrick was not at his desk.

"He went out some time ago, Mr. Hampden,"
said a clerk.

"Where would I be likely to find him?  It's quite
important."

"He didn't say, and I got the idea that he wasn't
likely to be back to-day."

I wrote a note giving information of the armament,
and leaving it on his desk, turned to go, when
the door opened and General Wilson bustled in.  His
round red face glowed in the frame of his short,
yellow-gray side-whiskers even more fiercely by
day than by night, and his self-importance was even
more scintillant than when he had bustled into
Kendrick's library.

"What!  Kendrick not in?" he cried explosively.
"Why, I don't see how you San Franciscans do any
business.  I haven't found a man in his office this
morning.  Why, God bless me, is this you, Ham--Hamfer--"

"Hampden," I said, assisting him to the name.
"I'm glad to see you, General Wilson."

"Exactly--Hampden--Hampden," said the general,
shaking hands.  "I never forget a name or a
face.  It's a trick you ought to cultivate, my boy.
You'll find it of more importance than half your
legal learning, when it comes to the practical business
of the law.  There's nothing better in managing
clients and jurors and court officials.  It's likely to be
worth anything to you to come on a man you haven't
met for twenty years and call him by his name.  The
beggar always beams with satisfaction--thinks
you've been doing nothing all those years but carry
his name and face in your mind, and is ready to do
you a good turn if it comes his way."

"Very true," I said, as General Wilson paused for
breath.

"Now I remember," he continued, with a wave
of his arm, "that I won one of my hardest fought
cases by that little talent of being able to call a man's
name after I have once heard it.  'Twas when the
Rockland and Western was suing the R. D. & G. about
the right of way into St. Louis.  The matter
was worth a trifle of two or three million dollars,
and we had a jury trial, and it was a damned ticklish
business.  'It's two to one on the other side,' said the
president of the Rockland and Western, 'and if you
pull us out, Wilson, you're a wonder.'  'God knows
what a jury will do,' I told him, 'but if it's in the
power of mortal man I'll get you out with honors.'  I
talked to cheer him up, but I didn't feel half as
hopeful as I let on to be.  My unprofessional opinion
was that we were in for a licking.  I'll bet you the
price of this building, Hampden, that we would have
had to take our medicine if it hadn't been for an old
acquaintance of mine.  I used to know him when we
were young fellows in Ohio.  He was clerking in a
grocery store while I was dusting the books in
Lawyer Boker's office.  Now, what was his name?
Oh,--ah--yes, I remember--Westlake, or something
like that.  Well, as he came into the court, I saw him,
and by the look on his face I was sure he was called
in the case.  I knew him in an instant and I hurried
up to him, shook him by the hand, and said
'Westburn'--yes, it was Westburn, not Westlake--I said
'Westburn, God bless you, it's thirty-five years since
the night we dropped that watermelon, and I haven't
got over mourning the loss of it yet.'  By Jove,
Hampden, you ought to have seen the fellow beam
to think that the big lawyer from Chicago had
remembered him all that time, and we had a five-minute
chat that turned out to be worth everything to
my clients.  He got on the jury, and there wasn't a
point or an argument I made that was lost on him.
He told me afterward that he never heard a speech
to beat the one I delivered in closing for my side.
Well, the jury was out nearly two days, but on the
strength of that speech my old friend talked the last
of them over and we got judgment.  So there, my
boy, you see what it's worth to call up names.  It's
one of the tricks of trade that we share with
statesmen and kings."

"And hotel clerks," I added irreverently, with
something of envy for the general's talent at finding
cause for self-congratulation.

General Wilson flushed a little deeper red, and
looked at me doubtingly.  I hastened to add an
expression of complete agreement with the conclusions
he had announced.

"Well, God bless us," he cried, "I can't be waiting
here all day for Kendrick.  I want to talk over that
tule land proposition with him, but as he isn't here
I'm going over to talk on the same business with a
miserly old curmudgeon named Bolton.  As it
concerns Kendrick, in a way, maybe you'd like to come
along as his representative."  And with a commanding
gesture General Wilson intimated his desire for
my company, and linked arms with me in the
affectation of deepest confidence.

I had for several days been meditating on the
problem of an interview with Peter Bolton, and,
accepting General Wilson's offer of a convoy as a gift
of benignant chance, was soon climbing the stair to
the curmudgeon's office to the boom-boom of
General Wilson's gasconades, and wondering how I
might surprise the secret of Peter Bolton's plans.





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.. _`PETER BOLTON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   PETER BOLTON

.. vspace:: 2

Peter Bolton's office conformed to the first
principles of art.  It supplied an appropriate frame for
Peter Bolton himself.  The outer room presented to
the eye of the visitor four bare and grimy walls that
had once been white, a bare and worn board floor,
two kitchen chairs and a rickety desk.  There was,
however, nothing shrinking or apologetic about this
meager display of furnishing.  It smacked not of
poverty, but of an inclement disposition in its owner.
In the inner room the walls and floor were as bare
and grimy as those of the outer office, but the
furnishing was a little less disregardful of personal
comfort, for it held five solid chairs, a solid safe
that made a show of bidding defiance to burglars,
and a solid desk, behind which sat Peter Bolton
himself.

The outer office was empty, save for the uninviting
chairs and the rickety desk, and General Wilson,
with a quick jerk, opened the inner door and
bustled into the room.

"Ha-ha, Bolton!" he cried, "I catch you with your
washee-washee man, eh?  That's right, that's right.
Cleanliness next to godliness, you know--though
you can't always be sure that the Chinese washman
is to be recommended on either count.  Hey, John,
you trot along now.  I want to talk to Mr. Bolton."

Glancing over General Wilson's head I saw the
thin, sour face of Peter Bolton, and behind the mask
of its dry expression I thought I recognized a
passing flash of mental disturbance that suggested fear,
or even consternation.  Then a sardonic smile
tightened and drew down the corners of the mouth, and
his hard, nasal voice twanged out a grudging word
of recognition.

At the same moment the "washee-washee" man
stepped to the doorway, and I was startled to find
myself looking into the face of Big Sam.  He was
dressed in the coarse blue jeans and trousers of the
Chinese working-man, his hat was drawn down over
his eyes, and his face was of a darker hue than I
remembered it.  But the man shone through his
disguise as plainly as the sun shines through colored
glass.

I recovered from my surprise in an instant, and
halted him in the outer room.

"This is a lucky meeting," I said.  "I have been
wondering whether I ought to report to you about
your ward.  She is badly hurt, but is now out of
danger."

The man glanced at me with expressionless eye.

"I no sabby you," he said with the true coolie
accent.  "What you wan'?"

"Oh," I returned, repressing my amusement at
this preposterous attempt to deceive me, "if Kwan
Sam Suey, sometimes known as Big Sam, doesn't
want to hear what I have to say, I am in no hurry
to say it."

"No sabby Big Sam," said the Chinaman gruffly.

"And I should really like to know," I said, lowering
my voice, "what Big Sam is doing with Mr. Bolton."

"I no sabby Missah Bolton," growled the Oriental.

"You don't 'sabby' the man you've just been talking
with?"

"I no sabby him name.  I no sabby you' name.  I
sabby him one man--I sabby you 'nothe' man.  I
come sell him lotte'y ticket.  You likee buy lotte'y
ticket?"

This appeared to be an excellent chance to trap
the wily Oriental.  I replied that I would risk
twenty-five cents on his game, and waited with a smile for
the excuse that would be invented to put me off.
But Big Sam had made up for his part with more
attention to detail than I had supposed.  At my word
he calmly drew forth from his capacious sleeve a
blank ticket and a marking brush.

"I make you good ticket," he said gravely, marking
ten of the squares.  "You sabby Kwan Luey?"

"Yes, I sabby Kwan Luey."  He was one of the
big merchants of Chinatown, and among other
things did a brisk banking and lottery business
among his countrymen.

"Dlawing to-mollow," said the Chinaman.  "You
take 'em ticket Kwan Luey you get 'em heap big
money."  And with a brusk nod he was gone.

I stared after him in perplexity.  My eyes were
never more certain of anything than of the identity
of this man with Big Sam.  And yet he had carried
off his imposture with such assurance that, for a
moment after he had disappeared, I was shaken in my
conviction.  But it was only for a moment.  With a
glance at the paper in my hand and with a recollection
of his parting words, certainty returned, and I
was convinced that the ticket was an order on Kwan
Luey for money.  Was Big Sam trying to bribe
me, or was he attempting thus to provide for the
expenses of the Chinese girl?  Nothing had been said
on the delicate point of meeting her charges for
food, care and lodging.  Possibly he had chosen this
eccentric way of putting the money in my hands.

There was, however, another question more
perplexing than that of money.  What were the
relations between Bolton and Big Sam?  Here for the
second time I had evidence that they were in secret
alliance.  The business of supplying coolie workmen
was not of such disrepute that it had to be conducted
in disguise.  Could it be possible that Big Sam was
one of Bolton's agents in the plot to overthrow
Wharton Kendrick?  And if so, was the Chinese
girl brought under the Kendrick roof as a part of
Peter Bolton's tortuous policy?

As there was no answer to my questions to be had
by studying the ticket Big Sam had given me, I
thrust it into my pocket and followed General
Wilson into Peter Bolton's private den.

There are certain natures whose approach brings
an access of mental or physical repulsion.  A man
may conform to all the sanitary laws, and yet appeal
quite as objectionably to the inner spirit as the
Eskimo reeking of spoiled blubber appeals to the
physical senses.

To approach Peter Bolton was like putting your
hand on the spider to which current metaphor compared
him.  If you liked spiders, he was doubtless a
pleasant enough companion.  But as for me, I share
the popular prejudice against the arachnidæ, and
found myself at once in mental antagonism to Mr. Bolton.

General Wilson had plunged into a brisk but
one-sided conversation with his curmudgeon.  The first
words I had missed in the encounter with Big Sam,
but as I crossed the threshold he was holding forth
in his most coruscating style.

"By George, Bolton, I wish I had time to show
you how it ought to be done, but I've got to think
of getting back to New York toward the end of the
month.  Why, this is my vacation time, and I'm
carrying on five trades that count up to three or
four million dollars.  Of course, I couldn't afford to
touch 'em under ordinary circumstances, but one has
to do these little things for one's friends.  I took a
run down to New York just before I came out here,
and we had a little dinner at the club--oh, there
were only a dozen of us, or so--but big men all of
them.  Why, the men around that table could have
signed a joint note for three hundred million--and
got it discounted, too, if there was a bank big enough
to do the business.  Young Vanderbilt was there--I
suppose we must call him Old Van, now the Commodore
is gone--Astor, Belmont, and the rest of
that crowd.  Jay Gould couldn't come, because he
and Vanderbilt don't speak.  I was telling them
that I was going to make a flying trip out here,
when Vanderbilt pipes up, and says, 'General
Wilson, you're just the man we want.  There are good
bargains to be picked up out there, and you must
keep your eye out for them.'  And the others chimed
in and said, 'Yes, you must do some business for us
while you are out there.'  'Hold on, gentlemen,' I
said; 'I'm going out for a vacation, and I can't
burden my mind with business.'  But it was no use.
The more I protested, the warmer they got over
it--insisted that I could get lots more fun out of the
trip if I did business than I could if I didn't--said
it was like a man going for a walk--if he's just out
for exercise it's confounded stupid work, and he
gets tired in no time; but put a gun on his shoulder
and turn him out to look for deer and he will tramp
all day and think he's had no end of fun.  Well, at
last I had to give in.  What can you do when you've
got three hundred million against you?  So I said,
'Gentlemen, let's have everything regular.  Get up a
syndicate--make it a blind pool--and I'll guarantee
to bring you back something worth while.'  Well,
they jumped at that idea like cats at a mouse, and
in ten minutes they had made up a five-million-dollar
pool.  So I expect to put in at least three million
before I leave.  I closed one big trade with Governor
Stanford last night, and I've got three or four others
on the books now."

Peter Bolton's gaunt sallow face, with its projecting
jaw, lost none of its sourness, but a sardonic
smile tightened his thin lips and drew down the
corners of his mouth.

"Well," he drawled in his cracked nasal tone,
"you can have that tract of mine for six hundred
thousand."

"Couldn't think of it," said General Wilson bruskly.
"Two hundred thousand would be a fancy figure
for it.  I don't want it, anyhow, unless I can get that
piece of Kendrick's just above it."

Bolton's thin lips tightened once more, and a
slight flush passed over his sallow face.

"Kendrick's place?" he said, the sarcastic drawl
quickening a little.  "I shouldn't think you'd want to
show yourself again in New York if you'd 'a' bought
that swamp.  What'd he ask you for it?"

"A stiff figure, a stiff figure," said General
Wilson with a wave of his arm, as if Bolton's question
were a missile that he was fending aside.  "It's
swampy enough, and needs any quantity of leveeing
and draining.  But it's rich land.  I've been over it
all.  I don't say I'll buy it, but I might, if I can get
it at a reasonable price."

"You can get My Land at My Price," drawled the
sarcastic voice of Peter Bolton, audibly putting
capital letters to his words and making the possessive
pronoun appear very large.  "I said six hundred
thousand, didn't I?  Well, it's had a raise since then.
It's seven hundred thousand now.  I shouldn't be
surprised if it went to eight hundred thousand
before you got out."

General Wilson appeared to regard this as an
excellent piece of pleasantry.

"It looks to a man up a tree," he said good-humoredly,
"as though you didn't want me to buy
Kendrick's land."

Bolton's lips drew into a sneer.

"I don't know why I should want you to buy
Kendrick's land," he said.  "You can have My Land at
My Price," he repeated, the sneer deepening on his
face.  "My price is nine hundred thousand now."

"Well," said General Wilson with a chuckle, "I've
been in Chicago through some pretty exciting
times, and I've had real-estate deals in nearly every
part of the country, but I never saw property go up
so fast as that piece of yours out in the San Joaquin
swamps."  Then, changing his tone suddenly, he
asked: "Why do you want to stop the trade on
Kendrick's tract?  I see that you're nobody's fool,
and you know as well as I do that we've got to have
your place if we take his.  Now, what's your game?"

A look of malevolent shrewdness came over Bolton's
face, and he pursed up his mouth as though he
was afraid his thoughts were going to escape.

"If you would like to know," he drawled at last,
"you might ask Kendrick's young man standing
over there by the door."

I was startled at this sudden attack.  Peter Bolton
had to this minute given no sign that he was aware
of my existence, and I was filled with wonder to
know how he had discovered that I was in
Kendrick's employ.  There was nothing to do but to
put up a bold front on the matter, and I said:

"The only thing I could tell about the trouble is
that the Council of Nine has plenty of money and is
spending it like water."

A covering of gray ashes appeared to spread over
the sallow face of Peter Bolton, and caused General
Wilson to spring to his feet with the exclamation:

"Good God, what's the matter?"

Peter Bolton waved him back to his seat, and with
an effort gasped out:

"The Council of Nine!  What do you mean by
that nonsense?  I never heard of such damned
foolery before!"

"Oh, yes," said I, pressing my advantage.  "Waldorf
was up here night before last, you remember,
and got thirty thousand dollars.  I thought you
would like to know that your contribution was being
spent with a liberal hand."

Peter Bolton's face assumed a gray-green tint, and
he cried out:

"I don't know what you're talking about.  You've
gone crazy--"  Then, as if he feared that I would
take offense at the words, he fell from the attitude
of protest to one of cringing obsequiousness.  "No, I
don't mean that--I mean that I want you to do some
business for me."

The man appeared carried away with fright; his
claw-like hands worked convulsively, and a perspiration
started on his forehead.  I saw in his eyes a foretaste
of the terrors of unsuccessful crime, and that as
he remembered the purposes that lay behind those
rifles in the Council's armory, his conscience
conjured up the vision of the police and the hangman
stretching forth their hands to seize him.

"Good God, Bolton!" cried General Wilson again.
"What have you been doing?  You couldn't look
more upset if you had murdered your grandmother
and Hampden had uncovered the corpse."

"It's nothing--nothing," gasped Bolton, recovering
himself with an effort; "just a little joke we
have--just a little joke."  And he framed his thin
lips into the semblance of a ghastly smile.

General Wilson's red face grew redder yet as an
angry color swept over it.

"Well, you've got too many jokes to suit me, and
a damned queer taste in humor--that's all I've got
to say about it.  I came to talk business, and you've
been wasting my time with your tomfoolery."  And
with an angry wave of his hand he got to his feet
and strode out.

Almost before General Wilson had reached the
hall, Bolton had turned eagerly to me.

"Come in and shut the door," he said with a
quavering voice.  "That gilded ass may stop to listen."

He was silent a minute as I obeyed him, and I
surmised that he was turning over in his mind the
possible plans by which I might be gagged.  And as he
motioned me to a seat his calculating eye was taking
my measure with all the coolness of a butcher
estimating the value of a steer.

"You are a young man," he began with an insinuating
drawl.

I admitted the charge, but offered him the consolation
to be drawn from the theory that I should
probably get over it in time.  He paid no attention
to my flippant suggestion, but continued in a slow
tone of ironic emphasis:

"You are old enough, though, to know that you
have got to look out for your own Interests.  That's
what every Man must do, if he wants to keep in
Business."  Peter Bolton's sarcastic drawl
punctuated his important words with capitals.  "If you
don't think enough of your Interests to look out for
Yourself, nobody is going to look out for them for you."

"If you want to do me a good turn," I said with
strategic frankness, "you might tell me what your
business is with Big Sam."

He was not to be caught off his guard again.  He
paid no attention to my words, but continued with
more of propitiation in his voice than I had
considered possible.

"Now, you're a Man of the World--young as
you are--and you have seen something of Business.
You have seen the man who has given his best years
to making money for the other fellow turned adrift
as soon as the other fellow finds somebody who can
make more money for him.  That's the Gratitude of
Business, young man--the Gratitude of Business.
I've seen a man who made fifty thousand dollars for
his employer in a trade turned out inside of six
months because somebody offered to work for
twenty-five dollars less a month.  That's what you
get when you look out for your Employer's interests
instead of your Own."  The depth of sarcasm in
Peter Bolton's drawl was portentous.

I did not know whether to be amused or indignant
at this attempt to teach me the folly of loyalty and
the essential respectability of treachery.  So I gave
a nod of comprehension, which he took for
encouragement, and he continued:

"Now, I'm a plain-speaking old fellow, and I
won't talk nonsense to you about Gratitude or
Friendship.  I won't say a word about the things
I'll do for you Some day.  I'll just talk Cash in Hand
to you, with no back bills to be paid with promises
on either side."

"Very good," I replied, "but I'd rather you would
answer the questions about Big Sam and the Council
of Nine."

Bolton gave me a cunning look.

"I want you to take up some private business for
me," he said slowly, "and I'll give you ten thousand
dollars for sixty days' work."

"What work?" I asked sharply, my indignation
getting the better of my amusement.

"Confidential work," said Bolton deliberately.  "I
want a representative in Kendrick's office, and you're
the best man I know for the job."

My repressed indignation broke forth at this
brazen proffer of a bribe, and I jumped to my feet
and shook my fist in Peter Bolton's face.

"You old scoundrel!" I cried.  "If you were a
younger man, I'd thump the breath out of you!"

"You are a bigger Fool than I thought," said
Bolton in his most sarcastic voice.  And he threw
back his head and opened his mouth in silent laughter.

"I give you warning," I continued, "that I shall
tell Colonel Kendrick of your offer."

The unabashed Bolton drew down the corners of
his mouth in a sarcastic smile, and his sarcastic voice
followed me as I opened the door:

"If Kendrick offers you eleven thousand, come
back and I'll see if I can do better."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A COUNCIL OF WAR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   A COUNCIL OF WAR

.. vspace:: 2

"No," said Laura Kendrick, in her piquant voice,
"uncle isn't at home, but he sent word he would be
back at nine o'clock.  You look very important, but
I'm sure it's something that will wait an hour."

"It is a bit important," I replied, thinking grimly
of the thirty-thousand-dollar contribution to the
Council of Nine, the thousand rifles, and Peter
Bolton's self-revelations in his attempt to bribe me.
"I've been hunting Mr. Kendrick all day about it.
But it has kept without spoiling for eight or nine
hours already, so another sixty minutes will do no
harm."

"Well, then," said Miss Kendrick, "I won't keep
you standing in the hall.  I came out when your name
was announced, to let you know that Mr. Baldwin
is in the library, and Mercy will be down in a few
minutes.  So you can have your choice of waiting
in there, or you can find an easy chair in uncle's den."

"Oh, if that is the choice, give me the library, by
all means."

"You may think your tone is complimentary, but
I'll tell you I don't consider it so.  He's a very
agreeable man, and you had better be very civil, or I
shall banish you to the den, after all."  Then she
changed her half-bantering tone to one of earnestness,
and halted me at the library door.  "What is it
you are about?" she asked.  "Is uncle in danger?"

"I believe not," I replied.

She laid her hand upon my arm.

"You would not answer so unless he were.  What
is it that you fear?"  And her brown eyes looked
anxiously up into mine.

"There is no danger that I can learn of that
threatens your uncle.  I believe he is perfectly safe."

She threw my arm aside with a gesture of irritation.

"Do you think I have not the right to know?" she
exclaimed.  "Do you think I could be of no use?  Do
you think I ought to be shut up in the dark,
wondering what is going to happen?"

"You are worrying yourself without need," I said.
"You can hold me responsible for his safety."

"It is the trouble with old Mr. Bolton, is it not?"
she asked after a pause.

I balanced the advantages of a lie and the truth.

"Yes, it is on that business that I am engaged."

"And you will tell me nothing about it."  There
was a trace of bitterness in her tone, and giving a
shrug of resentful resignation she opened the door
to the library and preceded me into the room.

Mr. Baldwin sat there wrapped in his superiority
to all created things, and gave me a stiff nod of
recognition, but melted into something resembling
geniality as Laura Kendrick took a chair by his
side.  Mercy Fillmore had come in at the other door
while we had been carrying on our skirmish in the
hall, and now made room for me on the sofa beside
her.

"I'm glad you came," she said.  "I wanted to ask
you something."  The soothing quality of Mercy
Fillmore's voice and manner was doubly welcome
after the rasping that Laura Kendrick had managed
to inflict upon my spirit as the just punishment for
the crime of incommunicativeness.

I responded to Miss Fillmore's greeting with
fitting words.

"Well," she continued, "what I wanted to ask
you was this: Do you think there is any danger to
this house from having the Chinese girl here?"

"Why, no; I hardly think so.  Big Sam assured me
that there was not."  Then, after a moment's
hesitation, I added: "While I don't doubt Big Sam's
good faith in the matter, I have taken the precaution
to have the place well guarded.  There are four
watchmen outside at the present moment--unless I
underestimate the attractions of the corner grocery;
and the highbinder who tries to get in will have the
warmest five minutes of his life."

"How kind of you to attend to that!" said Miss
Fillmore.  "But I wasn't thinking of the highbinders.
What set me to asking you was a meeting I had
with Mr. Parks to-day."

"Parks!" I exclaimed in surprise.  "You know him?"

"Oh, yes, indeed.  We were children together,
and I count him as a good friend."  A blush that
tinted her cheeks suggested that the friendship was
a little nearer than she would have me believe.

"Then I wish you would get him to cut his hair!
I think it would save him from getting hanged."

"How absurd you are!"

"Merely an application of the theory of clothes--*Sartor
Resartus*, and all that, you know.  Dress to a
part, and you get the spirit of it."

"You are joking," said Miss Fillmore, with the
seriousness of one to whom the sense of humor is
beyond understanding.

"Not at all," I returned.  "If Parks came down to
the normal supply of hair he might get rid of some
abnormal ideas that are going to bring him into
trouble."

Miss Fillmore looked at me doubtfully a moment,
and again expressed her opinion that I was joking.
Then she put aside the subject as one beyond her
comprehension, and continued:

"But never mind.  I met him this afternoon when
I was out taking the air, and he said that there was
going to be trouble in the city, and asked if we kept
any Chinese servants."

"Yes?  And if you did--?"

"Well, we don't, and I told him so, and he said
if we did we had better turn them away in a hurry.
Then he went on to tell me that there was going to
be an uprising of the people, and that the
unemployed might make an attack on the Chinese and
those who hire them.  Now, do you think that the
presence of our poor little Moon Ying will bring
the mob here?"

"Mr. Parks could answer that question much better than I."

"I asked him, and he said 'Oh, no'--that his people
were not warring on women or the sick; but I
feared he was too hopeful."

"I do not think there is the slightest danger," I
replied.  "If Mr. Parks' friends get to be too
obstreperous, the police will make short work of them.
But I don't think they are enterprising enough to
get so far away from Tar Flat."  I spoke with a
confidence that was more assumed than real.

"Oh, indeed they are.  There was some one here
to-day about the matter.  Laura, my dear," she said,
raising her voice and earning a frown from
Mr. Baldwin by breaking into his monopoly; "Laura,
my dear, didn't you say there was some one here
to-day inquiring about Chinese?"

"Indeed there was," said Miss Laura, emphasizing
the statement with an indignant nod.  "He was a
very disagreeable man, and insisted on seeing the
lady of the house, so at last I went to the door.  I
found him horribly impolite.  I had to tell him three
times that I was the lady before he would believe me."

"What sort of looking man was he?  And what
did he say?" I asked.

"Oh, he was well-looking enough--a man of good
size, about thirty, with a black mustache and an
insolent way.  What he said was that he hoped we
didn't employ any Chinese.  I just told him that I
was much obliged to him for his interest in us, but
as I couldn't see that it concerned him I would ask
to be excused.  Then he got saucy, and said that if
I wouldn't listen to him I would have to listen to a
mob--that wasn't what he called it, but that's what
he meant.  He said he was a delegate from some
anti-coolie club or convention, or something of the
sort, with a hundred thousand members, and they
were going to see that the Chinese were discharged
and white men put in their places."

"That's rather a large contract," said Mr. Baldwin.
"I hope you shut the door in his face.  I should
like to have given employment to one white man to
boot him off the place."

"Well," continued Miss Kendrick, "I was too mad
to tell him that uncle is so opposed to the Chinese
that he's never allowed one about the house.  I just
said that we hadn't any Chinese now, but if he would
come around in about two weeks we would try to
accommodate him."

"A soft answer," I said.  "I hope it turned away
wrath."

"Well, he got saucier, and I told him to go, and
he went.  I'm afraid I wasn't polite.  But I'm as sorry
as sorry can be now, for he told me he had been out
of work for six months because the Chinese had
taken the factory that had employed him, and I'm
sure it is a very unpleasant thing to be turned out
of the place where you make your living."  Miss
Kendrick's voice had softened with her last words,
and the light of womanly sympathy shone in her eyes.

"You are right, my dear," said Miss Fillmore.
"It has been a hard year for many.  We have been
appealed to by scores of men who have been turned
out of one place and could find no other."

"Serves 'em right," said Mr. Baldwin shortly.
"If they can't keep their jobs, they ought to lose
them.  This talk about Chinese competition is
absolute nonsense.  A competent man can find work
any time.  The anti-Chinese howl comes from the
fellows who don't want to work, and wouldn't work
if there wasn't a Chinaman within eight thousand
miles."

"I hope you are right," said Miss Kendrick.  "It
isn't good for the spirits to think of men going
hungry when they are willing to labor."

"You needn't distress yourself, Miss Laura," said
Mr. Baldwin, with an air of contempt for the
difficulties of the unemployed.  "You couldn't drive
those fellows to work with a Gatling gun.  This
talk about Chinese taking away their jobs is just an
excuse for them to get out on street corners and
howl about their wrongs, in the hope that somebody
like you and Mercy will set up a soup-house for
them."

"I am afraid you haven't looked into the matter,"
said Miss Fillmore.  "Our Helping Hand Society
has found much real distress from want of employment.
You don't agree with Mr. Baldwin, do you,
Mr. Hampden?"

"Certainly not," said I, with some irritation at
Mr. Baldwin's scornful airs.  "The anti-Chinese cry
may have been taken up by those who had rather
talk than work, but there is plenty of foundation for
the statement that the Chinese are driving white men
out of employment."

"I have found nothing of the sort in my
experience," said Mr. Baldwin contemptuously.

"Well, your experience is not that of men in business,"
I returned warmly.  "You will find that class
for class the Chinaman can run the white man out
of any line he enters.  The Chinese laborer can work
and live on less wages than the white laborer; the
Chinese merchant can grow wealthy in a market
that would throw the white merchant into bankruptcy,
and the Chinese manufacturer thrives under
conditions that drive his white competitor to the
wall."

"What do you mean by talking that way, Hampden?"
cried Mr. Baldwin with irritation.  "You
know well enough that you're not serious.  It's
impossible."

A sharp answer was on the tip of my tongue when
Miss Kendrick interposed.

"That will do for a very stupid debate," she said.
"You can put the rest of it in the papers.  I think I
hear the doctor, and I want Mr. Hampden to come
and see him."  And with a peremptory wave of her
hand she rose, and I followed her out into the hall.
As the door closed she dropped her commanding
manner.  "Do you know it is ten o'clock?" she said,
"and uncle hasn't come in yet."  Her tone was
troubled.

"Is it anything unusual?" I asked.

"I suppose you think it's a case of nerves," she
said, "and maybe it is.  But I shouldn't worry if he
hadn't sent word to me that he would be here by
nine.  I'm afraid something has happened, and I
want you to see about it."

"Have you any idea where he went?"

"He spoke of going to Mr. Coleman's."

"William T. Coleman's?"

"Yes."

"Well, that will be a good place to start a search,
then."  And I secured my hat.

"It's good of you to go," said Miss Kendrick.

"Am I forgiven?" I asked, taking the small hand
that lay so temptingly near my own, and bending
over it.

"There, that will do," she said, snatching her hand
away and retreating in some confusion.  "Your
pardon for being an obstinate man-creature is signed,
and you'd better not imperil it by any Louis Quatorze
manners.  And I'm sure you'd better not waste any
more time."

Once out of the house my fears for Wharton Kendrick
became more lively, and I hastened to the
Coleman residence.

"Take my card to Colonel Kendrick," I said briskly
to the man who opened the door.

He looked at it doubtfully a moment.  But my
assured air, and the "Attorney at law" that announced
my business in unmistakable type impressed him,
and he called a fellow servant to his side, gave him
the card with a word of instruction, and advised me
to be seated.

After a few minutes of waiting I wondered
whether I would not have done better, after all, to
ask speech with the master of the house, and I was
just on the point of requesting the Cerberus to take
my name to Mr. Coleman, when my dubitations were
cut short by the opening of a door, and a sudden
outburst of voices, which softened to an indistinguishable
murmur as it closed again, and Colonel
Kendrick came walking down the hall.

"Ah, Hampden," he said gravely, stroking his
flame-tinted whiskers, "I'm not sure whether I am
glad to see you or not.  What has happened?  Anything?"

"Well, I'm in no doubt about being glad to see
you," I returned.  "I've been suspecting you were
knocked on the head."

"Pooh!" said Wharton Kendrick.  "I'm in no danger.
Don't worry about me.  What you want to do
is to find out what the other fellow is doing.  Can
you tell me that?"

"Certainly.  He left his office at six o'clock, went
directly to his house, and hasn't stirred out of it
since."

"Very good.  Now, I believe you had something
to tell me."  And his eye wandered uneasily to the
door from behind which the confused murmur
swelled with tantalizing indistinctness.

"Yes: I have been hunting you all day to tell you
that I received word this morning that the Council
of Nine had bought a thousand rifles."

This bit of news brought no answering sign of
surprise on the face of my client.

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I wasn't much behind
you in getting the information.  I heard about
it this afternoon on the street."

"On the street!" I exclaimed.  "It was told to me
as a profound secret."  It seemed an altogether
perplexing thing that the information that Clark had
considered it death to reveal should be the talk of
commercial San Francisco.

"Well," said Wharton Kendrick with a smile, "if
it's a secret it's one that needs a good deal of help
in keeping it.  I heard it from a dozen different
directions."

"There will be some astonished men in the Council
if they hear of this report," I said.

A grim smile wrinkled Wharton Kendrick's ruddy
cheeks, and drove for a moment the thoughtful look
from his eyes.  He put his hands in his pockets and
threw himself back in his chair.

"Well," he said, "you can expect them to have an
attack of heart disease at the breakfast-table then.
It will all be in the papers in the morning.  But, to
tell the truth, I got the impression that the nine
members of the Council and all their friends were
giving their afternoon to circulating the report."

I was a little piqued at the staleness of my
information.

"Since you are so well-posted about the purchase
of the rifles--" I began.

"The alleged purchase of the rifles," interrupted
Wharton Kendrick.

"The purchase of the rifles," I repeated.  "I
suppose I don't need to tell you where the money came
from to pay for them."

"Oh," said Wharton Kendrick carelessly, "it
doesn't take much money to get up a report."

"Well, it took thirty thousand dollars for this
one."

"Pooh, Hampden, you've been dreaming.  That
crowd couldn't raise thirty thousand cents."

"Not alone, I grant you.  But you will admit that
it might be done with the assistance of a generous-hearted
millionaire who has been convinced of the
loftiness of their aims."

"What the devil are you driving at, Hampden?
Talk plain United States."  Wharton Kendrick sat
bolt upright, and looked at me sternly, with the light
of half-comprehension in his eyes.

"In plain language, then, Peter Bolton paid thirty
thousand dollars into the treasury of the Council
of Nine night before last, and the rifles have been
bought with his money."

Kendrick jumped to his feet.  His ruddy face went
pale, and then turned ruddier than ever.

"Bolton!" he cried.  "How do you know that?"

I gave Clark's account of the matter, recalled
Bolton's dealings with the Council, and clenched the
conclusion with the corroborative testimony of my
interview with Bolton in his office.  Wharton Kendrick
settled back in his chair and received my tale
in a brown study.  Before I had done, he interrupted
me.

"I see his game.  This puts a different face on the
matter.  Come in here."  And rising suddenly he
seized me by the arm and marched me into the room
from which he had come, with the authoritative air
of a policeman haling a burglar to prison.

The room to which I was introduced in this
ignominious fashion was of moderate size, and the
score or so of men who were gathered there filled it
comfortably.  I had noted in the company several of
the leading financial men of the city, when Wharton
Kendrick brought me to a halt before a tall,
broad-shouldered, full-faced man, with a long gray
mustache, kindly gray eyes, and a calm, resourceful
expression.

"Coleman, let me introduce my attorney,
Mr. Hampden,"--I became suddenly grateful that he
had presented me in this character--"son of Dick
Hampden, you remember.  He brings news that puts
a different face on affairs."

I had seen William T. Coleman on the street, and
had known something of his romantic history.  His
leadership of the forces of order in the city, when
the criminals of 1851 and 1856 left no remedy to
honest men but that of revolution, had impressed
my imagination, and I was prepared to feel the glow
of admiration that warmed my spirit as he shook
my hand with a kindly word.  No one could approach
the man without receiving the impression of quiet
force; yet it was, after all, difficult to realize that
this kindly merchant had developed the highest
qualities of leadership at two critical periods in the
history of the city and state, had headed a successful
revolution against a criminal administration of the
law, and had, after showing gifts that in another day
would have made him a Cromwell or a Simon de
Montfort, quietly surrendered his powers when his
work was done, and settled contentedly back to the
prosaic business of buying and selling goods.  I felt
proud to be in his presence.

"What is this important information?" asked
Coleman, his gray eyes searching my face with
penetrating glance.

"Chiefly," said Wharton Kendrick, "that we are
mistaken in supposing that the story of the purchase
of arms is false."

"There is no doubt of its truth, gentlemen," I
said.  "The conspirators have received a large sum
of money, and have put a good part of it into guns.
They have, on my information, about one thousand
rifles."

This assurance produced a visible effect on the
company.

"Where did they get this money?" asked the
doubting voice of a man who had been introduced as
Mr. Partridge.

"That's not the important point," said Wharton
Kendrick, striking in smoothly.  "The main thing
is to know what they are going to do with it."

I understood from this hint that I was to keep the
name of Peter Bolton out of the discussion.

"I have a little special information on that point,"
I said.  And I described the multiform purposes of
the Council of Nine as they had appeared from my
investigations.

"How do you know all this?" came from several
of the assembled magnates.

Wharton Kendrick took the reply out of my mouth.

"He has practically direct communication with
the conspirators," he said.  "I think we shall all
agree that it is best not to mention names."

"Well, this certainly makes it a horse of another
color," said Partridge.  "In the light of Mr. Hampden's
information I withdraw my objections to the
plan proposed by Mr. Kendrick."

Wharton Kendrick heaved a scarcely perceptible
sigh, and whispered to me, "That settles it;
Partridge represents the Golconda Bank, and the rest
will follow his lead."

"That is right," said another.  "Let us take no
chances."  And with a few similar expressions the
company appeared to have come to a unanimous
agreement.

"Then," said Wharton Kendrick, turning to Partridge,
"I'll put you down for--"

"For five hundred thousand," replied Partridge.

"Make it a million," said Kendrick.  "Nelson here
is going to stand responsible for five hundred
thousand, and your people should stand for more."

"Well, if you think the emergency calls for it,
you can count on a million," said Partridge.

One after another the men named the amounts for
which they would stand responsible, and Wharton
Kendrick jotted down the figures in his memorandum-book.

"Please make out your checks, gentlemen," he
said at last.  "Here is ten million dollars pledged to
the committee."

"That will be enough," said Coleman with decision.
"I think that our arrangements cover every
point where there can be a break in the markets."

"Unless it's M. & N., and the bank we mentioned,"
said Nelson.

"Oh, yes," said Kendrick; "our arrangements
cover them, too.  We've got to back them up till this
storm is over.  They are bound to go some day, but
if they go now there will be a smash all along the
line.  Partridge will see to getting the best
collateral they have, and we'll feed them just enough
to keep their doors open."

"They will draw pretty heavily on the pool if
disorder actually starts," said another.

"Oh," said Partridge, "we have a very comfortable
reserve, and it isn't likely that there will be an
actual outbreak."

"Well, we have prepared for every emergency,"
said a stout and sleepy-looking man in the corner;
"and as we're likely to have a hard day of it to-morrow,
I move we get home and to bed.  It's three
minutes of midnight, now."

The suggestion appeared to be approved, for
everybody rose with the breaking-up atmosphere that
ends a gathering.

"One moment," said Coleman, raising his hand.
"There is one thing we have neglected to discuss.  It
is not impossible that the constituted authorities will
prove unable to handle the disorderly elements.  In
case of need, how many of you gentlemen are ready
to give your services to the city to preserve order?"

There was a silence for a moment.  Then one said:

"Pshaw, Coleman!  This isn't fifty-six!  We're
twenty years older than we were then, and the police
and the militia can handle those fellows if they make
any trouble."

"I believe," said Coleman with deliberate emphasis,
"that we are standing on the crust of a volcano.
We should be prepared to give our money and
our personal services to the public safety if the need
comes."

"There's no danger," growled the sleepy man, "so
what's the use of worrying about it?  Let's go home."

"Oh," said Kendrick, "we'll all stand in if there's
trouble, of course."

"We'll leave Coleman on guard," said another
with a facetious nod.  "We'll all turn out when he
rings the bell."

In the bustle of guests departing, Coleman took
me by the arm and led me to a corner.

"Do you know where these guns are stored?" he asked.

I balanced my obligations to Clark against the
obvious fact that the publicity given to the armament
had relieved him from chance of suspicion, and replied:

"I understand that they were stored near the
headquarters of the Council--Blasius' saloon--known to
the police as the House of Blazes."

"I think they should belong to the police," said
Coleman dryly.  "I dare say Chief Ellis has heard
of them, but I shall send word to him before I go to
bed."

In a moment more Kendrick called me, and we
bade good night to our host.

As we reached the Kendrick house the magnate
roused himself from a brown study and said:

"The curmudgeon is a rather amusing cuss,
Hampden, if you know how to take him.  I advise
you to cultivate his acquaintance."

"Do you mean--" I began.

"I mean," said Kendrick sharply, "that the closer
you get to a man the more you find out about what
he intends to do.  If he wants to pay for the pleasure
of your society it might be a pity to deny him the
privilege."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TROUBLES IN THE MARKET`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   TROUBLES IN THE MARKET

.. vspace:: 2

Storm-signals were flying in the financial quarter
of San Francisco.  California and Sansome Streets
were thronged with men whose faces, anxious,
confident, hopeful or despairing, pictured a time of
commercial stress.  There was an unusual bustle about
the orderly precincts of the banks, as clerks rushed
in and out with the air of men who carried the fate
of the day on their shoulders.  Bearers of checks
jostled one another in their eagerness to be first at
the counters of the paying teller.  The doors to the
offices of bank presidents and cashiers, that on
ordinary days opened but sedately to the occasional
visitor, were now swinging constantly to admit their
customers in search of unusual accommodation.
And even at the savings banks there was a flutter of
uneasiness; for at the opening hour a long line of
timid-faced men and women had formed in front of
the paying tellers' counters.

In the banking district this anxious activity was
orderly and well-mannered.  The center of
disturbance was to be found about the rival stock
exchanges on Pine and Montgomery Streets, where
excited crowds blocked the sidewalks and roadways,
curbstone brokers raised a deafening clamor with
their offers to buy and sell, and groups of individual
traders surged hither and thither in endless but
changing combinations.  The shouts followed one
another in short and rapid volleys, like the popping of
a pack of fire-crackers, and as each vocal explosion
was the signal for the dissolution or rearrangement
of a group of traders, the human herd was tossed
about in waves, eddies and cross-currents, like the
bay in a storm.

The granite pile on Pine Street that held the San
Francisco Stock Exchange--the "Big Board" as it
was known in the parlance of the street--was the
origin of waves of disturbance that spread to the
remotest confines of the crowds.  The flight of a
messenger down the granite steps would be followed by
a roar of inarticulate sound, a wave of human
motion spreading out in a circle of eddies, individual
groups colliding, coalescing, separating into new
combinations in a mad confusion of excited voices,
till its impulse was lost on the confines of the crowd
or whirled aside into the scores of bucket-shops that
lined the adjacent streets.  And similar waves of
excitement spread in smaller volume from the rival and
lesser exchanges on Montgomery and Leidesdorff
Streets.

The developing strength of the agitators, and the
rumors of the arming of the turbulent elements, had
roused a spirit of uneasiness in the city that was not
far from panic.  As a consequence of their fears, men
were rushing to protect their business interests, loans
were called in, collections were pressed, lenders
became wary, and weak holders of stocks were
forced to sell.  With these conditions overshadowing
the market, professional traders in stocks became
fierce and aggressive bears, and hammered at prices
with every weapon that money and mendacity put at
their hand.

Wharton Kendrick was early at his office, and I
sought him for directions.

"Look after the other fellow," was his brusk
command.  "That is your part of the business.  Let me
know what Peter Bolton does.  Send me reports
every ten or fifteen minutes till the exchanges close.
I'll be here all day."

Having satisfied myself that my messenger
system was in good working order, I awaited the first
move of the enemy.  It came shortly after the
opening of the stock exchanges.  I received word that
Peter Bolton had started for the "Big Board;" so I
made my way thither to observe for myself what
sort of activity he might be about.

As I was edging my way forward between the
shouting, tossing eddies that divided the crowd, I
felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned to find Parks
beside me.

"A shameful sight!" he shouted in my ear.  "Sad
and shameful!"  And he gave a vigorous shake to
his head that put his shock of hair all a-quiver.  "It's
like a round-up of helpless cattle driven to the
slaughter-house.  It's worse than shameful.  It's
damnable!"

"More like the dairy, isn't it?" I asked.  "They are
like cows brought up to be milked, and afterward
turned loose to accumulate a new supply."

This view of the market brought an angry flame
of color into Parks' face.

"Worse than that--worse than that!" he cried
indignantly.  "It's like those African fellows that cut
a steak out of their live cattle and then turn them
out to grow another.  Those men there," and he
shook his fist at the granite front of the Stock
Exchange, "and those men there," and he shook his fist
at the El Dorado Bank as the nearest representative
of speculative finance, "are vampires that grow by
sucking the blood of the people."

"The people appear to be willing victims," I
suggested, looking at the eager if apprehensive faces
about us.

"By heavens, no!" cried Parks, in his high excited
voice.  "They are driven into the shambles by their
poverty--by the inequalities and injustices in the
distribution of wealth--as surely as if they had been
driven by whips or bayonets."  He glared about
him as though he sought contradiction.  "They are
here in the hope of wresting from knavery and
rapacity the share of the earth's products of which
they have been despoiled."

"I suspect," was my scoffing reply, "that they are
here in the hope of doing exactly what the owners
of the El Dorado Bank have done--of taking all
they can get and a little more."

"Sir," said Parks, "you lose sight of the mass in
looking at the individual.  The individual has been
corrupted by a false system of society into striving
for unjust gains.  But the mass calls only for simple
justice."

"Well, Parks," I returned, "I admire your optimism,
though I can't say as much for your judgment."

"Admire it or not, sir, as you like," said Parks.
"That will not alter facts.  But this," he added,
shaking his fist again at the frowning front of the
Exchange, "is one of the iniquities that we shall sweep
away."

"If we can judge by the patronage it is getting
to-day it won't have to close very soon," was my
comment.

"Sir," said Parks, "the day when it will be closed
is nearer than you imagine.  Our denunciations of
the robbers of the stock exchanges excite more
applause than anything except our denunciations of the
Chinese."

"I should think it quite likely.  Men like to hear
hard words said of those who succeed where they
themselves have failed.  But the applause means
nothing."

"It means," said Parks, "that we shall have the
masses behind us when we give the word to abolish
these iniquities."

"Abolish them?  Pooh!  It would take a despotism
to do that."

"A despotism?  No.  A revolution.  The revolution
that will bring equality to the people is all that
is needed."

"And you still think your revolution is coming?"
I asked.

"Not the slightest doubt of it."  And Parks gave
a mysterious nod as though he could tell many
things if he would, and then closed his mouth
tightly as though tortures could not wring another
word from him.

At this moment I caught sight of Peter Bolton
intent on pressing a way to the entrance of the
Exchange.  His gaunt face was drawn into harsh,
determined lines, his sharp chin was thrust forward,
and his whole attitude was an expression of grim
purpose.  I lost sight of him in the struggle of
making my way through the throng, and I had reached
the door before I brought him under my eye again.
He was pausing in the lobby to pass a word with an
alert, bright-eyed man whom I knew as a broker,
and I surmised that he was giving orders in regard
to sales or purchases of stocks.

Inside the Board-room the clamor was more insistent
and disturbing than on the street.  The confined
space compressed the waves of sound till they
struck upon the ear with a force that benumbed my
unaccustomed nerves.  The cries, shouts, and yells
of the brokers bidding for stocks or making their
offerings came only as a confused roar.

Except for the noise, the scene on the floor of the
Exchange resembled nothing so much as a magnified
foot-ball scrimmage.  The scores of excited brokers
were rushing hither and thither within the railed pit,
shouting, screaming, waving their arms, shaking
their fists, forming groups about a half-dozen of
their fellows, flinging one another aside to get to the
center, struggling with all signs of personal combat,
and then separating a moment later to form new
groups.  The dissolving combinations, the quick
rushes, the kaleidoscopic changes among the circling
men, were as confusing to the eye as the swelling
dissonance of shouts was deafening to the ear.

The spectators of this tournament of riot made
themselves a part of the brabble.  They felt all the
interest of those unarmed citizens who watched a
battle which was to settle the fate of their goods
and households.  They were mostly speculators,
winning or losing money with each burst of sound that
rose from the bedlam dance in the pit.  They filled
the seats and crowded the aisles, and added their
quota of outcries to the uproar, now shouting
instructions to their brokers, now bargaining among
themselves, and now voicing an exclamation of
satisfaction or discomposure as the stocks changed
prices at the call.

Peter Bolton dropped into a seat that had been
reserved for him at the rail, and watched the scene
with keen and wary eye.  It was plain that he had
been brought there by no idle curiosity.  For the
first time in the knowledge of the frequenters of the
Exchange he took an open part in the trading,
called brokers to him at every turn of the battle of
the pit, and gave his directions with confident brevity.

The Exchange was not altogether a novelty to
me, and after I had become accustomed to the
confusion of sight and sound, I had no difficulty in
discerning the progress of the struggle that was
going on before me.  It needed no broker to tell me
that a hot financial battle was being fought in that
confined arena.  A novice in trade could have seen
that there was a determined effort to break the
market, met by an equally determined effort to uphold
it.  The attacking force had strong support.  The
alarms and anxieties caused by the signs of
approaching trouble had brought into the market the
stocks held by small margins, those of frightened
investors, and those held by speculative merchants
who found their credits suddenly shortened.  The
rumors of coming disorder had also brought to the
bear side the professional traders who foresaw a
probable fall in prices, and by sales for future
delivery did their utmost to bring it about for their
own profit.

But there were strong influences on the other
side.  And though each call of stock was followed
by an avalanche of offers, I soon observed that every
stock after a sharp decline was brought back to
something near its former quotations.  I surmised
that the steadying hand of the syndicate was at
work.  It was not for nothing that Wharton
Kendrick had held his midnight session with the
financial barons of the city.

As the session wore away with fierce assault
and resolute defense, with detonations of cries
and shouts, with surges and clashes of conflicting
factions of traders, I thought I saw an air of
disappointment settling on the face of Peter Bolton.  He
spoke sharply to the brokers that from time to time
he summoned about him.  These conferences were
followed by renewed activities and fresh outbreaks
of sound among the gyrating, dissolving groups
upon the floor; but after a flutter of changing prices
the quotations returned to the level from which they
started.

The session came to an end at last, and the throng
of men poured out of the Exchange, bearing on their
faces the record of success and failure, of excitement
and fatigue, that had been scored by the morning's
work.  But so far as the official figures of the
session showed it might have been a time of
stagnation instead of fierce battle.  The closing prices
were not a point away from those that ruled at the
close of the previous day.

"The El Dorado Bank has run against a snag
this time," said one broker to his neighbor, as he
wiped his perspiring face and adjusted his limp
collar.

"The El Dorado Bank isn't the only one to feel
a little sick over the morning's business," said his
companion, with a toss of his thumb toward the
bowed figure of Peter Bolton huddled in the seat
by the rail and contemplating with vacant intentness
the floor of the deserted pit.  "Old Tightfist must
have dropped a pile of money here to-day."

"He?" exclaimed his companion.  "Not much he
didn't.  He always caught the turn at just the right
minute.  When the books are made up he's as likely
to be ahead as behind."

"He has the devil's own luck," said the first broker.

"He found out what he was bucking against early
in the game," said the other, "and after that he
didn't need anybody to tell him when to get out."

As the throng passed out, Peter Bolton still sat
in his seat by the rail.  A grim air of reflection was
on his face, the lines of stern determination still
drew his chin forward and his lips back, and he
studied the floor of the Exchange as though it were
a blackboard on which his problem was being
worked out.  Then at last he slowly rose, and with
a sour shake of his head walked toward the door,
I turned my eyes on the clock in the hope of escaping
his observation; but as he came by my seat he
halted.

"So, young man," he said, with the compressed
force of anger audible in his sarcastic drawl, "you
think you have beat me, do you?--you and that
smirking scoundrel you call Kendrick!"  There was
the concentrated essence of venom in his tone that
testified to the depth of his hatred and chagrin.

His words were an admission that I was quick
to understand.  In a moment my mind flashed to
the conclusion that the whole enginery of rumor and
riot had been set in motion by this man to serve the
purposes of his malignity.  He had sought to pull
down the commercial edifice of San Francisco in
the hope of burying Wharton Kendrick in the ruins.

The design was the worthy offspring of the
malevolent mind before me, but it was rather his
insulting reference to my client than the wickedness
of the thing he had attempted to do that stirred me
with anger.  A harsh answer was on my lips, but it
was checked by the sudden recollection of Wharton
Kendrick's advice to "cultivate Peter Bolton's
acquaintance."

Accepting this recommendation as a command,
I bowed with a smile as sarcastic as his own, and
replied cheerfully:

"You do seem to have made a failure of it, Mr. Bolton."

A flash of anger came into the pale blue eyes, a
shade of red flamed in the sallow cheeks, and Peter
Bolton broke forth into passionate speech:

"Maybe you've beat me this time.  Maybe you've
had things your own way for once.  But the fight
isn't over yet.  There's plenty of it coming, and
I'll see that you get it.  Let that scoundrel Kendrick
look out for himself.  He can hire whipper-snappers"--by
this term I judged that Peter Bolton referred
to me, and I was pleased to think that he
credited his discomfiture in part to my humble
efforts--"he can hire a line of whipper-snappers that
would reach from here to the ferries, but he can't
save himself.  I'll drag him down.  I'll strip him to
the last rag.  When I get through with him he won't
have a dollar to his name.  There won't be a foot
of land or one brick on top of another that he
can call his own."  Peter Bolton spoke more rapidly
than I had supposed was possible to him, and his
face flamed with the wrath that had carried his
tongue away.

"I'm sorry to hear it," I said politely.  "I hope it
won't happen before I collect my month's salary."

Bolton looked at me venomously from his deep-set
eyes, and his thin lips curled with sarcastic lines.

"You've earned your salary this month," he said,
with a return to his harsh drawl, "but it doesn't
follow that you'll get it.  You beat me this time, but it
isn't the end."

"You did make rather a mess of it," I admitted.
"You ought to have consulted somebody about
it--an attorney, for instance."

I spoke idly, without special meaning; but at my
words Bolton's face softened into a glance of
sardonic humor.

"Oh," he said slowly, "I don't know but what you
are right.  Come around to my office in a day or two,
and we'll talk about the fee."  He jumped to the
conclusion that I was ready to accept a bribe, and he
continued: "It'll be anything in reason, young man,
anything in reason."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LOTTERY TICKET`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE LOTTERY TICKET

.. vspace:: 2

In the midst of the lull that followed the failure
of Peter Bolton's assault on the fortifications of
commerce, I was surprised to find on my office desk
one morning the following letter:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

RESPECTFUL SIR:

.. vspace:: 1

to yours we this day instructed to remind you that your
presence is more than agreeable.  Having placed to your credit
a money sum drawn according to ticket, should be your
worshipful servant to have presented for payment.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   As ever your faithful,
       KWAN LUEY & Co.

.. vspace:: 2

This missive, written in a beautiful Spencerian
hand, was for some minutes a puzzle.  I read over
its tangle-worded lines two or three times before it
dawned upon me that it must concern the lottery
ticket that I had purchased in Peter Bolton's office.
The ticket had been handed to me with the promise
that I should have "heap big money," and I drew
from the letter's flowery but uncertain language the
inference that the promise had been fulfilled.  If
confirmation had been necessary, the letter confirmed
the testimony of my eyes when they had assured me
that the seller of the ticket was Big Sam.  It was
impossible that any other Chinese would have known
that I was the holder of the paper, or would have
procured the sending of the derangement of words
that had come over the name of Kwan Luey.  As
nothing more important called for my attention I
indulged my curiosity by setting put at once for
Kwan Luey's store.

Kwan Luey showed himself superior to any narrow
prejudices in regard to the objects in which it
was fitting for a merchant to trade.  In one window
he exhibited a fine collection of silks, ebony carvings,
sandal-wood ornaments, and figured Chinese coats.
In the other he had piled all manner of fine porcelain,
ivory and lacquered ware.  The counters in the
front part of the store showed a similar division of
salable goods.  Farther back could be seen mats of
rice, boxes of tea, bags of Chinese roots, and piles
of mysterious and uncanny Chinese edibles.  In his
office clerks were counting Mexican dollars and
packing them in stout boxes for shipping to China,
the earnings of his countrymen.  The closed rear
rooms, I surmised, were devoted to the operation of
the two or three lotteries he was reputed to control.

Kwan Luey himself stood just outside his office,
a short, well-fed, well-dressed Chinaman, whose
rounded, dark-brown face denoted a cheerful mind.
I called him by name.

"What you wan'?" he asked suspiciously, prepared
to deny his identity if my errand were not to
his liking.

I introduced myself, and as my name brought no
sign of enlightenment to his face, I presented his
letter as a card of identification.

He gravely read it with all the pride of authorship
kindling in his eye, and as gravely handed it
back to me.

"How you like him, eh?  Plitty good letteh, eh?"

I assured him that I could not have bettered it
myself.

Kwan Luey gave a gratified smile.

"I lite him," he explained.  "I go Mission school
fo' yeah.  I leahn lite, all same copy-book.  I all same
beat teacheh, eh?"

"You are a Christian Chinaman, then, Kwan Luey?"

"You Clistian?" he asked.

"I hope so."

He gave me a sly glance, and said:

"I Clistian Chinaman when Clistian man wan'
buy goods."

"But not when Clistian man wants money?" I asked.

Kwan Luey smiled the bland smile of China, and
made no direct reply.

"You wan' money, eh?" he said.  "You heap
lucky, eh?"

"Well, I don't know."

"You catch-em ticket?"

I produced the square of paper I had received
from Big Sam.

"What does that say?" I asked.

Kwan Luey took the paper, and drew his eyelids
together till there showed but two narrow slanting
slits between them as he pretended to examine it.

"Him say--him say--I look-em book and see
what him say."  And with his bland smile still
rendering his face innocent of meaning, he retired to
his office.  He reappeared a moment later.

"Him say you dlaw two hund' fitty dollah," was
his announcement.

The comedy of the lottery ticket was being played
out to the end.  I was convinced that the paper was
a direct order from Big Sam to pay me the money,
but as I looked into the brown mask of Kwan Luey's
face I recognized the folly of attempting to draw
from him any word that he was unwilling to speak.
But as he counted twelve twenty-dollar gold pieces
and a ten into my hand I could not forbear saying:

"And what does Big Sam expect me to do with
the money?"

I thought I detected a slight movement of Kwan
Luey's eyes--a momentary contraction of the lids,
as though a beam of light had flashed across them
and was gone.  It was the only sign of surprise I
could detect.

"You sabby Big Sam?" he asked blandly.

"Yes, I sabby Big Sam."

"And you no sabby what to do with you' money?
You no sabby dlink--all same Clistian?  You no
sabby hoss-lace?  You no sabby pokah?"  And at this
enumeration of the white man's facilities for
disposing of superfluous wealth he laughed with the
ironic laugh of China.

I suggested that Big Sam might have intended
another destination for the money.

"Oh," said Kwan Luey innocently, "you likee
Big Sam tell you what do?  I likee send letteh to
Big Sam.  You takee letteh, him tell you what do."

The letter was already in his hand, and he passed
it to me as gravely as though the coincidence was
but one of the common events of life.

"I see that you were prepared for me," I said,
with a tinge of sarcasm in my voice, and wondered
how Kwan Luey would have brought the errand
about if I had not served his purpose by introducing
Big Sam's name.

The Chinaman smiled placidly.

"I no sabby," he said.  "Good-by.  Some day you
wan' some nice thing, you come Kwan Luey's stoah."

I drew the conclusion that Big Sam wished to see
me, and had arranged that Kwan Luey was to find
a pretext for sending me to his office.  Why he
should not himself have sent word of his wish, I
could not guess, unless it was a part of his policy
to avoid direct paths where indirection could be
made to serve.

A few minutes later I walked into the store
beneath Big Sam's residence and put foot on the dingy
stair that led to his office.  A short, stout Chinaman
tried to halt me with a "What you wan'?" but I
pushed him aside and passed up the steps.  I knew
my way through the semi-darkness of the passage,
and stumbled upward without wish for guidance or
thought of danger.  I had not mounted half the
ascent before I heard something of a commotion above
me--the shutting of a door, a scurry of feet, and a
rumbling sound as though a heavy table had been
moved across the floor.  I amused myself with the
thought that I had caught Big Sam's household
unprepared for visitors and imagined the flight of the
feminine portion of his family at the sound of my
approaching footfall.

I reached the landing.  The hall was deserted, and,
turning toward the building's front, I knocked at
the one door that led from the passage.  There was
no answer, and I knocked again.  As a third knock
brought no response I turned the knob and opened
the door for myself.  To my surprise Big Sam's
room of state had disappeared.  In place of the large
and handsome office, with its profusion of ornamentation
and its oriental furniture, I found myself
looking into a narrow passageway between blank
walls.  I looked about the hall with the thought that
I must have mistaken the door.  But there was no
other entrance to be seen, and I looked again in
perplexity at the passage, unwilling to believe the
evidence of my eyes.  As I turned to make sure of
the transformation I heard a click as of a spring
lock snapped, a smart push at my back sent me
staggering forward, and the door banged behind me.

It took but a moment to recover myself and face
about.  But I was too late.  The door had been
securely locked.  A few blows on the panels sufficed to
assure me that it was of too solid construction to
yield to anything less powerful than an ax; and
though the frame rattled at my efforts, I saw that
I was a prisoner, unless I could find some other
way of egress.  I spared the door the kicks and
blows that were called for by my first impulse.  If
I had been fool enough to get into this trap, I had
at least sense enough to recognize that I should not
better myself by knocking the skin off my knuckles
in the effort to attract attention.  The persons whose
ears I could reach did not need to be informed of
my presence.  They had attended to the little detail
of putting me there, and might be assumed to be
aware of the honor I was doing them without
further demonstration of the fact.

I turned to look once more at my prison.  It was
hardly five feet wide, and might have been thirty
feet long, and appeared to turn a sharp corner and
lead toward the rear of the building.  Evidently I
was at the entrance of one of the labyrinths of
Chinatown, famous in police reports.

Up to this moment I had felt no fear at my situation.
It seemed indeed to be something of a practical
joke at which I could afford to laugh.  I had
evidently wandered into the wrong building, been
mistaken for a detective, or a tax collector, or some
equally unpleasant person, and had been turned in
here out of the way of doing mischief.  I had but to
reveal the object of my visit--provided I could find
anybody to reveal it to--and I should be sent on
my way with apologies.  But some remembrance of
the gruesome tales of the deeds that had been done
in these labyrinths suggested that the sooner I found
speech with some one, the better chance of safety I
should have.  I was about to venture down the passage
in search of a guide when I was startled to hear
a voice speaking in my ear in perfect English:

"If Mr. Hampden will have the patience to wait a
moment, he will be welcome."

It was the voice of Big Sam, and I looked about
me with the thought that I should find him at my
side.  But I was still the only tenant of the passage,
and in perplexity I scanned the walls and ceiling.
At a second glance my eye lighted upon a small
bull's-eye of glass set in the wall.  It doubtless served
as an observatory from which suspicious characters
might be examined, and some arrangement of speaking
tubes gave communication by voice.

"Thank you," I said, as I made these observations.
"I am in no hurry."

I had scarce spoken when a part of the wall swung
back, and Big Sam stood in the opening.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WISDOM OF HIS ANCESTORS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WISDOM OF HIS ANCESTORS

.. vspace:: 2

Big Sam was dressed in a long dark robe figured
with fantastic markings in gold thread, and, as he
stood in the opening in the wall, had the appearance
of an astrologer who took himself seriously.  His
face wore a grave smile, and he bowed, as though
he were receiving me under the most conventional
circumstances.

"Step this way, if you please, Mr. Hampden," he
said with quiet dignity.

I hastened to quit the bare and narrow prison,
and was astonished to find myself amid the oriental
splendor of Big Sam's room of state.

"I ask your pardon for the somewhat unceremonious
welcome you have had," said Big Sam, motioning
me to a chair, and taking his seat behind the
great carved desk.

"Don't mention it," I said.  "I suppose it's your
customary way of paying honor to distinguished
guests."

Big Sam gave my pleasantry a dignified smile.

"We have to be prepared for more than one kind
of visitor," he said.  "Perhaps it is unnecessary to
call your attention to the circumstance that you
made no saving of time when you declined to give
your name and business to the man who met you at
the foot of the stairs.  It is a mere detail, but on your
next visit you will find a shorter way to this room
by sending up your name."

"I shall take advantage of the permission, but I
didn't suppose it necessary."

"These are troublous times," said Big Sam, "and
I have more than one very good reason to take precautions."

"I might suppose so from the change you have
made in the entrance to your rooms," I returned.

Big Sam gave me a quick glance.

"The change is more apparent than real," he
said.  Then, as if the subject were dismissed, he
turned the conversation abruptly.  "I believe you
wished to see me."

The attempt to put me in the position of seeking
him, instead of being the one sought, irritated me
more than the rude reception I had met on my arrival.

"I came," I said sharply, "because I had reason
to suppose that you had something to say to me."

"I?" said Big Sam in polite surprise.

"Yes.  I have just received two hundred and fifty
dollars on the order you gave me the other day,
and, for one thing, I'd like to know what to do with
it."

"On an order from me?" inquired Big Sam suavely.

There was only the blank "no-sabby" mask of
China on his face.

"Yes," I replied shortly.  "It you've forgotten
our interview in Peter Bolton's office, maybe this
will remind you."  And I laid before him the sheet
of paper I had received from Kwan Luey.

Big Sam glanced at it, and I thought I saw behind
the veil of his eyes the shadow of a frown.  But
if it was there, it was gone in an instant, and he
replied blandly:

"Ah, you have proved fortunate in the lottery, then."

"I was paid two hundred and fifty dollars," was
my non-committal answer.

"I congratulate you on your good luck."

"Thank you," I said sarcastically.  "And now I
am awaiting my instructions."

"Why," said Big Sam slowly, "if you have any
scruples about keeping it for yourself, you might
apply it to the expenses of the girl you have taken in
charge."

"That was what I was waiting for," I said.  I did
not share Big Sam's pleasure in reaching results by
indirect roads, and spoke impatiently.  "Is that all
you had to say?"

"I believe," said Big Sam with ironic courtesy,
"that I have some speech still due me.  Unless I am
much mistaken I have received no report of a
certain girl since I delivered her into your hands.
Possibly I am wrong in supposing that the
circumstances give me any rights."

"I dare say I owe you an apology," I said, with
swift repentance of my show of temper.  "But I
understood from what you said in Mr. Bolton's
office that you were in no pressing haste to hear
from her."

"Pardon me, if I have no recollection of a meeting
in Mr. Bolton's office," said Big Sam dryly.  "We
shall get on faster if you will kindly assume that it
did not take place."

The "no-sabby" mask covered his face, as impenetrable
as the blank walls of the passageway itself.

"As you like," I said.  "Then, here is my belated
report."  And I gave a brief account of the events
that had followed the rescue of Moon Ying.  At the
mention of her wound, Big Sam looked grave, and
when I had done he said:

"I had received information that something of
the kind had happened, but your silence gave me
chance to hope that my informant was mistaken."

"No doubt I ought to have reported to you at once.
I can only offer apologies for my neglect."

Big Sam gravely bowed in pardon of my remissness.

"It is a very awkward affair," he said.  "And it
will prove much more awkward if she dies."

"She is now out of danger."

"I trust so.  Her death would send the tongs at
each other's throats."

"And at yours?"

"I should find it necessary to be absent from the
city for some months," he said quietly.

"You might look on it in the light of a vacation,"
I suggested.

"Unfortunately it is of the last importance that
I should be here through the coming months."

"I presume that I am not expected to understand why."

"If you have kept your eyes open, you may have
some idea of the reason."  He spoke with a tinge of
sarcasm in his tone.

"Oh, a man can not always be sure of his eyes," I
replied, with a reflection of his manner.  "It is true,
I know that violence is threatened against your
people, and that Chinatown is likely to be burned down
before the troubles are over.  I know that, for
reasons that seem good to himself, Peter Bolton is
furnishing money to aid in the campaign of disorder.
But what I do not know is the reason why Big Sam
is engaged in secret dealings with Peter Bolton.  On
its face it looks to me like the case of a man joining
in a plot to burn his own home."

Big Sam drew down the veils of inscrutability
over his eyes as he looked steadily at me, and asked:

"What result do you expect from the agitation?"

"For the first thing, destruction of property and
the killing of some of your countrymen."

"Oh," said Big Sam carelessly, "as for the property,
it belongs mostly to your countrymen.  We
prefer to keep our belongings in movable form.  And
as for my countrymen, if any of them get killed,
there are plenty more where they came from."

A shiver ran down my back at this cold-blooded
way of looking at the matter, and with some element
of repulsion in my thought, I replied sharply:

"But those countrymen may not be able to reach
here.  The final result of the troubles, in my judgment,
will be the shutting of our gates to the Chinese
immigrant."

"Even that might not be altogether a misfortune,"
said Big Sam calmly.

"Not to us, I believe," I said.

"And not to us," said Big Sam.

"I'm glad you take so kindly to the idea," I said.

"Oh, it's very simple," he explained, "a mere
calculation of dollars and cents.  Shut off the
supply, you increase the value of those now here.  If
no more of my countrymen come, you will find none
working for ten and fifteen dollars a month.  In a
few years the ten-dollar man will be getting twenty;
the fifteen-dollar man will be getting thirty; the
men who are working in the fields and on the railroads
for seventy-five cents and a dollar a day will
be getting a dollar and a half and two dollars."

"That's a new view of the matter--to me, at
least," I confessed.  "But even that calculation will
be much amiss if the agitators get the upper hand.
They call for expulsion--not merely exclusion.
They say 'The Chinese Must Go,' and some of them
mean it."

"I have no fear," said Big Sam calmly.  "Their
violence will overreach itself.  I may say that I rely
upon them more than on the justice of our cause to
prevent hostile action against my people.  The more
violent their outbreak, the stronger the reaction,
and the less the likelihood of harsh measures to
restrict our right to come and go as we please.  Come,
Mr. Hampden, I will wager you a good cigar that
we have a rising in San Francisco that will call out
the United States troops, and that there will be no
legislation against my people."

I looked into the bland and impassive face before
me, and wondered if the considerations at which he
had thus hinted could explain his alliance with
Bolton.  It was in keeping with the principles of
oriental diplomacy that he should be planning to
prevent exclusion by encouraging the agitators to
violence, and be prepared to profit by either
success or failure.  Yet as I looked into the fathomless
brown depths of his eyes, I refused to believe that
he had revealed the full measure of his policy or
the reasons for it.

"I will certainly risk a cigar on that," I returned
gaily.

"Then you consider the exclusion of my people
inevitable?"

"I do.  It is necessary to the control of this coast
by the white race, and I feel certain that it must
come."

"I do not recognize the necessity of the white
race controlling this coast," said Big Sam dryly.

"Probably not."

"Besides, you forget that there is a class of your
own people who will be much injured by an exclusion
policy," he said.  "The steamship and railroad
companies will lose much money.  The man who
employs a hundred laborers will find his expenses
increased by fifty dollars or one hundred dollars a
day.  Do you think they are going to submit quietly?
The exclusion policy will find its enemies among
your own people."

"Then you will take no part in the struggle?" I
inquired.

Big Sam gave his head a diplomatic shake.

"I am a guest in your country, and I understand
the obligations that such a position implies."  He
spoke the words exactly as he would have said, "I
shall protect my own interests," and, by an
intangible suggestion, it was this meaning that they
conveyed to me.  Then he turned the current of
conversation abruptly:

"I think," he said, "it is well to bring the girl
back here where she can have the care of a doctor
of her own race."  He spoke with outward calmness,
but there was a trace of inward perturbation
in his manner.

I stared at him in astonishment.

"Surely," I cried, "you do not believe that your
doctors are better than ours!  You don't mean to say
that an intelligent and educated man like you thinks
that there is merit in powdered toads, and snake
liver-pills!  You don't believe for an instant that
incantations to drive away devils can be of the slightest
benefit to a girl with a bullet through her lungs!"

Big Sam looked away from me with something
of shame and discomposure in his face.  The yellow
mask dropped away for a moment, and I could read
in his countenance the struggle that was going on
in his mind between the veneer of western education
and the inborn basic faith in the system evolved
by his fathers.

"If you had asked me a week ago, and purely as
a matter of theory," he said slowly, "I should have
replied that your doctors were far superior to ours--that
the medical practice of our people was merely
superstition reduced to an absurdity."

"Your good sense would have spoken," I said.

"But now," he continued, "it is not a matter of
theory that I have to consider.  It is a life and death
problem.  Immense interests--my future--perhaps
the future of the Chinese in this country--are all at
stake.  And who am I, to throw aside the wisdom of
my ancestors and call it folly?  There are powers in
the earth and in the air that you and I do not
understand.  There are forces that you and I do not know
how to use.  I have seen things that science--even
your science--can not explain.  May not the race
know what the common man does not know?  Does
not the experience of three thousand years count for
more than our ideas of what is reasonable?  Our
ideas!  What are they but bubbles blown in air,
now seen, now gone into nothingness?  Here is a
scrap of paper.  I crumple it thus, and throw it out
of the window.  It is blown here and there--up the
street, down the street, around the corner--and it
comes at last to the rubbish pile and is burned.  And
because it has found nothing but pavements and
buildings in its course it scoffs at the stories of green
fields, mountains, forests, the powers of nature and
the works of man that it has not seen.  Is that not the
attitude of civilized man, Mr. Hampden?"

"We must believe our experience, our observation
and our intelligence; they are the only guides we
have," I replied.

"The savage is much more reasonable," said Big
Sam, with the air of one who argues with himself.
"He makes allowance for the universe outside his
little round of experience."  He rose from his seat
with a troubled face, as though to relieve his stress
of thought by walking.  Then, as if ashamed at the
loss of his customary calm, he sat down once more.

I brought the conversation back to the concrete
case of Moon Ying.

"I can assure you," I said, "that the girl is
getting the best medical attention in the city, and is
being nursed with the most tender care.  You surely
have no thought of depriving her of these advantages."

"These advantages?  Yes, they may be advantages
to your people.  But are they so for mine?"

"Certainly; flesh and blood are flesh and blood
the world over."

"Each race to its own," said Big Sam.  "I can not
take the risk of leaving her to die under the white
doctor's treatment."

"She is much the more likely to die if you bring
her to Chinatown," I argued.

Big Sam's face recovered its firm determination,
and I saw that the superstition and ancestor-worshiping
elements imbibed with his mother's milk
had overwhelmed education and reason in the crisis
at which he felt he had arrived.

"I must look to my own welfare," he said with
decision.  "A war among the tongs would be fatal to
the interests of the Chinese.  And if the girl
dies--especially if she dies under the white doctor's
care--it would be quite beyond my power to prevent an
outbreak."

"I have no doubt your interests are important," I
began, when he interrupted me.

"Important! they are everything.  I must ask you
to see that the girl is returned here this morning.  I
will send for two of our best Chinese doctors to care
for her."

"I protest against your decision," I said.

"It is not your place to protest or assent," said.
Big Sam, with an air of command.

"Nor to act against my judgment," I added.

"Oh, if you refuse to act, I must find another
messenger," said Big Sam calmly.  "Permit me to thank
you for what you have done, and to say that when
I can be of service I am yours to command."  The
dignity and courtesy with which he spoke were
almost regal.

"Oh, I refuse nothing," I replied.  "But you will
have to reckon with another person than me.  I shall
take your request to Miss Kendrick; but, whatever
I may think about it, the final decision will be in her
hands."

Big Sam looked thoughtfully at me for more
than a minute before he spoke.

"That was a phase of the problem I had not
considered," he said slowly.  "I had forgotten that
yours is not the ruling sex in the white race."  Big
Sam's voice was innocent of sarcasm, and he
appeared to be considering an impersonal problem.

"If you want to get your girl, I advise you to see
Miss Kendrick yourself," I said.

Big Sam looked at me gravely.

"I should not venture to be so rude to Mr. Kendrick
as to look upon the women of his household,"
he said with a trace of rebuke in his tone; yet I felt
that this oriental excuse was but a pretense.  "I am
sure," he added, with a significant glance, "that I
could not have a better advocate than the one I
send."

Something in the tone rather than in the words
sent the blood to my face, and in some confusion I
rose.

"An advocate who speaks against his judgment is
not likely to be of much value," I said.

"And you a lawyer!" he exclaimed.  He rose
and accompanied me to the door, then halted and
stamped three times on the floor.  "I had almost
forgotten," he said with an enigmatic smile.

As he spoke there was again the rumbling as of
a heavy table moved across the floor.

"Forgotten what?" was my natural inquiry.

He made no reply, and as the noise stopped he
opened the door and ushered me into the hall.  I
had ceased to think of the peculiar mode in which
I had entered the room, but now the remembrance
flashed upon me, and I looked about in astonishment.
I had passed directly from the office into the
outer hall, and the door leading from the hall to the
passage in which I had been imprisoned had disappeared.

For a moment I was at a loss to explain the
transformation.  Disappearing doors were something
new in my experience.  Then I struck my hand
against the wall where the door had been, and my
knuckles told me that behind the counterfeit
appearance of plaster was a heavy sheet of painted
iron.  In a flash the explanation came to me.  The
whole wall could be moved like a sliding door, and
with a minute's warning a raid on Big Sam's office
would find no entrance.

I carried Big Sam's message to the Kendrick
house without delay, and put Big Sam's case with
an impartiality that surprised myself.  But I was not
disappointed in the result.

"Send her back!" cried Miss Kendrick in a great
state of indignation.  "What can the man be
thinking about?"

"Indeed, it is impossible," said Miss Fillmore.
"The girl is in no state to be moved, even if it were
a question of moving her to a better place."

"And to move her to that dreadful, dirty Chinatown!"
cried Miss Kendrick.  "I'm astonished that
you should think of such a thing."

"I didn't think of it," I urged.  "I didn't even
want to hear of it.  But Big Sam has reverted to
primeval barbarism, and when he said he would
find somebody else if I wouldn't come, I consented
to bring his message."

"Well," said Miss Kendrick, "I never heard of
such a preposterous thing in all my life."

"Unfortunately, Big Sam doesn't see it in that
light," I said.

Miss Kendrick sat down looking very determined
and very indignant.  Then she gave a decided nod
and said:

"You can tell Big Sam, with my compliments, that
if he thinks I am going to be an accomplice before
the fact to a murder, he's very much mistaken in the
person."

There was more talk to the same effect, when my
judicial mind caught the idea of a compromise.

"I have it," I said.  "Why not let Big Sam's
Chinese doctor come up here and take an occasional
look at Moon Ying, and allay the excitement in
Chinatown by assuring them that she's all right?"

"Well, I admire your intelligence," said Miss
Kendrick.  "I suppose you'd have Doctor Roberts
consulting with him, and alternate our medicines
with shark's-liver pills and snake-skin powders.
Would you set aside certain hours for him to sing
Chinese incantations over her?  Or how would you
fix it?"

The judicial scheme of compromise lost some of
its attractiveness, and I said so with the proper
degree of humility.

"Well, you are forgiven," said Miss Kendrick.
"Now I'll tell you that there's just one compromise
we will make.  Big Sam may come here once a week
to see Moon Ying.  He's the only Chinaman who
can get past that door."

"I suggested something of the sort, and he took
it as though I had proposed an impropriety.  I
believe that a Chinese gentleman isn't supposed to
observe that another gentleman has a feminine side
to his establishment."

"Then he can stay out," said Miss Kendrick with
decision.  "You can go right back and set his mind
at rest.  He can have Moon Ying when she gets well
and he finds a man who is fit to be her husband.
It's my private opinion that there isn't such a one in
Chinatown.  And he can't have her a minute sooner."

I delivered this ultimatum to Big Sam.  He had
recovered his composure, and showed neither surprise
nor disappointment when I reported the result
of his mission.

"Am I to understand that this message is from
Mr. Kendrick or Miss Kendrick?" he inquired
blandly.

"From Miss Kendrick."

"Ah!  I presumed that such a matter would be
decided by the head of the household."  His tone was
even, and I looked to his face for the flavor of
sarcasm that seemed the proper dressing for the
words.  But the bland, inscrutable mask of China
gave back only the expression of polite attention.

"Her decision would be final in such a matter," I
replied with something of resentment.

"Then," said Big Sam in his suave tone, "I
trust that she understands the responsibility she is
taking."

"I explained the importance you set upon it."

"Oh, I did not refer to my interests," said Big
Sam, waving them aside as though they were of no
moment.

"Then I am afraid I don't understand you," I said
in perturbation.

"It is very simple.  If the girl dies I can no longer
answer for the conduct of the tongs.  And if she
dies in Mr. Kendrick's house--"

Big Sam left the sentence unfinished, and I asked:

"Do you mean that as a threat of an attack on
Mr. Kendrick or his niece?"

"Oh, I do not threaten.  I merely suggest.  There
are very bad men in these tongs, and they will be
very angry.  You can not be surprised if they put
something of the blame for the girl's death on those
who have her in charge.  And angry men will go far
for revenge."

"This is a serious threat," I said, with more alarm
than I cared to show.

"I do not intend it as such," said Big Sam calmly.
"I merely state circumstances."

"I am obliged to you for the warning," I said,
"but I can only say that the considerations you
mention would not move Miss Kendrick.  She is
convinced that to send the girl here is to sacrifice her
life.  Miss Kendrick has a woman's courage--the
courage that defends the helpless--and I know it
would be useless to appeal to her fears."

"Then," said Big Sam, with the air of one
dismissing the subject, "there is nothing more to be
said.  What will happen will happen."

And with royal courtesy he bowed me out.





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.. _`BARGAINING`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   BARGAINING

.. vspace:: 2

"I thought you would come," said the hard, dry
voice of Peter Bolton, as he leaned back in his chair
and surveyed me with a sardonic smile.

"Why, yes," I replied cheerfully.  "Jim Morgan
told me that you wanted to see me, and I took
chances on his telling the truth."  As Jim Morgan
was the prize-fighter who was at the head of
Bolton's bureau of private information and defense, I
had reason to assume that he spoke by authority.

Peter Bolton looked at me suspiciously, and then
gave grudging acknowledgment of Morgan's agency.

"I never write," he grumbled.  "You never know
whose hands a letter will fall into."

"A very prudent rule," I returned.

He shook his head slowly, drew down the
corners of his mouth, and rubbed his hands.

"Well, I suppose by this time you are about ready
to take up with my offer," he said with a look of
shrewd cunning.

"Your offer?  I really didn't know that you had
made one," I answered.

His cold blue eyes looked searchingly into my face
for a minute.  Then he said:

"You'll find it best to take up with my terms.  I
don't know what salary you're getting from
Kendrick, but you're going to lose it."

"I didn't expect to keep it for ever.  Did Mr. Kendrick
tell you he was going to discharge me?"

"Tell me?" began Peter Bolton with a sarcastic
leer.  "He didn't have to.  I've got better information
than he can give.  Your man Kendrick is going
broke within the next thirty days, and he won't have
any use for that fine herd of clerks he has been
keeping."

As Peter Bolton evidently expected me to comment
on this prophecy, I murmured that I was sorry
to hear it.

"You needn't be," said he with an attempt to
be amiable.  "I'll take care of you."

"You are very kind," I said.  "But how do you
know that Wharton Kendrick is going under?"

"How do I know?" he returned with something
of passion under his drawling tone.  "Why, I know
your man Kendrick like a book.  I've known him for
forty years.  I've watched his business.  I've watched
him.  Oh, he can fool you fellows with his smirking
face, and his open-handed way of throwing money
about.  But I know that it's borrowed money, and
the man who makes a show on borrowed money
comes to the end of it some day, doesn't he?" Bolton
ended querulously, as though he was making
complaint against Wharton Kendrick for not having
gone into bankruptcy long before.

"Oh, I think you are mistaken," I said.  "Mr. Kendrick
is known to be very rich."

"Reported to be very rich, you mean," he said in
his most sarcastic drawl.

"Oh, there's no doubt about it," I returned warmly.
I hoped to provoke him into saying more than he
intended.

Peter Bolton took up the challenge.

"Why, young man," he cried, his voice rising
into a cracked treble, "he owes money he can't pay.
There's five hundred thousand dollars of his notes
in that safe there," and he pointed to the solid front
of the burglar-defying case.  "They fall due pretty
soon--some of 'em are due now--and he can't meet
'em."

"Do you mean to say that he has borrowed money
of you?" I asked in amazement.

"I didn't say that," he replied cautiously.  "But
there are the notes.  They're signed by Wharton
Kendrick, and they call for five hundred thousand.
When they're presented he can't pay 'em, and I
suppose I'll lose my money.  I have bad luck about
losing money."  He shook his head ruefully, and
drew down the corners of his mouth as sourly as
though he saw the almshouse at the end of his
road.

"Oh," I said hopefully, "you'll get it, I'm sure.
Mr. Kendrick has a lot of property, and if he hasn't
the money, he can borrow it."

This assurance was less pleasing than the prospect
of loss that had soured his face but a minute
before.

"I know what property he has, young man, a good,
deal better than you do," he said sharply.  "And
there's more paper of his in the banks--I guess it's
all of two hundred and fifty thousand, maybe more.
Money's getting pretty tight now, pretty tight, and
Kendrick's about at the end of his rope.  When he
goes down, you'll want a place to fall on."  He
looked at me ingratiatingly, and as I said nothing,
he continued:

"Now, I want to see that you're taken care of.
You shan't lose anything when the smash comes, if
you just follow my instructions."

"It's very kind of you to take so much interest in
me," I began with an echo of his own sarcasm,
when he interrupted.

"Oh, I ain't such a hard man as some people say.
I want to do you a good turn, and maybe you'll help
me out.  I'm a liberal employer to men who give
me the right sort of service.  Now you're trying to
be a lawyer--"

I confessed that I hoped to do something in that line.

"And I've got a little legal business to attend to,"
he continued, "and I want to know what you'd
consider a fair fee."

"Why," I said, "it depends, for one thing, on the
work to be done, and for another on the amount of
money we think the fellow has."

Peter Bolton looked at me in alarm.

"Oh, I have very little money, very little money,"
he said quickly.

"Except for such little items as five hundred
thousand in Kendrick's notes, that you were just
mentioning."

"Oh, them.  Well, I'm expecting to lose that
money, and a man who loses five hundred thousand
feels pretty tight pinched."

"Now, as for the work to be done, if it were
overlooking the Council of Nine and the anti-coolie
agitation--"

"Anti-coolie agitation!" he exclaimed angrily.  "I
don't know anything about an anti-coolie agitation."

"Oh," said I apologetically, "I supposed you knew
what Waldorf and Parks and Kearney were doing
with the money you gave them.  Didn't they tell you
about it when they were here last night?"

"I don't know what you are talking about!" he
cried angrily, but I read in his eyes anxiety and
surprise at the accuracy of my information.

"Now if it were looking after them, I should want
a larger fee than for looking after your plans with
Big Sam."

A shade of gray passed over his face, and he held
up one hand and gave me a malevolent look.

"Young Men talk a Good Deal of Nonsense," he
said.  "Now if you're through with your joke, we'll
go back to talking Business."  His sardonic voice
showed that he was again thoroughly in command
of himself, but I felt convinced that he was more
eager than ever to secure my services.  "Now what's
your figure?"

"You haven't told me yet what you expect me to do."

He looked about cautiously, and then studied my
face for a little before he replied.

"I'll tell you what it is," he said slowly.  "You are
in charge of Kendrick's campaign.  I want you to
stay in charge of it, but to run it according to My
orders instead of according to His orders."

"How long do you think I could keep the job on
those terms?" I asked.  "You've known Mr. Kendrick
forty or fifty years.  You must have got the
impression in that time that he isn't altogether a fool.
How long do you think he would stand it?  About
long enough to kick me out of his office, wouldn't
he?"

"He'll stand it long enough to suit My purpose,"
replied Peter Bolton, his sardonic smile tightening
the corners of his mouth.  "My orders will be His
orders until the day comes that I am ready to put
my hand on him."  He reached out his long, bony
fingers cautiously, and then brought his palm down
on his desk with a thump as though he were catching
a luckless fly.  "When the time comes, an hour
will be enough," he continued.  "All I want you to
do is to bring His orders to Me, before you carry
them out.  Then do as I tell you."  His jaws closed
with a snap, as though they were a trap, and
Wharton Kendrick were between them.

"That sort of legal advice is worth a good deal of
money," I said.  "You can afford to pay well for it,
for you'll make a big clean-up.  I'll have to be paid
well for it, for if it were to be found out, I could
never do any more business in this town."

Peter Bolton gave me a shrewd look, as though
he thought he was sure of me.

"I offered you Ten Thousand Dollars," he said,
trying to make the sum sound very large, "but I
won't stick at a thousand or two more.  I'm not a
close man with those I like--"

"It's worth a good deal more," I interrupted.
He looked disappointed.  Then he studied the
desk, and appeared to be making up his mind to
some great sacrifice.

"Well," he said slowly and grudgingly, "name
your figure."

"I should think fifty thousand dollars was about
right."

Peter Bolton gave a shudder, and pondered for
a little.  Then the shrewd look came again into his
eyes, and he said:

"I'll be liberal, and give you more than it's worth.
I'll pay you One Thousand Dollars a week for the
next four weeks, and on the day that Wharton
Kendrick makes his assignment, I'll give you Twenty-Five
Thousand Dollars.  I wouldn't do it for any
one else, but I want to see that you don't lose anything."

I understood from this outburst of verbal generosity
how much he overestimated my share in Wharton
Kendrick's affairs.

"Well, I'll think it over and let you know," I
said, rising to escape.  The pressure of my indignation
had reached the danger point, and I felt that if
I sat there another minute my honest opinion would
burst forth in words that would put an end to
further hopes of getting any revelations out of him.

"You'd better take it now," he urged, with a
shadow of disappointment on his face.  "It's a good
offer, and I might find some one else to take it up
by to-morrow."

"Oh, I'll take the risk," I returned.  "I have a
monopoly on this business, and you know it, and I
can take what time I please."

"Just as you like, young man, just as you like,"
he said in his sarcastic drawl.  "But look out for
your own interests.  If you don't, I can tell you that
Wharton Kendrick won't."

Before he could deliver another homily on the
folly of honesty and the importance of pursuing the
interests of Number One, I hastened out of the
office, with the thought that I had penetrated far into
the evil designs of Peter Bolton at the cost of a good
deal of self-respect.

I soothed my indignant spirit with a walk that
gave me time to assure myself that no spy was
following me, and then bent my steps to Wharton
Kendrick's offices to lay the case before my client.
The accumulation of five hundred thousand dollars'
worth of his notes in Peter Bolton's hands seemed
to be a matter that might call for very serious
consideration.

I found Wharton Kendrick in his private room
in converse with General Wilson, and the discussion
appeared to have become heated.  General Wilson's
face gleamed like a great carbuncle, and Wharton
Kendrick's ruddy cheeks were ruddier than ever
with signs of temper.

"You can't do it, Kendrick," General Wilson was
saying, with a wave of the hand.  "I've been over
every foot of that land that isn't too soft to stand
on, and I'll tell you that you can't put in any such
works."

"I've had two first-class engineers go over it,"
replied Wharton Kendrick with equal positiveness,
"and they say it can be done."

"Engineers--engineers!  What are they worth?"
snorted General Wilson scornfully.  "I've got two
eyes, and they are good enough engineers for me."

"You'll find 'em mighty expensive ones if you try
to do business on their estimates," said Wharton
Kendrick grimly.  "Experts come high, but they
are cheaper than your own guesswork.  You can
count it liberal of me to give you that information
for nothing, for it cost me over two hundred and
fifty thousand dollars."

"It's no use talking, Kendrick," said General
Wilson positively.  "When I'm right I know it, and all
creation can't move me.  That land of yours is no
good to us unless we can get Bolton's piece with it.
The two have got to be improved together or not
at all.  I'll tell you right now that the company won't
pay any such price for your piece unless it can get
the other, and Bolton won't sell just because he
knows we've got to have it to make it a success."

"What's that?" exclaimed Kendrick, looking
grave.  "Bolton won't sell?"

General Wilson repeated his statement with
characteristic vehemence.

"Did Bolton tell you that?"

"He couldn't have made it plainer if he had said
it right out in so many words.  He raised his price
at the rate of a hundred thousand dollars a minute
as soon as he heard that we wanted your land."

"Ah, yes.  I remember now that Hampden was
telling me something of the sort."  Wharton Kendrick
shook his head over the information, and then
turned to me.  "Was there something you wanted?"

"Well," I said, hesitating in some embarrassment
at General Wilson's presence, "I had an interview
with a friend of yours this afternoon."

The intonation in my voice was enough to give
a hint of the identity of the friend, and he nodded his
head in comprehension.

"Well, come up to the house to-night, and give
me the whole story.  It'll keep till then, won't it?
By the way, what was that hullaballoo around the
place last night?  It waked me up, but I was too lazy
to turn out and take a hand in it."

"Perhaps you heard my men when they caught
three fellows climbing over the back fence, along
in the early hours this morning.  I don't think of
anything else that happened."

"Well, upon my soul," gasped General Wilson,
"isn't that enough?  Good heavens, young man, you
speak as though it was something a gentleman
might expect as a common attention from his neighbors!"



"It's a first experience," said Wharton Kendrick
with a jovial laugh.  "But why didn't you tell me
about it?  If I'm an attraction to burglars, I think
I'm entitled to know it."

"I didn't intend to make a secret of it; but you
weren't in when I called this morning.  Besides, I
haven't run the thing down to its source and origin."

General Wilson's red face flamed with wonder
and he stared at me from under his bushy brows.

"Are you trying to tell us that they weren't
burglars?"  He fired the question at me very much as if
it were a revolver, with the professional air of a
lawyer who has caught a witness trying to deceive.

"To be truthful, I was trying not to tell you," I
replied.  "But if you put it to me direct, I should
say they were not."

"Fire away," said Kendrick, as I paused.  "There's
nothing about it that Wilson shouldn't hear."

"Well," I continued, "two of them got away, but
the boys held on to the third, and hauled me out of
bed at three o'clock this morning to find out what
was to be done with him.  He protested that he was
an innocent citizen on his way home from an
over-convivial evening.  But as he couldn't explain what
he was doing in your back yard at that time of night,
we took him down to the police station.  Instead of
finding him in the jailbird class, he turned out to
be a small politician out of a job.  Just now he figures
as sergeant-at-arms of the Twelfth Ward Anti-Coolie Club."

"The Anti-Coolie Club?" said Wharton Kendrick,
wrinkling his brows.  "I don't see what an anti-coolie
club could want to do to me.  I'm pretty well
qualified for membership myself."

General Wilson's face flamed redder than before,
in the frame of his aggressive side-whiskers, and he
smote the desk with his fist.

"Good Lord, Kendrick!  You don't mean to tell
me that you take any stock in such riotous nonsense
as these anti-coolie fellows here are getting off!
Why, I was listening to one of them last night, and
he roared like a bull-calf about the Chinese taking
the bread out of the hands of the workmen, and split
his lungs telling that the heathen must be driven into
the sea.  Why, sir, he made my blood boil, and if I
was made provost-marshal of this town for one day,
I'd bundle him and his crew down to the docks, and
have them sailing over sea before night came."

Wharton Kendrick gave a good-humored laugh.

"My dear Wilson, I don't take much stock in the
loud-mouthed orators, but I say, with them, that if
we are to have the choice of a white or a yellow
civilization in California, my vote goes to the white."

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried General Wilson,
thumping the desk once more.  "Why, my dear sir,
you challenge the fundamental principles of this
government when you say we must shut out these men
merely because their skins are yellow.  Why, sir, it
is to our advantage, not to our detriment, that they
work for small wages.  The lower their wages, the
less money they take out of the country, and when
they go home they leave behind them the great works
they have accomplished.  God has given you illimitable
resources, and you are crying out for hands to
develop them, and here you are, ready to shut out the
most plentiful and cheapest supply of labor that
exists on the face of the green earth.  It's against
business principles and it's against the principles of
humanity, and you can never do it, sir--never."

"Oh, fudge, Wilson, you don't know anything
about the problem, and yet you come here telling us
old Californians what we ought to think about it.
I'll admit anything you say in favor of the coolies.
They're industrious and faithful and cheap; but
they're more than that.  The Chinese can drive us
out of any line they want to take up.  I've seen that
done too many times to doubt it any longer."

"Well, if they can do it, why shouldn't they?"
cried General Wilson.  "Survival of the fittest--isn't
that the law of nature?  If the white race can't stand
the competition, let it perish.  But it won't perish.
It'll manufacture things to sell to the Chinese, and
trade will go on whether the white or the yellow man
settles this coast."

"That may be all right for you fellows in the
East; but even there you'll be hit.  Just ask yourself
which would be more profitable as customers, a
million Chinese who spend ten cents a day on their
supplies, or a million whites who spend a dollar?"

"Sophistry, sophistry, Kendrick!" puffed the general,
apparently impressed by the illustration.  "But
why go after the Chinese alone?  I was in Castle
Garden a month ago, and the fellows they let
through there are every whit as un-American as the
Chinese.  Why don't you holler about them?"

"Why," said Kendrick, "we're hollering about the
pigs in our corn.  You're the fellows to look out for
the other side of the continent."

"Why don't we try to keep them out?" cried
General Wilson.  "Why, it's because we've got to have
cheap labor for our mines and mills and railroads.
We need it just as we need machinery, and we've got
to take the disadvantages with the benefits, and no
loud-mouthed agitator can deprive us of the right to
get our workmen in the cheapest market.  It's the
law of trade, the fundamental principle at the
bottom of political economy--the science on which the
development of civilization must depend--"

General Wilson's oration was suddenly cut short
by an outburst of sound from the street below, and
with common instinct we hastened to the window to
view the cause of the hubbub.  On the pavement was
a crowd of five or six hundred men, moving slowly
up California Street, circling with cries of anger or
derision about some indistinguishable center of
attraction.  The outer fringe of the crowd was
constantly breaking into sprays of individuals who ran
forward to secure a position in front, while those
behind tried to leap on the shoulders of those before
them, and the center was an effervescent mass of
arms, heads and clubs.

The nucleus of disturbance, I was at last able to
make out, was composed of two policemen dragging
a hatless man between them.




"Oh," said Wharton Kendrick, "it's nothing
worse than an attempt to lynch some fellow who's
been caught at his crime.  I suppose he's killed a
woman, or something of the sort.  But the police
will get him to prison easily enough.  There's never
nerve enough in one of these crowds to take such a
fellow and hang him."

"They ought to string 'em up on the spot,"
snapped General Wilson.  Then repenting suddenly
of this unprofessional exclamation, he added: "But
the majesty of the law must be upheld.  It is the
shield of the innocent and the sword of the righteous."

"Um-m, yes, I suppose so," said Kendrick doubtingly.
"But all this doesn't settle that matter of the
tule tract.  I'll see you to-night, Hampden.  The
general and I must talk business now."





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.. _`A RIPPLE OF TROUBLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A RIPPLE OF TROUBLE

.. vspace:: 2

The brawling of many voices filled the air as I ran
down the stairs, spurred by curiosity and by a vague,
subconscious misgiving that the event was of more
than impersonal interest.  When I reached the
entrance the circling crowd was halted in a mass of
struggling men, and the hoarse roar that issued from
it vibrated with the indefinable yet definite thrill of
savage anger.  Police whistles were blowing, men
were running from all directions to get sight of the
struggle, blows given and taken could be heard amid
sounds of curses and exclamations of pain, and the
centers of disturbance became pyramids of squirming,
struggling mankind.

As I reached the street, Parks burst out of the
crowd, his hat gone, his long hair tumbled in
aggressive disorder, his face flushed, and his clothing
bearing evidences of his violent passage through the
mob.  Behind him came Seabert, whom I knew for
a member of the Council of Nine.  Between them
they dragged and pushed an old man, white-faced,
frightened, who looked in helpless amazement on
the turbulence about him.  The old man's face stirred
vague reminiscence of the familiar, but for the
moment I could not trace these promptings of
memory to their source.

"Here!" cried Parks, as they burst out of the
struggling circle and flung their burden into the
hands of a knot of men who stood by an express-wagon
near at hand, "get him down to Number Two."

As the old man was sent staggering forward,
helpless, trembling, perplexed, the men circled
around him, lifted him in their arms, and in a
moment had climbed into the wagon and were going on
a gallop down California Street.

It had all been done in the time I had taken to
pass from the door of the office building to the edge
of the sidewalk.  I pushed into the roadway and
hailed Parks by name.  He had snatched a hat from
one of the men who climbed into the wagon, and
was hastily removing the signs of conflict from his
dress.

"What's the matter here?" I cried, when I saw
that he recognized me.

"Matter!" he cried.  "Matter enough!  There has
been an interference with the natural right of a man
to present his grievance to his fellow-man.  It has
been properly resented."

"I don't understand you," I said.  "Who was the
old man you rescued from the mob?"

Parks looked at me in surprise.  "Rescued from
the mob!" he exclaimed.  "Why, the mob--but wait
a minute, and I'll tell you about it."

He turned as he spoke.

"Stop that fighting!" he shouted.  And at his
word a score of men lent their efforts to the task of
separating the struggling, wrestling groups, raising
the prostrate and quieting the violent.

The efforts of the peacemakers were signally
assisted by the sudden appearance of a squad of police
coming on the run around the corner from
Montgomery Street.  As the guardians of order were
strong of limb, and were armed with heavy clubs,
they had exemplary success in quieting the refractory,
and satisfying those whose appetite for fighting
was still unsated.

At the sight of the police, Parks took me by the
arm and drew me quietly down the block and around
the corner into Sansome Street.

"What was the trouble about, and who was the
old man?" I asked.

"Why, that was Merwin," said Parks in a tone of
surprise.  "You ought to recollect him."

At the name I remembered the quiet, dreamy old
man of my visit to the House of Blazes, and recalled
the history of his life-wreck which was wrapped up
in the volumes of legal lore that went under the title
of Merwin versus Bolton.

"What had Merwin been doing to get the mob
after him?" I asked.

"To get the mob after him!" exclaimed Parks in
great indignation.  "To get the police after him,
you mean."

"The police!" I exclaimed in my turn.  "Oh, he
was the man under arrest, then?"

"It was an outrage of arbitrary power," said
Parks, flushing angrily, "and the people have shown
what they think of it.  He has been taken out of the
hands of those petty tyrants, and it will be a long
time before he falls into them again."

"What was the charge?" I asked, at a loss to
imagine what crime could have been committed by this
inoffensive wreck of a man.

"He was arrested," said Parks indignantly, "for
exercising the right of free speech."

"Free speech is rather an elastic term," I said.
"What was he talking about?"

"The only thing he knows anything about," said
Parks.  "That's his case."

"Well, it is a subject that might call out rather
strong language, but I don't see just how that could
bring him afoul of the police."

"Sir," cried Parks, "it could happen only through
the exercise of arbitrary power.  The point of the
thing is that the Supreme Court this afternoon
handed down its sixth decision in his suit against
Bolton.  The judgment against Bolton is reversed,
and the case sent back for a new trial."

"What a shame!" I said, remembering the justice
of Merwin's claim, the ruin of his life, and his long
fight against the wealth and malignity of Peter Bolton.

"It is outrageous!" exclaimed Parks vehemently;
"as scandalous as the open sale of justice to the
highest bidder.  Those men should be dragged from
the bench, and driven through the streets in a cart,
with their price for rendering such a judgment
placarded on their backs.  The judges were bought and
justice was sold."

"No, no," I protested.  "The men on the bench
may be wrong-headed, small-minded, pettifogging,
but not corrupt--believe me, not corrupt."

Parks looked at me with a pitying shake of his
head.

"You are welcome to your opinion," he said, "but
it isn't mine.  However, it doesn't matter.  The court
has driven another nail in the coffin of the present
social order."

"But how did this decision get Merwin into the
hands of the police?  Did he go around to the
courtrooms and tell the justices what he thought of
them?"

"No, indeed!" said Parks indignantly, "though I
shouldn't have blamed him if he had.  He got up at
our water-front meeting and, for the first time since
I've known him, made a speech.  It came hot from
his tongue, too, telling the plain story of his case to
his fellow-citizens.  And what did the police do?
Why, they arrested him for trying to incite a riot!"

Parks paused as though waiting for my opinion
on this exercise of police power.

"Well," I admitted, "the plain story of the case of
Merwin against Bolton might very well sound like
an attempt to stir the mob to violence."

"It makes my blood boil, Hampden," cried Parks.
"It's the stuff that revolutions are made of.  The
hirelings of Nob Hill know it, and that is why they
trampled on the liberties of speech in the attempt
to shut the mouth of the injured man."

"Go on with your story.  What happened after he
was arrested?"

"Why, I wasn't there, so I don't know exactly
how it was.  But when Merwin was dragged off the
cart, one of the boys ran over to headquarters with
the news.  As soon as I heard what was being done,
I hurried over here with such men as I could get
together.  We found a big crowd following the two
policemen who were dragging Merwin between
them, but the men didn't know how to do anything
but holler and ba-a.  So I passed around the word
that Merwin was to be taken out of the hands of the
police.  The crowd was ready to follow if any one
would take the lead; so when I gave the signal the
police were tumbled over in just one minute by the
clock, we hustled our man to the wagon, and now
I've had Merwin taken to a safe place."

"My sympathies are with Merwin," I said, "but
this rescue is a more serious matter than the arrest.
It is resistance to the constituted authority of the
law."

"The constituted authority of the law!" said
Parks contemptuously.  "That's not the last resistance
that will be roused against its tyranny and
injustice.  The day is at hand, sir, when this
constituted authority of the law, as you call it, will be
overthrown and scattered as easily as it was overturned
a few minutes ago in the persons of its petty
tyrants.  Then a new and better authority will rise,
founded on the will of the people, responsive to the
people's needs, and protecting the people's interests."

Parks had begun in a low tone of voice, as befitted
one who had reasons for avoiding notice; but with
his closing words he was once more the orator and
prophet of the agitators, and I gave him a word of
caution to save his breath for a less dangerous
occasion.  I saw nothing to be gained by arguing with
him the folly of his plans of revolution.  I could not
hope to turn him from his purposes, and would only
shut myself out from the chance of getting further
information from him.  Therefore I suppressed the
remonstrance and advice that rose to my lips, and
asked instead how the movement was progressing.

"Splendidly," replied Parks, with an enthusiastic
shake of his head.  "The cause of the people is
advancing by leaps and bounds.  Men are awakening to
their rights, and responding to the efforts for their
betterment.  Our organization has gone into every
district in the city.  By to-morrow we shall be five
thousand strong.  Next week we extend our propaganda
outside of San Francisco, and shall proceed
to establish branches in every town in the state.
To-night we invade the stronghold of aristocracy.  At
eight o'clock we hold a meeting on Nob Hill, at the
corner of California and Mason Streets, to tell the
nabobs what we think of them."

We had reached the corner of Market and Sansome
Streets and had halted for a little, when a hot
and breathless man overtook us, and tapped Parks
on the shoulder.  For an instant the enthusiast
thought that he was under arrest, for he whirled
about with a fierce and determined look.  If the man
had been a policeman he would have had a difficult
prisoner to handle.  But there was no hostile intent
in his face, and a look of recognition relaxed the
tense lines of determination about Parks' mouth and
eyes as he caught sight of him.

"Egbert and Baumgartner are arrested," whispered
the man in gasps; and he drew Parks aside.

There was a hurried conversation of which I
caught but a word now and then, and I had time to
wonder whether Parks would not presently share the
fate of the two men he was now called upon to aid.
It was not unlikely that a man of such conspicuous
appearance had been recognized by the officers when
Merwin had been snatched from their grasp.  After
a minute of whispered conversation, Parks turned to
me, his face lighted with decision and excitement.

"I must leave you, Hampden," he said.  "Let me
see you at the meeting on Nob Hill to-night.  The
contest between plutocracy and the people may begin
earlier than we have expected."

And with these significant words he set off briskly
in the direction of the House of Blazes.

I digested Parks' hints with my dinner, and,
getting no light from them, I took my way to Wharton
Kendrick's house to deliver the postponed budget of
information gained from my visit to Peter Bolton.

The sun had just set upon the long July day, and
the bright afterglow still forbade the use of lamps.
And in the misgiving that I should come upon my
client before he had finished his dinner, I was about
to continue my stroll past the house when I saw the
door open and some one walk in.  As the door
remained hospitably ajar, I changed my intention and
climbed the steps.  Before I reached the landing I
heard an inner door close, and a moment later the
voice of Miss Kendrick asked:

"Well, what do you want?"

"You Miss Kenlick?" came the reply, with an
unmistakable Chinese intonation.

"Yes, I am Miss Kendrick.  What do you want of me?"

"You sabby China gell--nice li'l China gell?"  The
voice of the Chinaman was pitched in a fawning
tone, offensive in the obsequiousness of its effort to
win the confidence of the hearer.

At the words I was startled with the thought that
Big Sam had come to survey for himself the
situation of Moon Ying with a possible view to her
recapture.  I was in two minds about my duty in the
matter.  Had I obeyed my first impulse I should have
walked in and expressed my opinion of the attempt
in unceremonious terms.  But second thought
suggested that Miss Kendrick might prefer to manage
the affair without interference.  A sudden wish to
hear her match her wits against the diplomacy of
the Oriental proved irresistible, and I determined to
await an apparent need for intervention.  Her first
words reassured me of her ability to handle the situation.

"No," she replied calmly, with just the suspicion
of a tremble in her voice, "we don't want any Chinese girl."

"No--you sabby gell?" insisted the Chinese voice,
with its fawning emphasis.  "Nice li'l China gell?"

If this was Big Sam, I should be compelled to
compliment him on a marvelous control of his vocalization;
and in curiosity to see if his bodily disguise
was as complete as that of his voice, I peeped about
the edge of the door till I caught sight of the oriental
figure.  My first glimpse of the man assured me that
he was not Big Sam.  He was small and bent, and
gave an inimitable appearance of age.  Whatever his
capacity for masquerade, Big Sam could not have
reduced his bulky form to this figure.  The man
turned his head a little, and I saw a wizened face,
embellished with a mustache of coarse white hair,
and scant chin-whiskers that might have belonged
to an anemic billy-goat.

Miss Kendrick's face was pale, but its firm
expression was an index to her resolve to save Moon
Ying from this creature at any cost.

"No," she repeated sharply, "we don't want a
Chinese girl--or boy either.  We never hire them.
You go now."  And with a gesture to the man-servant
who stood beside her, she turned and was gone
without a glance in my direction.

The man-servant, in eager obedience to Miss
Kendrick's hint, took the Chinaman by the shoulders,
and amid protesting exclamations of "Wha' fo'?
Wha' fo'?" ran him out of the hall, and started him
down the steps, his speeding word to the departing
guest taking the form of: "Get out of here, John,
and if you come back I'll kick you out."

Then suddenly catching sight of me, he recovered
his breath and his dignity with a sudden effort.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Hampden," he gasped.
"I didn't know you was here.  Mr. Kendrick is just
done dinner.  He's gone to his smoking-room.  He
said if you came I was to show you right in."  And
with a glance to see that the Chinaman had reached
the sidewalk, he shut the door and led the way to
the master of the house.

I followed him mechanically, but my thoughts
were far from the errand of Peter Bolton's schemes
that had brought me hither.  An insistent question
ran through my mind in endless variations, but when
reduced to words it took this form: "Where have I
seen the face of the old Chinaman before?"





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.. _`LAYING DOWN THE LAW`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   LAYING DOWN THE LAW

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Wharton Kendrick sat at his ease in smoking-jacket
and slippers, but his brow was wrinkled with
thought.  The cigar that he held between his teeth
gave evidence of his discomposure of mind, for it
was unlighted, and one end of it had been reduced to
the semblance of a cud.  I had just delivered to him
a conscientious account of my interview with Peter
Bolton, and now observed the perturbant reflections
that it had stirred.

"Was that all you could get out of the old rascal?"
he said after an interval of silence.

"Why, yes," I replied.  "I thought it was a pretty
good afternoon's work; and indeed I am surprised
that he told me so much."

"Oh, thunder, Hampden, you're as easily taken in
as the rest of 'em.  Didn't I tell you that Peter
Bolton is never in the place you're looking for him?"

"Why," I argued, somewhat piqued at this reception
of my budget of information, "I thought he told
a good deal about his plans--in fact, showed himself
a garrulous old foozle instead of the shrewd fox
you'd told me about."

"My dear boy," said Wharton Kendrick with a
pitying smile, "I'm grateful for your zeal, but the
only thing he exposed was his desire to get you to
betray me, and I might have guessed that without
his telling it."

"But that half-million of notes--"

"Doesn't it strike you, Hampden, that, as a
business man, I might be expected to know something
about the notes outstanding against me?  You're
right about one thing: I didn't know they had fallen
into Bolton's hands, and I'll have a score to settle
with the men who sold 'em to him.  But I've got
every piece of my paper recorded up here," and he
tapped his forehead, "and I'll be prepared to take
care of it as it falls due."

"Well," I said ruefully, "I'm just one more victim
of misplaced confidence in Peter Bolton."

"Oh, you needn't feel ashamed of that, my boy,"
said Kendrick kindly.  "Your time wasn't wasted.
It's worth while to know that those notes are in the
hands of an enemy.  But that's a mere detail.  Now
if he had told you how he expects to keep me from
meeting them when due--"

Wharton Kendrick left his sentence suspended in
the air, while he chewed his cigar for a minute or two.

"After all, Hampden," he continued, "I suspect
he has pushed those notes forward to draw away
attention from his real point of attack.  He's figured
on the possibility that you would bring me every
word, and has found something to gain out of it,
whether your final decision is to stand by me or to
take up his offer.  Now, about that offer?  Are you
prepared to accept his twenty-nine thousand for that
trifling service he wants?"

"If I get it, I'll go halves with you when you're
broke," I replied with an attempt at lightness that
was far from a success.  "But to tell you the truth, I
don't like to discuss the thing, even in joke.  It
makes my gorge rise to hear a hint that I could take
money for betraying you."

"That's Dick Hampden's son," he returned, his
face softening into a smile.  "I could hear your
father speaking then.  But if you think I am worrying
about your loyalty, just set your mind at rest."

I thanked him for his certificate of confidence, and
he continued:

"You don't have to tell me that Bolton isn't the
most agreeable company, but I'll be much obliged
if you'll cultivate his acquaintance a little further."

"Do you mean that you want me to pretend to accept
his offer?  I couldn't do that.  I couldn't take
his money."

"Do you think you would get it?"

"He offered a thousand dollars a week.  I'd get
that as long as the job lasted."

"Well, fix it up to suit yourself.  But if you can
find some way to keep him talking, you may get the
one word that will join the different ends of his
scheme together.  Here we have his dealings with
Big Sam and the Council of Nine, and his battery
of notes ready to fire at me.  A little more, and we
may see his whole plan.  Once I get that, I'll fix a
scheme to scoop his pile out from under him so
quick that he'll think an earthquake has struck
him."  And with this hint he excused me for the night.

As I went out into the big hall, I looked regretfully
at the library door, with a mental vision of the
pleasure of spending an evening in converse with
Miss Kendrick setting my pulses to beating.  But
with Spartan resolve, I crushed down my emotions
with the notion that it was my duty to attend the
Nob Hill meeting of the agitators.

"Oh, you aren't going without so much as saying
'How is Moon Ying?' are you?" said a piquant
voice; and at the words, I turned to see Miss
Kendrick coming down the stairs.  Her light dress and
graceful motions suggested the vision of a fairy
floating down from some celestial region with the
benevolent purpose of cheering the life of mortals--a
purpose that met my instant and hearty approval.
At the sound of her voice, the reasons that had
drawn me toward the Nob Hill meeting were
whisked away like so many scraps of paper before
the summer breeze, and I stammered out some
clumsy expression of my pleasure in remaining.

"Well," said Miss Kendrick, "I've heard that
appearances are deceptive, and now I'm sure of it.
You were a very good imitation of a man planning
an escape."  And she led the way into the library.

"There was something in the appearance," I said.
"I was wishing to escape from the duty of going
down town."

"Oh, if it's a matter of duty, I shouldn't think of
interfering."

"I can't see now why I thought it so," I returned,
"but I was suspecting there might be the chance of
a fight."

"Well, if there's to be any fighting," said Miss
Kendrick in some alarm, "I'll give you a bit of
advice, and that is to keep out of it."

"There's to be a meeting of the anti-Chinese clubs
to-night up by the Stanford-Hopkins houses, and it
may start a riot," I explained.  "I didn't know but I
ought to go to it."

"The curiosity of these men!" she sighed.  "And
they talk of the inquisitiveness of women.  Why, you
might have fifty riots, and you'd never see me going
near one of them--not if I heard of it beforehand."

"I hope not.  But it isn't altogether curiosity that
would lead me to attend."

"You don't mean that you have any crazy idea of
trying to stop the fighting if it begins?"

"Well, no."

"Then you just leave the business of the police to
the police," she said.  "I'm beginning to believe that
you need a guardian."

"I believe so, too," I replied, with the thought that
I saw a very desirable person for the place.  I was
tempted to say as much, but Miss Kendrick
responded hastily:

"I wouldn't envy him his position."  Then she
added: "I'm not sorry I interrupted you in your
foolishness, but I shouldn't have done so if I hadn't
wanted to take counsel with you."

I wished she had chosen a more complimentary
way of putting it, but professed myself all readiness
to listen.

"There was a Chinaman here a little while ago,"
she began, and then she described in detail her
interview with the little old man in the hall.

As she told her tale my thoughts were busy with
the insistent question--where had I seen the
Chinaman before?

"Now, what does that mean?" she demanded,
when her tale was done.

As she asked the question the problem was solved.
A sudden picture flashed into my mind of the old
Chinaman who had posed as the girl's father after
she had been stolen.

"It means nothing, I think--some peddler with
silk handkerchiefs to sell, perhaps," I replied, with
an effort to put a careless indifference into my voice.

"You think nothing of the kind," said Miss
Kendrick.  "I don't see why you treat me like a child.
I'm not a child, and I am wishing that you would
discover it."  She spoke with a little of wistfulness
in her voice and manner.  "Tell me honestly what
you think about the visit of the Chinaman?" she
said pleadingly.

I reflected a minute on her request, and she broke
forth in rapid words:

"Do you think, if I am afraid, that you can make
me confident by telling me that the dark won't bite
me?  Perhaps I am afraid--sometimes I do feel
horribly scared--but don't you think I counted all the
dangers before I made you bring poor little Moon
Ying?  There's one thing I'm more afraid of than
all the rest of things put together, and that is the
unknown thing.  Let me know of a danger, and I'll
be scared, and face it.  But when I know it's there,
and don't know what it is--that's the time I want
to run.  Now I saw in your face that you knew, or
thought you knew, and were afraid.  Please tell me
what it is that you think."

She looked into my eyes with such a mixture of
pleading and command that my reluctance to
confide my fears to her melted away.

"The man," I replied, "was beyond doubt the old
pirate who had Moon Ying in charge for the Hop
Sing Tong."

"And you think he was on a reconnoitering
expedition for his wicked society?"

"I have no doubt of it."

She considered the matter with a grave face and
downcast eyes, and I regretted that I had confided
my fears to her so bluntly.  Then she asked:

"Do you think the highbinders will come here?"

"No, I don't.  I do not believe there is courage
enough in all the tongs in Chinatown to attack this
house.  They have a pretty clear idea of the sort of
vengeance that would be taken on them, if they
tried such a thing.  The burning of Los Angeles'
Chinatown was a lesson that they will remember a
long time."

"Do you think it possible that your wicked
tongsters might hire some white men to do what they
don't dare do themselves?"

Miss Kendrick spoke in such tone that I demanded
sharply:

"What put that idea into your head?"

"I suppose I ought to have told you at first, but
the fact is that it's just this minute I've put two and
two together and made five out of them.  Now this
is the way of it: A little while before the old
Chinaman was here, a white man came to the back
door and asked for something to eat.  The cook set
out some victuals for him, but he didn't seem to
have the appetite of a starving man.  What he did
have was a consuming curiosity about the family.
After a good many questions, he asked if there were
any Chinese about the place.  The cook said 'No,'
and then he asked if there wasn't a Chinese girl here.
I can't get out of the cook just what she did tell
him, but I have no doubt he had the whole story out
of her.  I'm sure the fellow knows this minute just
what room the girl is in, and who waits on her, and
what she has for dinner, and how many people are
about the place, and whatever else he wanted to find out."

I balanced my suspicions between the possibility
that the fellow was a spy for the tongs, and the
chance that he was an agent of the anti-coolie clubs,
and then asked for a description of him.

"Well," said Miss Kendrick, "he's a most
remarkable-looking creature, and I'm sure you ought to
have no difficulty in finding him.  I asked three of
the servants who saw him, and took down their
descriptions, and all you have to do is to look for a
tall, short, middle-sized young man, with yellowish,
brown, black hair, and black and blue (or possibly
green) eyes, with and without a mustache, wearing
a slouch derby hat, and dressed in dark, light-colored
clothes--and then you'll have the man."

"I'm sure the police ought to be able to lay their
hands on him at once," I said.  "But it's no matter.
I can hardly imagine the tongs hiring a gang of
burglars to steal the girl.  However, I'll have men
enough around here to give them other things to
think about if they come near the house."

"Well, then, I shall sleep easier," said Miss
Kendrick with a sigh of relief.  "It's a comfort to one's
mind to know that there's some one looking after
your safety.  It's not strong-minded, but it's much
more satisfying than having the responsibility one's
self."  She paid this tribute to the protecting hand
of man with an infinitely charming condescension,
and then at a sound from without changed her tone
to earnest admonition: "And now I hear Mercy
coming, and you're not to say a word of worriments."

"Mum's the word," I replied, pleased to enter into
the bonds of conspiracy; and a moment later Miss
Fillmore entered, breathless, followed by Mr. Baldwin
clothed in supercilious indignation.

"Why, what's the matter?" cried Miss Kendrick,
starting up impulsively, and embracing Miss Fillmore.

"Oh, my dear," returned her friend in a disturbed
voice, "it's nothing much, I think--"  She hesitated
in evident unwillingness to alarm her hostess, but
Mr. Baldwin's indignation was repressed by no such
consideration.

"It's another demonstration by Mr. Hampden's
friends," he said with something of heat in his cold
cynical voice.  "That blatherskite Kearney has led
a crowd of hoodlums up Nob Hill, and it looks as
though there would be wild times before the night
is over.  We passed a gang of the riffraff a few
minutes ago, and they were headed up California Street,
yelling like wild Indians about burning down the
Stanford and Hopkins places.  It's a fine pass that
this toleration of the worst elements has brought us
to.  There's just one way to deal with those fellows,
and that's to call out the troops and mow them down.
If we were under a city government that had the
first notion of protecting life and property, it would
have had the whole gang in jail without waiting for
murder and arson."

With this threat in the air, the Nob Hill meeting
became a matter of immediate interest.  If a riot
should start at that point, it might be followed by
an attack on the Van Ness Avenue district, and it
evidently behooved me to judge for myself the
temper and designs of the crowd.

"If my friends are engaged in any such desperate
business, I'm afraid it's my duty to keep them from
getting any further into mischief," I said; "so I'll
bid you a good evening."

"You don't mean you are going out into that mob,
do you?" cried Miss Kendrick.

"That is my present purpose," I replied with some
exultation at the anxiety betrayed in her tone and
look.

"Well, I'm sure you're old enough to know better,
but I see you are an obstinate man-creature, and it's
no use to say anything to you.  But when you get
there, I hope you'll remember that you're not a regiment
of soldiers, and leave the business of the police
to the police."

"Send word if you're arrested," said Mr. Baldwin
scornfully, "and I'll see what can be done about
bail."

I bowed my thanks, and went out into the hall
where I found Miss Fillmore awaiting me.

"Do you think Mr. Parks is in that mob?" she
asked, with a charming air of embarrassment.

"I don't doubt it," I replied.

"He is so impulsive," she said.  "I saw him this
afternoon, and he was very much excited over
something that happened to Mr. Merwin.  I am very
much afraid he will let his feelings run away with
him to-night."

There was a depth of anxiety in her eyes that
Parks ought to have been proud to inspire, and even
with the call of conflict urging me to be gone, I spoke
a few words of comfort, and reflected on the mysteries
of attraction that should draw together the
gentle Mercy and the impassioned leader of revolt
against society.

"If you find him to-night, try to restrain him,"
she pleaded.  "It is his good heart--his sympathy
with the suffering--that brings him into these troubles."

"I shall do all I can," I promised.

Outside the house, I stopped for a few minutes to
see that my watchmen were on duty, and to learn if
they had observed any signs of trouble.

"No," said Andrews, the head watchman, "there's
been nothing worse than a gang of hoodlums going
up toward Nob Hill, and yelling like Comanches.
But one of 'em makes me a bit suspicious, for as he
passes, he says, 'That's the house.'  I says to myself
that there's a chance he means this one, so I've
cautioned the boys to be wide awake."

"How many are on duty to-night?"

"Four besides myself--Reardon and Selfridge,
Hunt and Carr."

"Well, get two more to stand watch with you
to-morrow night, and till further orders."  And with
Andrews' assurance that he knew two trustworthy
men for the place, I ran down the steps and hastened
up the street toward Nob Hill.

As I reached the plateau, the meeting appeared to
have resolved itself into small groups, that now
scattered, now coalesced, and then scattered again, with
shouts and cries of men.  There were roars of anger
followed by jeers, and shouted orders, and the
elements of disorder circled hither and thither in
aimless dispersion.  Hoodlums elbowed me from the
sidewalk.  A policeman caught me by the arm and
whirled me around with a curt order to "Git out of
this now," and I recognized that the forces of law
and order had replied to the challenge of the agitators.

I pressed my way forward, by avoiding the scattered
police, and at last reached the corner of Mason
and California Streets by the Hopkins mansion.
There was still a mob of a thousand or more,
struggling about a shouting group, thinning from
moment to moment, under the efforts of the police.

I caught a glimpse of Parks, with mouth open and
fist raised.  Then he disappeared; a company of
police appeared in the speaker's place, and the mob
melted away with marvelous rapidity.  The police
formed in company front, swept along the block,
and then with a right-about-face returned, and broke
up into twos and threes in chase of groups of disorder.

As the upper block was nearly cleared, I caught
sight of a policeman with whom I had a nodding
acquaintance.

"You've got a handful of trouble to-night," I said,
as he paused for breath.

"Throuble by the armful," he said indignantly.
"That blatherskite Kearney ought to be in the tanks,
with all that gang of fish-horn shouters that
follows him.  He's making us more throuble than all
the haythin divils between Goat Island and Washerwoman's
Bay, and that's not sayin' a little."

"I didn't get here in time to hear what he said."

The policeman gave an indignant snort, and
paused to order a trio of young men to "git home
and out of here now."

"Well," he said, turning to me again, "you needn't
lose slape for what you've missed.  He told that
crowd of howling hoodlums that these houses here
was built with the loot squeezed out of their pockets,
whin hiven knows that they wouldn't do enough
wurruk in tin thousand years to build wan side of
that fince.  Thin he says to 'em, 'What's the matter
wid yez is thot the railroad hires the haythins
instead of puttin' youse on the job'--as if those hoods
would lave town and lift pick and shovel on the
grade to save their sowls from the Ould Wan himself.
An' at last he says, 'I give the leprous corporation
jist thirty days to fire their haythin shovelers,
an' if they don't, I'll lade yez up here to hang
Stanford and Crocker out of their own windows, an'
burn their houses on top of thim.'  Thin some
drunken hood yells, 'Hang 'em now!'  An' with that
we clubs 'em good and hard.  Now we've got 'em on
the run, an' we've got ordhers to keep 'em on the run
till they've had enough."

"Was Kearney arrested?" I asked.

"I think not, sor, but some of the gang with him was."

"Is there any danger of an attack on the houses on
Van Ness Avenue?"

"It don't look so, sor.  The hoodlums don't seem
to be looking above wash-houses now, an' most of
thim are ready to hunt their holes.  Well, good night
to ye, sor.  I must head off this gang here."  And he
ran up Mason Street flourishing his club in chase of
a dozen venturesome boys.





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.. _`BIG SAM'S WARNING`:

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   CHAPTER XVII


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   BIG SAM'S WARNING

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With the deliquescence of the elements of disorder,
I was relieved of the immediate fear of danger
to Wharton Kendrick's place, and my thoughts
recurred to Parks.  From his sudden disappearance at
the rush of the police, I could scarce doubt that he
was under arrest, and the remembrance of Mercy's
anxious face turned my steps toward the Old City
Hall to learn the extent of his troubles, and the
chances of securing his release.

Kearny Street was thronged with groups of excited
men, and I approached the old municipal building
through a surging mob that was kept in motion
by the police.

"They've got Kearney in there!" cried a frenzied
follower of the agitators, pointing to the Old City
Hall.  "Let's take him out."

"No, they haven't!" called another.  "They didn't
dare arrest him."

A policeman brought down a club impartially on
the head of the inciter of disorder and the friend of
peace, with gruff orders to "Move on!"  And
through many difficulties I made my way to the door
on Merchant Street that opened to the City Prison.
The entrance was well guarded by several stout
policemen, but my card secured admission.  At the
inner gate, however, I was halted for a heart-searching
catechism as to my profession, standing, and
present purposes; but at last the gate swung open,
and I stood by the desk sergeant, and questioned him
in regard to the arrested.

A dozen men were being searched, and their torn
clothing and hard faces testified to the rough
treatment they had received--and earned.

"Parks?" said the desk sergeant, running his finger
down his list.  "He isn't booked under that name.
Look at Cell Three, and see if you find him there."  He
pointed across the passage where a crowd of
prisoners was herded behind bars, like wild
animals in the cages at a menagerie.  In the cage to
which he pointed, a score of rough men had been
thrust, and were glaring out fiercely or sullenly
according to their nature.  Parks was not among them,
and I was turning away with a sigh of relief, when
I heard my name called with unmistakable Chinese
intonation.

"Misseh Hampden!" called the voice once more,
and I turned to an adjoining cage to see a mixed
crowd of Chinese and whites seated on a bench in
sullen dejection.  Then the Chinaman nearest me
rose and came to the bars, and I recognized the
smiling Kwan Luey.

"Why, Kwan Luey!" I exclaimed.  "What are
you doing here?"

"Oh, p'liceman say catch-em play fan-tan my
place--bling-em jail--all same fool--bling Kwan Luey."

I recalled that keeping a gambling game was
supposed to be a part of Kwan Luey's multifarious
activities, and expressed my hope that this would be a
warning to him.

"Nev' mind," said Kwan Luey cheerfully.  "Plitty
soon my cousin him come bling bail--one hund'
dollah fo' me--ten dollah piecee fo' them."  And
Kwan Luey smiled with pride at the distinction
recognized in the disparity of the price of freedom.
"You catch-em letteh all same I lite-em?"

"I think I kept the letter," I said, remembering
the tangled verbiage that had called me to his store
to receive Big Sam's money under the disguise of a
prize in the lottery, and wondering what he could
want with it.

"No--no," he protested, catching the idea in my
mind.  "I lite-em new letteh.  You no get-em?"

"No."

Kwan Luey looked disappointed.

"Maybe you likee see Big Sam, eh?" he said with
an insinuating air.

"Oh, Big Sam wants to see me, does he?"

"You likee see Big Sam," repeated Kwan Luey
with the air of one stating a recognized fact.
"Maybe him show you how pick plenty good ticket, eh?"

"Does he want to see me to-night?"

"I no know--him no say.  Too many p'lice--too
many hoodlum--maybe you no likee," said Kwan
Luey, with a judicial view of the obstacles to an
interview with the King of Chinatown.

I decided that I would take the chances, though it
was approaching midnight, when my attention was
attracted by the voice of Parks, and I turned to see
him at the desk.  My heart sank with the thought of
Mercy's disappointment, when it was buoyed up once
more by the discovery that he was not in custody.
Instead of standing there a prisoner, he was piling
little stacks of gold before the desk sergeant, and I
divined that he was producing bail for those followers
who had been so unfortunate as to fall into the
hands of the police.  As he shoved the last of the
stacks across the desk and took the receipt that was
offered him, he caught sight of me.

"What brings you here?" he cried in surprise.

"I have come, like yourself, on an errand of
mercy.  But I am the one who has the greater reason
to be surprised."  I marveled at his rashness in
daring to enter the prison, and marveled still more that
he was not put under arrest where he stood.  Then
I reflected that it was most unlikely that the
policemen on guard at the prison had seen him at the Nob
Hill meeting or at the rescue of Merwin; and if his
description was on the books it was not definite
enough to serve for identification.

"By heavens!  They call this law!" he cried,
waving his hand around at the prison.  "Do you know,
sir, that they have set Baumgartner's bail at five
hundred dollars, and threaten to rearrest him as he sets
foot out of prison, if I secure his release with that sum!"

"Then I think you had better save your five hundred,"
I replied.

"You can take it coolly, Hampden, but I can't.  It
makes my blood boil.  If I had my way, I'd be here
taking these men out with ax and sledge, instead of
with gold.  I'd have done it anyhow if they had had
the courage to arrest Kearney.  They didn't dare!"  And
he looked threateningly around the prison, and
then counted the members of his band for whom the
authorities had accepted bail.  "Pass out," he said
to them, and as he brought up the rear of his party,
I followed him.  They were of the typical hoodlum
class, their insolence curbed for the moment by the
shadow of the prison, and they slouched with
resentful fear from the watchful eyes of the police.  One
figure among them stirred a dormant memory, and
then, as the band scattered in the street, I recalled to
mind the spy whose gift of an overcoat had opened
the door of the fates.  He was gone before I could
speak, and I turned to Parks.

"How did you escape arrest?" I asked.

"Escape!" cried Parks.  "I courted arrest, but the
coward hounds of aristocracy had not the courage to
lay hands on any of the leaders.  They know as well
as I that the wrath of an outraged people would not
leave one stone of the jail upon another, if they
ventured to seize Kearney, or even so humble a person
as I."

"To tell you the truth, I came down here expecting
to find you in custody, and to see what I could
do toward getting you out.  No, you needn't thank
me for it.  Give your thanks to a young lady who is
paying you the compliment of more worry than you
are worth.  I came to relieve her anxiety--not
yours."

Parks halted as we reached the corner of Merchant
and Kearny Streets, and I saw the tense and
angry lines soften on his face.

"Hampden, I won't pretend to misunderstand
you.  You're right.  I'm not worth her worry--nor
is any man.  I am grateful; but I tell you, as I tell
her, that our private interests, hopes, affections, are
nothing compared with the great cause of the people."

"Well, for her sake, I hope you'll keep out of jail."

Parks took off his hat, and shook his mane with
an angry nod.

"A few more days," he cried, "and this cowardly
set of time-servers will be begging my protection
instead of threatening my liberty."

"Are you ready to strike a blow?" I asked with
sudden interest.

"Never mind," he said darkly.  "We await only
the word from our brethren in the East.  You can
see the crisis approaching there.  The railroad strikes
have spread from the Atlantic to the Missouri.  The
frightened bloodsuckers of society are calling out
the troops in the desperate hope of prolonging their
hold on the labor and productive resources of the
country.  When the hour strikes--"

Parks had gradually raised his voice in oratorical
fervor, despite the nearness of the police headquarters,
but at this moment he was interrupted by a tall,
strong-faced man, who seized him by the shoulder
and whispered something in his ear.

"Hampden," said Parks, "I am called.  Will you
be kind enough to send word that I am safe?  I shall
see your friend to-morrow."  And with a nod he
plunged into the crowd that blocked Kearny Street
and disappeared.

At the drug store on the corner I scribbled a note
that should set Miss Fillmore's mind at rest, and
with some difficulty found a messenger who would
deliver it.  Then with misgivings I shouldered my
way through the crowd, crossed the Plaza, and
entered Chinatown.

The echoes of the Nob Hill meeting reverberated
here as well as about the Old City Hall, but with a
far different note.  In place of the illuminated streets,
the gay lanterns and the open doors of invitation of
other days, there were barred entrances everywhere;
the lights, where seen at all, flickered behind closed
shutters, and the darkened buildings were
surrounded with an atmosphere of sullen watchfulness.
There was evident fear that the meeting on the hill
was but the prelude to an attack on Chinatown, and
Chinatown was prepared.

The entrance to Big Sam'e house was closed and
barred, like the other doors of Waverly Place, but
lights shone through the chinks in the shutters, and
there were sounds of men stirring behind; so
without hesitation I gave a resounding rap on the panel.
The noises within ceased suddenly, but there was no
response to my summons.  I rapped again, and then
a third time, before a singsong voice cried through
the door:

"Wha' fo'?  What you wan'?"

"I want to see Big Sam," I explained.

"No catch-em Big Sam," returned the voice harshly.

"You tell Big Sam Mr. Hampden here to see
him," I cried.  "He send tell me come.  You sabby
tell him now--right away."

There was a sudden outbreak of Chinese voices in
argument and protest, and then silence followed for
so long that I was about to rap again, when the same
voice called through the door:

"How many you come?"

"One man."

There were sounds of a barricade removed, and
the door opened cautiously for a few inches while its
guardian reconnoitered.  Reassured by my solitary
figure, he stood aside for me to pass.

At the last moment my lagging judgment suggested
the folly of putting myself as a hostage in
the hands of the yellow men in such a time of storm.
But it was too late to retreat with honor, and I
slipped through the opening with all the boldness
and self-possession I could assume, and saw the door
bolted and barricaded against other intrusion.  I
looked narrowly about me.

Within the store that formed the entrance to Big
Sam's establishment were twenty or thirty Chinese,
and in the smoky light of the lamps I could distinguish
the expression of suspicion and hatred that
had escaped from behind the "no-sabby" mask of
the coolie.  The passions of the meeting on the hill
had stirred an answering passion in the breasts of
the yellow man, and I saw that in this place, at least,
he was armed and ready for battle.  The band
pretended to take no notice of me, but the running fire
of conversation that followed my entrance told me
by its unmistakable accents that my coming had
roused the instincts of combat, as the sight of the
prey rouses the hunting instincts of the tiger.

Without a word a Chinaman beckoned me to follow
him, and with some trepidation I stumbled up
the stair in his footsteps.  He stood aside at the
entrance to Big Sam's room of state, motioned me to
enter, and as I stepped in, he closed the door behind me.

For a moment I was disturbed to find that I was
the only person in the room, and looked about with
curiosity to know whether I was spied upon from
some hidden post of observation.  After my
experience on the previous visit, I could not doubt that
more than one hidden entrance led to the room, and
I suspected that more than one pair of eyes watched
me from hidden peep-holes.  The dark carved wood
of the furniture and walls, and the figures in the
intricately embroidered hangings glowered at me with
something of the repressed hostility of the guards
down-stairs.  The life and turmoil of the city from
which I had just come seemed already at a vast
distance from that oriental hall, and I could not but
reflect how easy it would be to make certain that I
never returned to the modern San Francisco that
seemed now to lie so far away.

With a discretion that would recommend me in
the eyes of any watcher, I took a chair far enough
from the desk to avoid the suspicion of a wish to
pry into Big Sam's papers, and surveyed the
apartment as I impatiently awaited the coming of its
owner.

Suddenly the voice of Big Sam sounded behind me.

"I am always glad to welcome Mr. Hampden--even
when he is the bearer of bad news."

I had heard no sound of his entry, and turned with
a start at his voice.  Then I exclaimed in surprise.
Instead of Big Sam, in his Chinese costume, I saw
an American gentleman regarding me with an
impassive face.  His light plaid suit was of fashionable
cut, and no detail of costume was wanting.  But for
the voice, I should have supposed, at first glance,
that another visitor had followed me into Big Sam's
reception-room, and it was only a closer look that
revealed the features of Big Sam himself.  A touch
of art had lightened the color of his skin, and only
the eyes and cheek-bones suggested his Asiatic origin.

"I hope it is no bad news that brings me," I said,
as Big Sam advanced to shake my hand.  "I think I
bring none myself."

Big Sam seated himself behind his desk, looking
incongruously out of place--a modern American as
master of an oriental domain.

"In this time of broils and alarms, one's first
thought must be of sudden evil," he said gravely.
"You may guess, by my disguise, I have been
observing how your people comport themselves when
they assemble to consider the interests of their race.
I have been much edified."

In his American dress, and with his perfect
command of English, I had no doubt that he might have
brushed shoulders with Kearney himself without
rousing suspicion of his nationality.

"It has been an inspiring evening," I replied with
a gravity equal to his own.  "I see you have prepared
for trouble."

"I am not insensible to the advantages or rights
of self-defense," he said dryly.  "But I trust that you
have found nothing incorrect in our attitude--if I
may borrow a phrase from your diplomats.  I would
be unwilling to take any course objectionable to the
country that is my host--possibly a somewhat
unwilling host, if I may judge by the words I have
heard to-night."  Big Sam looked at me with the
inscrutable irony of the Orient.

"I can see no ground for complaint," I replied.  "I
have come to learn, not to reprove or to warn."

"I am, as ever, at your service."

"I was happy enough to meet our estimable friend
Kwan Luey--under somewhat difficult and depressing
circumstances, I may add--and he was so
insistent in his assumption that I wished to see you
that I thought it wise to test his theory before I went
to sleep."

The shadow of a smile swept across Big Sam's face.

"Kwan Luey has his moments of divination," he
said, and then fell silent.

"May I inquire what particularly I wished to see
you about?" I asked at last.

Big Sam's eyes studied me keenly.

"I warned you--not so long ago, Mr. Hampden--that
strange events were preparing in your city.
May I ask what is now your opinion on them?  I am
interested to hear."

"I must congratulate you on the accuracy of your
information, though I am still at a loss to surmise
why you should have been selected for the
confidence.  And as for the disorders, they are but a
temporary effervescence, which will die away, or be
suppressed.  But there is one thing permanent about
them.  They are a crude expression of the resolve of
our race to hold the continent for itself."

"Crude indeed!" said Big Sam with energy.  "And
will destroy itself by its own violence.  I have here a
paper showing the sentiment of your people in the
Eastern States.  It makes a protest against the policy
that would exclude us."

"I shan't begrudge you the pleasure you can get
out of that sort of comment.  But I can assure you
that race feeling will prevail."

"Over private interest?  I believe not.  And the
private interest of your governing classes is with
the free admission of my people.  But enough of that.
Where is your charge--and mine--Moon Ying?"

He threw this question at me as though he hoped to
surprise some admission.

"She is still with Miss Kendrick."

"What arrangements have you made to protect her?"

"Protect her?  From what?  Are the highbinders
so desperate as to think of attacking Mr. Kendrick's
house?  I trust you will warn them that this would
be something far more serious than all Kearney's
oratory.  It would mean the destruction of Chinatown."

"I understand you," said Big Sam suavely.  "I
have no doubt that an attack by the tongs on
Mr. Kendrick's house would bring a terrible reprisal.
Fortunately there are few among my people who do
not understand that quite as well as you."

"Nevertheless there is something you fear," I
said, as Big Sam hesitated.

"You must understand, Mr. Hampden, that this
girl is a very desirable piece of property.  There is
her money value, which is considerable.  And there
is the further consideration that the possession of
her would give a tong a certain power and distinction.
The contest has come to be a point of honor--or
perhaps you would say dishonor.  At all events
the tongs have not ceased to plan to recover her,
and I have information that the Hop Sing Tong has
devised a plan to seize her by force.  It would, of
course, be suicide for them to carry out the plan
themselves.  But what they can not do themselves
can be done by white men.  Your race is not more
scrupulous than mine, Mr. Hampden.  I have reason
to believe that the Hop Sing Tong has found a gang
of white men who are ready, for a money consideration,
to break into Mr. Kendrick's house and carry
off the girl."

This warning struck me with the force of a
physical blow.  It was scarcely possible that Big
Sam could be mistaken, and I must reckon on the
attack as an imminent danger.  And in swift
imagination I could hear the screams of Laura Kendrick
and Mercy Fillmore joining those of Moon Ying,
as they struggled in the grasp of ruffians, and could
see the crackling flames as the raiders left destruction
behind them.

"I have had reason to-night to surmise that something
was afoot," I said, "but I did not suspect this."  And
then I retailed to Big Sam the story of the visit
of the old Chinaman, the attack of the three raiders
of the early morning, and the questioning of the
mysterious tramp.

"The old man is Chung Toy, sometimes known to
your people as 'Little John.'  He was, you will
remember, the custodian of the girl.  He is now in the
employ of the Hop Sings.  The white men I can
suppose were spies, sent to reconnoiter, though I
am puzzled about the morning raiders."

"Does your information go so far as to suggest
when the attack will be made?"

"No."

"And have you any word of advice?"

"Advice?  Yes.  I should advise that you return
the girl to my custody.  I confess that she would be
an embarrassment--"

"You will not be put in any such awkward position,"
I interrupted.  "I can speak for Miss Kendrick,
and say that she will keep the girl till the conditions
are fulfilled."

"Then," said Big Sam composedly, "I leave to
your best judgment the way to meet the danger."  And
with a bow that signified the end of the interview,
he clapped his hands, and a young Chinaman
appeared to conduct me down the stairs.  And as I
passed the sullen guards, and heard the door bolted
and barred behind me, I admired the diplomacy with
which Big Sam had washed his hands of his
responsibilities, and left them to me.





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.. _`LITTLE JOHN AS A MAN OF ACTION`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII


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   LITTLE JOHN AS A MAN OF ACTION

.. vspace:: 2

Big Sam's warning was enough to drive me once
more to the Kendrick house to make certain that all
was secure.  I could suppose, from his words, that he
did not expect an immediate attack, yet it was by
no means unlikely that Little John's ruffians would
take advantage of the disorders of the night to make
their attack.  But all was quiet in the neighborhood,
and Andrews reported nothing more threatening
than a few disorderly hoodlums who had gone
shouting past an hour or two before.

I confided to Andrews the warning of an intended
attack, and directed him to engage six men instead
of the two I had previously ordered.

"I think I can find the right sort," he said.
"There's some boys I used to know up in Nevada
when we were holding down some claims against
big odds.  Six of 'em would chew up a hundred of
these cigarette-smoking hoods."  And he told with
keen enjoyment of the adventurous days of the
claim-jumpers, when a man's life and property depended
on his strength and courage and sureness of aim.

I paced the watch with him till the stars began to
pale before the coming day, and then gladly sought
home and bed.  My sleep was troubled with vague,
indefinable dreams of coming danger, and it was late
when I rose with the presentiment that a crisis was
approaching.

It was a Sunday morning, yet the apprehensions
roused by my dreams found abundant reinforcement
when I was once more astir.  The echoes from the
Nob Hill meeting were still to be heard in the city,
rousing apprehension among the orderly.  The newspapers
treated it as the sensation of the day, yet, from
their comments, I saw that they had no conception
of the real designs that lay behind the activity of the
anti-coolie agitators.  Clark reported to me that the
Council of Nine had been in session till long after
midnight, and that the anti-coolie clubs had been
ordered to hold daily drills.  One of the two spies who
were detailed to keep watch on Peter Bolton came
at noon with the report that Bolton had reached his
office before seven o'clock in the morning, where he
had received a visit from Waldorf, Parks and
Reddick, the three most active members of the Council.
As they left Bolton's office, Reddick had been heard
to say, "Before the week ends, we shall be masters
of the city."  And as a final fillip to anxiety, I found
at my office a tangle-worded letter, which I
recognized as the product of Kwan Luey's pen, that
recalled the warnings I had received from Big Sam.

With this accumulation of mental disturbance, I
took my way at last to the Kendrick house, to lay
the tale of impending dangers before my client, and
to give hint to the young ladies of the need for caution.

On my arrival, I found the house in confusion.
There was sound of excited voices within, and, as I
touched the bell, a servant rushed out and down the
steps without taking time to close the door.  I
entered without ceremony, and a moment later met
Laura Kendrick coming down the stairs, her face
clouded with fear and indignation.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" she said with a
gasp of relief, and the look of fear faded out of her
eyes.  "We've been scared out of a year's growth,
and it's one of the mercies of Providence that we
haven't lost Moon Ying.  It's not often I've wanted
to be a policeman, but I did to-day."

"Well, I'll be your policeman, if you'll only tell
me what it's all about."

"It's a comfort to have you say so, but I'm afraid
you're too late.  He must be ever so far away by this
time."

"Who is it?  What has happened?" I demanded eagerly.

"Somebody tried to steal Moon Ying--that's what
has happened," said Laura Kendrick indignantly.

"Who did it?  When?  Did they attack the
house?" I cried, startled at the promptness with
which my warnings had been fulfilled.

"Come right up-stairs," said Laura, impulsively
seizing my arm and leading me.  "You shall hear at
first-hand for yourself."

This sudden captivity gave me so pleasant a thrill
that for a moment I forgot Moon Ying and my
responsibilities, and betrayed such inclination to loiter
that I was sharply ordered to "walk faster."  So in a
minute or two I found myself entering a room where
Moon Ying, with pale and frightened face, leaned
back among the pillows that covered a reclining
chair, and Mercy Fillmore, at Moon Ying's side,
looked at us with anxious eyes.

"This is Mr. Hampden, Moon Ying--the man
who rescued you from Chinatown," said Laura.
"Tell him what happened to you."

Moon Ying's resources of English were scant at
best, and between fright, excitement and shyness, it
took much prompting and explanation from Laura
and Mercy before her story was fairly begun.  But
when all the tangled threads were straightened out
the tale ran thus:

Moon Ying had of late spent an hour or two in
the middle of the day, taking the air and the sun, on
the lawn behind the house.  An hour before she had
been assisted to her sunny corner by Mercy, who
had, after a time, returned to the house.  Suddenly
the back gate had opened, and a Chinaman had
slipped in.

"How many?" I demanded.

"One--jus' one," replied Moon Ying.

"How him look?"

"Him small man--old man--all same Chung Toy
you one time see," said Moon Ying in her plaintive
voice.

The picture of Little John with his wizened face,
his white, horse-hair mustache and his scant
chin-whiskers, rose before me.

"Did he come alone?" I asked, incredulous of his
boldness in venturing thus by himself.

"Him say two men come 'longside him, but I no
see.  Him talk velly soft--say I come Chinatown,
him makee me velly nice dless--get velly fine
house--find me velly good husband.  I tell him go 'way, I
too muchee sabby him.  One time I thlink him good
man--now I heap sabby him tell big lie--no got nice
dless--no got fine house--no got good husband--I
all time stlay Miss Kenlick.  Him get velly mad--him
say velly bad thling.  Then him say I no go
alongside him, two men come takee me so--" and
Moon Ying raised her pretty little hands and gripped
fiercely at the air, with the motion of one throttling
a victim.

"What you do then?"

"I cly velly loud--likee so--" and Moon Ying let
out a feminine screech that caused Laura and Mercy
to cover their ears.  "Then Chung Toy catchee me,
so--," and she seized her arm roughly,--"put hand
so--," and she covered her mouth with her palm.  "I
cly one time again.  Miss Kenlick come.  Miss Muh
See come.  One man come.  Chung Toy him lun away."

"Did you see him?" I asked of Laura.

"Indeed I did; and I could have caught him, too,
if I hadn't been such a goose as to be scared into a
graven image.  But by the time I came to life he was
out of the gate.  But it was the same man who was
here last evening; and if he had any one with him,
they took precious good care not to show themselves.
He went in such a hurry that he left behind him a
peddler's basket.  It had a few silk handkerchiefs in
it.  I suppose he was going to make them an excuse,
if he had been stopped on coming in."

"Where were my men?  There should have been
two of them on hand to stop such fellows.  I must
look into this."  And the spirit of judgment rose
stern within me.

"Well," said Laura, "there was one of your men
here, and the other was sick, so you needn't look so
cross.  This one was at the front of the house, and
he ran around to the back at Moon Ying's scream.
When he got there that awful creature was out of
the yard, so I got him to help us carry Moon Ying
into the house.  Then he went out the back gate, but
by that time there was no heathen in sight anywhere.
But I've sent one of the servants for the police and
the doctor, and I want your miserable Chung Toy
put in jail where he'll be out of mischief."  And she
gave her head a determined nod, as though his fate
were settled beyond recall.

"I'll have a warrant out before night," I said, with
anger tingling in my nerves, "and he'll be laid by the
heels in the City Prison if he dares show himself on
the street."

"I don't think jail is a very good place, even for
bad people," said Mercy, "for it makes them worse;
but I shall feel easier if that man is locked up.  It is
too dangerous to have him at large."

"I suppose you don't need any instructions," I
said, "but I'll venture to suggest that Moon Ying
had better take the air from an up-stairs window for
a few days."

"I hope we have sense enough to know that
much," returned Laura soberly, "though I don't
blame you for thinking we haven't.  I shan't dare let
her out of doors unless there's a regiment of soldiers
about the house."

"I'll have a few more men here to-morrow; but
you'd better keep her in till I give the word that all
is safe."

Laura Kendrick looked sharply at me.

"You needn't try to hide it," she said.  "I see in
your face that there's something more you're afraid
of, and you'd better tell it now rather than later."

"I wasn't intending to conceal it.  In fact, I was
going to warn you against letting strange white men
into the house.  I've had a warning that leads me to
believe that the fellow who was here asking
questions yesterday is one of a gang hired by the
highbinders to recover Moon Ying.  They are much more
dangerous than Little John, but if we don't give
them a chance they won't hurt us."

Moon Ying had followed our conversation with
eager attention; and though many of the words were
beyond her understanding, she had caught the
meaning of what we said.

"Too bad--too velly bad," she said, with sudden
resolution evident in her face.  "Bad man come,
makee you 'flaid, maybe shoot.  I go 'way, bad man
no come."

"Indeed you shan't go away," cried Laura.
"There's no place on earth you could be safe, even if
we did let you go."

"I go Big Sam.  Him velly big man.  No bad man
catch-em me in Big Sam's house.  No bad man
catch-em you when me-gone."

At these words, Laura impulsively flung her arms
about Moon Ying.

"You dear creature!" she cried.  "Nobody shall
hurt you here--and nobody will hurt us, either.  My
uncle can protect you much better than Big Sam,
and Big Sam himself has said so."

Moon Ying tried to express more fully her fear
that her presence brought danger to the household,
but her language was unequal to her thought, and
Laura and Mercy both talked at once to assure her
that they feared nothing, and would refuse to give
her up, even though all the tongs of Chinatown
should come in force to demand her; so Moon Ying
at last with a sigh of grateful content said:

"I likee stay--I likee you."  And Laura on one
side, and Mercy on the other, twined their arms
about her with a laugh that was almost a sob.

It was a pretty picture of the sisterhood of
Occident and Orient, and I admired it, with something
of the feminine emotions raising a lump in my
throat, when I was observed by the lady of the house.

"Go away," she said.  "This is no place for
men."  And in spite of my remonstrance that I was in
perfect harmony with my surroundings, I was driven
forth, and went down-stairs to find Wharton
Kendrick taking a Sunday afternoon nap in his den.

He gave me a sleepy greeting, but roused himself
to attention at my account of the Nob Hill meeting,
the midnight session of the Council of Nine, the
morning meeting in Bolton's office, and the warning
from Big Sam.

"Hm-m!  Well, put on enough watchmen to see
that we don't wake up to find our throats cut," he
said.  "I dare say P. Bolton is egging them on all
around to do something for their money.  But so far
as the business goes, I think I've got everything
shipshape and ready for storm.  The syndicate is
strong enough to protect the market, and the police
can handle the Cheap John revolution, and I don't
believe anybody is going to attack the house; so
there's nothing to worry about.  But you'd better
keep in touch with your anarchist friends a little
closer than you've been doing.  If we can get
warning over night of any particular deviltry they are
going to start, it might be worth a hundred thousand
dollars.  Hallo! what's this?" he cried as a servant
brought him a card.  "Show him in."  And before I
could escape, General Wilson bustled through the
door, his ruddy face aglow in the frame of his
bristling yellow-gray side-whiskers, and his short stout
frame radiating energy at every step.

"Why, God bless my soul!  Kendrick--Hampden--I
find you with your heads together like a pair of
conspirators in the theater.  Hope I don't interrupt.
It does me good, Hampden, to see you youngsters
pulling along in double harness with the war-horses
like Kendrick and me; and you can't find a better one
to pull with than Kendrick; he's the salt of the
earth."

I professed myself glad to see the general, and
Wharton Kendrick greeted him jovially.

"I don't believe in doing business on Sunday,"
said General Wilson.  "In fact, I lost a million-dollar
trade with Jim Fisk once, because I wouldn't sign
the contract on the Sabbath, and on Monday Jim
was chasing after something else.  But I thought
you'd like to know that I got a telegram from my
people about that swamp-land deal.  Here it is, and
you see they'll come up to that eight hundred thousand
dollar offer.  That's the limit, and it won't last
long at that.  I don't like to boast, Kendrick, but I'll
tell you that there isn't another man on the footstool
that could have got 'em up to that point--I'm the
only one that could do it; and, by George, I'm
astonished at my own success, the way things are
looking in the East with those confounded railroad
strikes and rumors of riot.  Now, I want you to
understand that I'm not asking you to take up with the
offer to-day, for of course you remember the
Sabbath just as I do.  But you can have a good chance
to think it over.  You know well enough that you're
going to take the offer, so I'll warn you that I'll drop
around in the morning and get your acceptance."

"Hold on, hold on, Wilson.  You're running as
wild as a mustang colt.  I'm not so sure about this
thing.  I've got to have more time to consider it.  I
said I'd let you have the land for eight hundred and
fifty thousand, but I believe I'm a fool to let it go
for any such figure.  However, I'll let it stand for a
couple of days.  I've got some affairs booked for
to-morrow that will take all my time.  But if you'll
come in on Tuesday with your eight hundred and
fifty thousand you can have the land.  After that it'll
cost you more."

"Kendrick, I'll wait another day for you, if I have
to telegraph that I've broken a leg.  Business, sir, is,
next to war, man's most important pursuit; but even
business must give way to the call of friendship.
You'll see me coming into your office on Tuesday
morning, Kendrick, like a conquering hero, ready to
receive your sword--or your pen, which is mightier
yet--but at eight hundred thousand, mind you."

"Come, come, Wilson, you're getting ahead of
your horses," said Kendrick with a laugh.  "I'm
thinking of getting up a company to reclaim those
lands, and if I conclude to do it, I won't sell for
double the money."

"Talk as long as you like, Kendrick; but I've got
a sixth sense that tells me when a bargain's made,
and it never fails me.  I can tell, nine times out of
ten, when the other fellow has concluded to take my
figures before he knows it himself, and that gift has
saved me a pretty penny more than once.  Why,
when the Ohio Midland was enlarging its Chicago
terminal, there was one piece we had to have--but
the story's too long to tell.  However, I made a
hundred thousand dollars the best of the bargain by
knowing what the other fellow was going to do
before he knew it himself."

Wharton Kendrick gave a hearty laugh at General
Wilson's diplomacy.

"Well, I shall take warning by that and hold out
for my hundred thousand--or, I should say, fifty
thousand, as I've given you a price."

"You're getting your extra hundred thousand
with the price I'm offering you," said the general
testily, "and I know well enough you'll not be fool
enough to refuse it, especially after such a row as
you had on Nob Hill last night.  I hope my New
York clients don't hear of it, or everything will be
off.  I was there, sir, and of all the howling mobs I
ever saw, this beat anything since the draft riots.
Why, sir, that blatant beast, Kearney, shouted arson
and manslaughter, and another fellow called for the
overturn of society, and if it hadn't been for the
police, I believe they would have worked up the crowd
to the point of blood-letting."  Then General Wilson
went at such length into the proper methods of
handling mobs that I seized upon a favorable moment to
slip out the door.

As I left the boom-boom of General Wilson's
voice behind me, I caught sight of Mercy Fillmore's
perplexed and anxious face.

"Oh, I thought you had gone," she said, "but I'm
glad you haven't, for I want to thank you for your
thoughtful note of last night.  And now Mr. Parks
has sent me word that he is too busy to come up this
afternoon, and I was wondering how I could get a
few lines to him.  I am so afraid he is planning
something very reckless--something that will get him
into trouble.  If I did not fear that he would be
angry, I should go down and speak to him myself."

"If that is all that's worrying you, I'll see that
he gets your letter--that is, if you can give me any
idea where he is to be found."

"He wrote that he should be detained all the
afternoon at Mr. Blasius' place, with some very important
committee meetings."  The idea of Mercy's seeking
Parks in the House of Blazes struck me as slightly
amusing, but I forebore to enlighten her as to the
social position of H. Blasius, and she continued:
"Now if you know where that is, you might send
one of your men down there with this note."  And
she handed me an envelope addressed to "Mr. Gerald
Parks."  "You are sure it is not asking too much
of you?  I hope you are enough interested in him to
wish to keep him from trouble."

I assured her that I was glad to be of service, and
she thanked me with a dash of color in her pale face.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MISCHIEF AFOOT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   MISCHIEF AFOOT

.. vspace:: 2

My first thought in accepting Mercy Fillmore's
commission had been to intrust her letter to one of
my men.  But once outside the house, it dawned upon
me that I held in my hand a provident excuse to seek
the conspirators in their lair.  The hint by which
Parks had roused such enviable anxiety corroborated
the information I had received from my spy service.
The campaign of action was evidently at hand, and
I might possibly learn from a personal visit what I
could not learn through others--provided I could
pass unchallenged through the doors of the House of
Blazes.  The letter I held was a card of admission
certain to be honored, if Parks were there.  For the
rest, chance must serve to expose or to conceal the
plans that were keeping the agitators' committees in
prolonged session.

H. Blasius received me with reserve born of
suspicion, and his bleary eyes searched my face coldly
at my name and my demand for Parks.

"Meestaire Park?  Why do you want him?" he
inquired at last.

"I have a very important message for him," I replied.

"Gif to me ze message," said Blasius.  "When
Meestaire Park he come, he shall have it."

"I couldn't give it to you," I said.  "I am to
deliver it into his hands only.  And I can tell you that
he will be very angry if there's any delay about it."

H. Blasius' pasty face took on an expression of
dismay at the thought of an angry Parks, and with
a grumbling of French interjections that suggested
the cracking of his ill-regulated internal machinery,
he waddled to a doorway at the end of the bar, and
disappeared up a box stairway.

I looked around the saloon at the dozen or more
men who lounged about in varying degrees of
alcoholic stupefaction, and had just noted a group of
men half concealed at a table at the farther end of
the L of the room, when a rapid step descended the
stairs, and Parks appeared.

"Hampden!" he cried, shaking my hand.  "What
can I do for you?  It is a surprise to see you here."

"If I need an apology for intruding, here is a good
one."  And I held out Mercy's letter.

Parks seized it with a start of emotion as he
recognized the handwriting, looked about with apparent
thought of the profanation of reading Mercy's words
in that place, and then giving me a nod to follow
him, strode to a secluded table and opened the letter.
His face lost something of its aggressive resolution
as he read and re-read the pages.

"Hampden," he said in a softened voice, "did you
ever realize that the sympathies of women are
individual and concrete?  The welfare of the masses is
but a shadow to them, except as they see it through
some one they know and care for.  Here my petty
personal welfare is put before the interests of the
whole people!"  And he laid a monitory finger on
the letter.  "I am asked to give up an enterprise of
the greatest moment lest I shall get my head cracked
or be thrown into prison."

"Would you have her think otherwise?"

He looked at the letter without answering.  Then
he thrust it into his pocket, gave his head a shake,
and his face was once more dominated by the
aggressive spirit of the agitator.

"I don't deny it is pleasant to be considered worth
a moment of anxiety; but it is weakening to the
resolution.  It is something that must have no part
in my life."

"Good heavens, Parks!  You don't mean to say
that you would give up the chance to get a girl like
Mercy Fillmore, just for the sake of making speeches
about--"  It was on the tip of my tongue to say
"the riffraff," but in deference to the prejudices of
my listener, I ended weakly with "--people who
don't care a snap of their fingers for you?"

Parks was silent for some seconds, and he studied
the table with a far-away look in his eyes.

"Do you think I have a chance?" he asked.

"Great Scott, man, how much encouragement do
you want?  Why, if a young lady I could name--and
won't--showed half as much interest in my personal
safety as this girl is showing in yours, I'd be
down on my knees at once."

He looked in my eyes, with something of frank
boyishness, for the first time, showing under the
enthusiast and dreamer.

"I don't mind confessing to you, Hampden, that
I've been in love with that girl ever since we were
school children together.  But I think you overestimate
her interest in me.  She is a very sympathetic
person, and--"  He did not finish the sentence, but
gave his hand a wave that made her anxieties
include the entire circle of her acquaintance.  "It was
her work among the suffering poor that led me to
the studies that have shown me the rights of man
and the wrongs of society.  But, I have resolved,
Hampden, before I say a word, to accomplish
something--to make myself known--to strike a blow for
the regeneration of mankind that shall make the
nations ring."

His voice had risen in the oratorical fervor of his
last sentence, until it attracted attention from the
group at the lower end of the room, and a chorus of
voices called "Parks!  Parks!"

"Here!" responded Parks.  "What's wanted?"  And
rising, with a wave of the hand that summoned
me to follow him, he strode to the farther end of the
L where a group of five or six men sat around a
table.

.. _`Five or six men sat around a table`:

.. figure:: images/img-242.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Five or six men sat around a table

   Five or six men sat around a table

Dominating the group, I recognized Denis
Kearney, talking with grandiose bonhomie to his
companions.  There was a self-satisfied look on his
face, and something of arrogance was added to his
bearing.  A brief experience of public applause had
banished the simplicity from his countenance, and in
its place had come the indefinable lines of calculation,
ambition and authority.  He was leaning back
in his tilted chair, but came to his feet as we
approached.  He shook hands warmly with Parks, and
remembered me as though he were conferring a favor.

"I've shaken thousands of hands this day," he said
as he gave me a grip.  "It's harder worrk than
hefting barrels, but it's worrk in a good cause.  We'll
drive the haythins into the say in a month."

Parks introduced me with a wave of the hand to
the men about the table, and Kearney continued:

"Well, we'd better be thinkin' of the program for
to-morrow night, and how to get our tarriers out.
I've got something to say about the police interferin'
with our meeting last night that ought to raise
the timperature about forty degrees."

"I've been thinking about the speeches," said
Parks, "and I've concluded it's time to swing 'em
round."

"Swing 'em round to what?" demanded a tall
man with a black mustache, who had been
introduced to me as Enos.

"The overthrow of capitalism," responded Parks,
his face aglow.  "The Chinese cry is a good thing to
rouse 'em with, but the Chinese question is only a
little corner of the real issue before the people.
Capitalism, plutocracy--these must be put down before
the people can come to their rights, and it's time we
told 'em so."

There was a minute of silence, and the agitators
looked about the table as if each sought to read the
others' thoughts.

"That's all well enough, Parks," said Kearney at
last, "but we've tried 'em on that, an' it's no go.
Whin I tell 'em the haythin is taking the bread out
of their mouths and ivery pigtail ought to be driven
into the say, they holler till I can't hear me own
voice.  But whin I tell thim that society has got to
be reorganized, an' that times will niver be right till
the collective capital of the nation is administhered
by the nation's ripresintatives--those are the worrds,
aren't they, Parks?--they shake their heads and say,
'What th' divil is he dhrivin' at?'  I can git five
thousand men to follow me to Chinatown to-night to
burn the haythin out if I but say th' worrd, but I
couldn't git fifty to follow me to the City Hall to
turn th' mayor out."

The others nodded assent to Kearney's words; but
Parks' face had been growing blacker and blacker,
and now he broke forth impetuously:

"By heavens!  If they don't see their own interests,
they must be made to see them.  What are our
tongues given us for but to tell them of the things
they can't see for themselves?  The wrong, degradation
and poverty we see about us are no more due
to the petty evils of Chinese competition than to the
wearing of machine-made shoes.  They are due to
the control of industry by capital--to the system that
puts a thousand men to work for the benefit of one
man instead of for the benefit of all men.  The
Chinese now do injure the white man.  But you put the
capital and labor of the nation under control of the
nation's representatives, and the labor of the Chinese
would injure nobody--would help instead of hurt.
The more the Chinaman produced, the more there
would be to divide, and the less the Chinaman lived
on, the more there would be for the rest of us.  We
must make capital the servant, not the master, of
mankind.  Wipe out the old system!  Bring in the
new!"  Parks had grown more and more excited as
he talked, and his hair stood out aggressively from
the emphatic nods with which he had pointed his
declamation.

"Do you mean that you want us to start a
rebellion?" growled Enos.

"Successful rebellions are revolutions," cried
Parks, "and it is a revolution that society demands."

"Well, society isn't demanding it out loud," said
Kearney.

"We must work through the ballot-box," said
Enos, "we must keep within the law."

At this word there was a harsh croak behind me,
and I turned to see the white pasty face of H. Blasius
gloating over us, his fat forefinger pointed at Enos.

"Law!" he cried.  "It is ze superstition of *politique*
imposed on us by ze capitalist, as ze superstition
of moral is imposed on us by ze priest.  When
we say *Non*--no more for us--zen it is gone--we
are free.  Let us say *Pouf!* away! we make laws to
suit ourself.  Eh, *mes braves*?"

"Pooh!" said Enos.  "You're talking nonsense."

"Nonsense?  *Poltron*!" answered Blasius with
contempt.  "It take but a few barricade and two free
t'ousand men to defend zem, and--*boum*!  We have
ze city.  I was of ze Commune, and I tell you so.
And instead of *Marchons*, you say Nonsense.  Eh-h,
cowarrd!"

Enos jumped to his feet, his dark face flushing
angrily.  His fists were doubled, and if Blasius had
been a younger man, I should have witnessed the
beginning of civil war in the camp of the agitators.
But Enos held his arm before the gray hairs of the
ex-Communard, and before the quarrel could be
warmed by further words, there was an interruption
that turned all thoughts from private disputes.  A
man burst through the swinging doors of the saloon
and ran down to our table.

"Waldorf!" cried Parks.

I looked with interest at this leader of the Council
of Nine--a tall, large-faced man, whose square jaw,
spare cheeks, and bulging brows gave promise of
force.

"It has come!" he cried.

"What?" cried Parks, springing to his feet.  "The
word from the brethren?"

"Just as good," said Waldorf, waving a newspaper
excitedly before the group.  "See this!"  And as
he unfolded the sheet we could see the printed
announcement of an extra edition.

Parks seized the paper, and cried out the headlines:

"Riot and Bloodshed--Pittsburgh in Flames--Railroad
Shops Wrecked by a Furious
Mob--Troops Cooped up in the Roundhouse and Compelled
to Surrender!  Fighting in Baltimore.  Mob Law
Rules a Dozen Cities."

The men about the table looked at one another in
silence, and the pallor of fear or excitement spread
upon their faces.

"That's the signal," said Waldorf.  "I wish we
were better prepared."

"Prepare'!" cried Blasius scornfully.  "We need
no more.  We have arrms.  We can make ze barricade.
We have leaders--plans.  All we need is ze
brave heart, and--*boum*!--we arre ze government!"

"What are you going to do?" asked Kearney uneasily.
I saw that he was not in the full confidence of
the Council of Nine, and was disturbed at this
glimpse of its plans.

"Here's what we are going to do," said Parks,
who had resumed his seat and scribbled a few words
on a sheet of paper.  "This news settles the plans for
to-morrow night's meeting, and this is the way we'll
call it."  And he read out his composition with
fervor:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center

   NOTICE OF MEETING

.. vspace:: 1

The working-men and women of San Francisco will meet en
masse this (Monday) evening, at 7:30, on the City Hall lots,
to express their sympathy and take other action in regard to
their fellow workmen at Pittsburgh and Baltimore.  Prominent
speakers will address the meeting.  By order of

.. vspace:: 1

COMMITTEE.

.. vspace:: 2

"Hm-m!" said Kearney, with no evidence of
enthusiasm in his tone.  "That'll bring 'em out, I
suppose."

"Just the thing!" said Waldorf, with warm
appreciation of his colleague's work.  "It should call
out every man and woman who is in sympathy with
the oppressed toilers.  'To express sympathy and
take other action in regard to their fellow
workmen.'  That's well put, Parks."

"What other action are you going to take?" asked
Enos suspiciously.

"Come to the meeting and see," said Parks.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE SAND-LOTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   ON THE SAND-LOTS

.. vspace:: 2

City Hall Avenue and the vacant lots below it
bustled with the activity of an arriving circus.  Two
bonfires blazing fiercely sent the crackling sparks
flying skyward, and cast so warm a glow on the faces
of those who approached them, that even the small
boys, who dared one another to feed the flames,
shielded their eyes with uplifted arm, and made their
bows before the altar of the God of Fire in reverse
of the customary attitude of respect.

A wooden platform had been erected near the
lower end of the triangle of vacant lots, and a row
of gasoline torches blazed about it.  Groups of men
were gathered here and there about the sandy space,
listening to impromptu orators arguing in dissonant
chorus over the significance of the eastern riots, or
denouncing the Chinese as the source of all
industrial and social woes.

The groups were in a state of flux, swelling where
the voices rose loudest, and melting away where the
discussion sank to a conversational monotone.  But
the most active elements of the crowd were the bands
of young men, hardly more than boys, who formed
into gangs of ten to twenty, and roughly pushed and
jostled their way through the crowd with cries that
indicated their disesteem for the Chinese, their
regard for Kearney and for the Pittsburgh rioters, and
their especial disapproval of the police.

Behind the bonfires and torches, the dark groups
and eddying streams of men, rose the half-built New
City Hall.  Touched here and there with the red
glow of the bonfires in front, and framed in
silhouette by the dying shimmer of the sunset behind,
it looked like some ancient, majestic ruin--far
different in outline from the ruin it was to become, when
thirty years later it was racked by earthquake, and
swept by a mighty conflagration--yet one that
furnished a striking background for the turbulent scene
enacted before it.

As I entered the crowded space from the Market
Street side, I had noted these details before I
discovered Parks standing by the platform and glancing
impatiently about him.

"Hampden," he cried, "I am glad to see that you
have joined this great outpouring of the people.  You
shall have a seat with me on the platform."

"I wouldn't miss the fun for fifteen cents.  But
what are you going to do?  What's your plan?"

"We shall follow the wishes of our fellow-citizens,"
said Parks, with a nod of mystery, importing
designs that could not be revealed until the moment
of execution.  "But the first thing is to have the
speeches delivered, and we are away behind time.
The meeting ought to have been called to order
twenty minutes ago, but the procession is late, of
course.  I never knew one that wasn't."  And he
looked irritably into Market Street, and made some
unfavorable comments on the marshals of the parade.

"Here it comes now!" exclaimed another member
of the group, as a blare of horns, the thump of a
drum and a confused sound of cheering disturbed
the air.

The procession soon came into sight as it
advanced up Market Street and turned into the
sand-lots.  At its head marched a brass band, and
scattered here and there in the trailing line were a
few hundred torches--spoil from the election
campaign of the preceding year.  While the attention of
all was fixed on the manoeuvers of the marching
clubs, I felt my sleeve plucked, and turned to find
Clark beside me.  Without looking at me he slipped
a piece of paper into my hand, and moved away.  I
held the paper under one of the gasoline torches, and
read:

.. vspace:: 2
   
Some mischief ahead.  Jim Morgan has been hiring men.
Had 20 or 30 young fellows cooped up near hdqrs. this p.m.
They are marching up with the clubs.

.. vspace:: 2

I puzzled for a little over the particular variety of
mischief that was imported by this activity of
Bolton's agent, and then stepping behind Clark, said:

"Keep as close to the gang as you can.  If you find
out what they are up to, bring me word at once.  I'll
be on the platform here."

Without appearing to notice me, Clark gave a
signal that he understood, and as he moved away
Parks tapped me on the shoulder.

"Here!  We must start this thing now," he said.
"We're over half an hour late.  Come up on the
platform.  Where in the name of Halifax can Kearney
be?  He hasn't come up with the clubs, and he hasn't
sent any word."

I suggested the theory of sickness.

"He's sick of the job--that's my opinion," said
Parks savagely.  "He's full of fighting talk when
there's no trouble in sight, but when there's a chance
to strike a blow for the people, he's for hanging back.
He hasn't had any ginger in his talk about this
meeting.  You heard him last night.  He was about as
warm as a fish then, and his pulse has been going
down ever since.  Well, we can't wait any longer, so
here goes."  And pushing to the front of the platform,
he pounded on an improvised desk and called
for order.

It was by the eye rather than by the ear that he
caught the attention of the throng, for in the babel
of amateur oratory that filled the square, his voice
was lost.  But at his appeals, silence spread in
concentric rings about the platform, until the arguing
groups melted into the mass of humanity that pressed
toward the speakers' stand.

I paid but perfunctory attention to the speeches.
Under Parks' guidance a man named D'Arcy was
chosen chairman of the meeting, and speaker vied
with speaker in expressing sympathy with their
brave brethren of Pittsburgh, in declaring
admiration for the courage with which they had beaten
down the hireling soldiery of the brutalized money
lords, in denouncing the policy that had called out
the troops to settle a mere business dispute between
workmen and employers, in bewailing the hard lot
of the workmen of San Francisco, and in assailing
the Chinese as the cause of the local industrial woes.
It was not the inflammatory speeches that drew the
major part of my attention, nor even the riotous
applause that followed those speakers who expressed
their approval of violence as a cure for low wages or
no wages.  Some subtle sense of divination drew my
eyes and thoughts to certain currents and eddies in
the crowd, where lines of men appeared to move with
common purpose through the great gathering.  The
lines would grow in length as they proceeded, then
would swirl into a group, and break or unfold into
two or three new lines that would push out in
different directions to form new centers of excitement.
Some plan of action was evidently preparing.

In the midst of a speaker's appeal to the sacred
rights of labor against the wrongs of coolie
immigration, a man swung himself over the back rail of
the platform and whispered to Parks.

"What's that?" demanded Parks incredulously.

The man repeated his statement.

"When did it happen?"

"About seven o'clock."

Parks' face grew black with suppressed storm,
and the man continued:

"He said you could rouse the town about it if
you thought best, but for himself he didn't want the
course of the law interfered with."

"What do you think, Hampden?" said Parks, in
my ear.  "Kearney's arrested!"

"What's he been doing now?"

"Oh, it's his Nob Hill speech.  He threatened to
hang Stanford and Crocker, you know; and they've
jailed him for that."

"Well," I said cheerfully, "are you going to follow
your example by leading the mob to rescue him?"

"I'd take five thousand men down to the City
Prison and have him out in half an hour, if I was
sure he hadn't contrived this arrest himself," replied
Parks darkly.

"What put that into your head?" I asked in surprise.

"Never mind," said Parks with an angry shake of
his head.  "I've a right to my suspicions."  Then
he turned to his messenger and growled: "Don't
say anything about this.  I'll announce it later if it
seems best.  I'll have to think it over a little.  I'll wait
till Reddick has spoken, anyhow."

Reddick, as the mouthpiece of the Council of Nine,
gave a speech filled with denunciations of social and
industrial conditions, and with the roars of applause
that he evoked, the currents and eddies of men grew
stronger.  As he drew toward the close of his
address, I felt a touch from behind, and turned to find
Clark beckoning for attention.  As I bent to him, he
whispered in my ear:

"Those fellows of Morgan's are trying to stir up
a rumpus.  They are going through the crowd now
passing the word that it's time to burn out the rich
fellows that have brought in the Chinese, and that
the place to begin is on Van Ness Avenue, and finish
with Nob Hill and Chinatown.  There's going to be
trouble as soon as the meeting breaks up."

This alarming information revealed Bolton's purpose,
whatever might be the plans of the Council of
Nine, and though the meeting seemed likely to be
prolonged for an hour or two more, I scribbled a
note on the back of one of Wharton Kendrick's cards
and handed it to Clark, saying:

"Get down to the Old City Hall, see Chief Ellis, or
whoever is in charge, and tell him that Kendrick's
place is to be attacked.  Ask him to send as many
men as he can spare to keep the avenue clear.  That
card will get you a chance to speak with him, and
you can tell him what the gang is doing.  I am going
up to Kendrick's before the meeting closes and get
ready for trouble."

"I'll do the best I can, sir," said Clark, with
evident doubt of his power to influence so important a
man as the chief of police, and in a moment had
disappeared into McAllister Street.

While I had been engaged with Clark, Reddick
had ended his speech with a fiery peroration that
brought a roar of applause, during which a stout,
red-faced man climbed to the platform and took his
place.

"This is all wrong, men," were the first words I
heard from the new speaker.  "We can't help the
cause of labor by getting into a row with the police.
We can't get more wages by hunting a fight with
the militia.  We can't even get a better job by
punching a Chinaman's head."

"Who the devil is this?" cried Reddick angrily.
"He's a hell-hound of plutocracy.  Who asked him
to speak?"

"Stop him, D'Arcy," said Parks.  "He'll be a wet
blanket on the meeting."

So far from being a wet blanket, the speaker had
a remarkably enlivening influence on the crowd.  The
elements that had been roused to enthusiasm by
fiery speeches, culminating in Reddick's red-pepper
harangue, were in no mood to listen to this sort of
talk, and catcalls, hoots and cries of dissent drowned
his words.

"This agitation don't do us no good," shouted the
volunteer orator.  "It hurts us.  It scares away
capital.  I lost two jobs by it myself."

"Sit down!  Dry up!  Get off the platform!" came
in volleys from the audience, and the chairman, with
a pull at the speaker's coat tails, paraphrased the
demand.

"I won't sit down!" shouted the unknown.  "I'm
an American citizen and as good as any of you."

"Throw him off!" cried Reddick; and suiting action
to word, he seized the speaker about the waist.

The unknown resented this interference by whirling
about, and planting a blow on Reddick's face
that sent him to the floor with a thump.  But the
militant friend of order was seized by a dozen men
before he could make another movement, and with a
struggle was hustled to the side of the platform and
dropped over the rail.

The scene of violence was contagious.  During the
altercation on the platform the signs of disorder in
the crowd had multiplied, and at the sight of the
blow that laid Reddick on his back, a mighty roar
rose on the air, and the whole throng appeared to
break into tumultuous motion.  The great mass was
shaken to its confines with a sudden blind impulse
of conflict, the thousands of faces tossed and eddied
about like sea waves ruffled by cross-currents, and a
surge of men broke against the platform.

"Hold on," shouted Parks, springing to the front.
"There's four more speakers to be heard, and the
resolutions to be passed."  But in the uproar his
voice was overwhelmed, and in a moment the
hoodlum mob was upon us.  A conflux of wolfish faces
centered upon the platform, and with cries of "Kill
the Chinese!  Down with the coolie-lovers!" they
tore at the supports.  The platform went down with
a crash of breaking boards and screaming men, and
the flaming gasoline torches that lighted the stand
fell forward with the uprights to which they were
fastened, only to be raised in the van as the
standards of the hoodlum mob.

The downfall of the platform sent half the group
sprawling on the ground among its ruins.  But at
the first warning crack I had seized Parks as he was
about to be pitched forward under the feet of the
attacking forces, and dragged him to the back rail.
This frail support held for a space against the
wrench of the falling front, and offered us a
moment's safety.

"This is an outrage!" cried Parks, as we scrambled
to the ground.  "The money of the railroad or
the Six Companies has paid for this assault on a
peaceable meeting.  But I am not going to be
silenced by a pack of hoodlums.  Come up to the City
Hall steps, and we will finish our speeches and pass
our resolutions."

"Better let bad enough alone," I said.  "You'd
much better come with me to see to Miss Fillmore's
safety."

But Parks had not waited to hear the end of my
words, and was already on his way to the Hall of
Records, shouting at the top of his voice, "Follow
me, all members of the International Clubs!" while
I struggled to press my way through the division of
the mob that was sweeping up Leavenworth Street.
As I reached the corner I heard one of the leaders
shout:

"Come on, youse fellows!  We'll burn out
Millionaire's Row on Van Ness Avenue.  They's the
ones that gets rich by bringing in the coolies!"  And
his suggestion was approved with a roar.

This was, I could no longer doubt, a part of the
scheme that had been hatching in the fertile brain
of Peter Bolton.  It was for this that Jim Morgan
had hired and trained his ruffians, and the objective
point of the mob in front of me was the home of
Wharton Kendrick.

It was of this that my sixth sense had warned me,
even before Clark had spoken; and yet I had loitered
in the belief that there was plenty of time to reach
the place before the close of the meeting should loose
the forces of disorder.  And now, with a sudden gust
of passion all evil things had thrown away restraint,
the mob with roars of rage was swarming in different
directions, smashing doors and windows, and
shouting its war-cries with cheers and curses, while
I was still by the City Hall, trying to force past the
throng that streamed up Leavenworth Street.

I had got as far as Tyler Street (later to become
famous as Golden Gate Avenue), when I found the
way blockaded.  The crowd had halted, packed into
a dense mass about the corner, and shouts and yells,
the crash of breaking wood and the tinkle of falling
glass told that the wild beast had found an object
on which to vent its rage.  By the light of the
street-lamps and the flare of the torches carried by the mob,
I saw that the point of attack was a low, wooden
building, and a painted sign above the door told that
therein Ah Ging did washing and ironing.

I had barely discerned so much when the sign
disappeared, and a moment later the form of a
Chinaman was framed in the doorway above the crowd,
amid a gang of hoodlum captors.  For an instant I
could see the wild, terror-stricken face, its brown
skin turned to a sickly yellow, its eyes rolling in the
red glare of the torches with the instinct of the
animal seeking despairingly some path of escape.  Then
at a blow from behind the Chinaman gave a scream
and plunged headlong down the steps.

The end was shut out from my sight, but I was
shaken by the qualms of deathly sickness at this
wanton barbarity, as the maelstrom of struggling
bodies closed in upon its victim, and his death-cries
were drowned in the chorus of yells, jeers and
animal ejaculations of rage with which the collective
beast accompanied the murder of Ah Ging.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BATTLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   BATTLE

.. vspace:: 2

As I came within sight of the Kendrick house,
breathless, shaken with scenes of brutality, and torn
with apprehensions, I found that my fears were realized.
A disorderly mob of two or three hundred men
had gathered in front of the place, their groans and
hoots filling the air, and the score or more of torches
they carried throwing a smoky glare on the buildings.

The mob had not yet ventured to attack the place,
and I was relieved to see that Andrews and his men
still held the steps and guarded the walls; but the
riotous elements were lashing the crowd into the
courage to attack the little band that looked down
upon them.

Suddenly, as I reached the confines of the crowd,
a silence fell, and I started with surprise to see
Wharton Kendrick walk down the steps to the level of the
garden, and then advance to the iron fence that
surmounted the retaining wall.  From this point of
vantage he surveyed the mob with a good-humored
smile and waved his hand in cheerful greeting.  I
trembled with anxiety at his rashness, but something
in his personal magnetism held them for him to
speak.

"Well, boys," he cried in his full hearty voice,
"what can I do for you?  Have I been nominated
for mayor, or is this just a serenade?"

A laugh here and there showed the good impression
he had made on his audience, and a hasty voice
from the leaders of the mob shouted:

"We want you to fire your Chinese!"

"The Chinese?" he said, affecting to misunderstand
the cry.  "You've come to the right shop if you
want a good little talk on that question.  As I told
Senator Morton the other day, I'm the original
Chinese exclusionist--not excepting Bill Nye and
Truthful James.  Ask the reporters to take a front
seat."

I had never suspected Wharton Kendrick of oratorical
ability, but he showed all the arts of the stump
speaker, and with a few pat anecdotes stated his
position, and appealed to the men to trust the
settlement of the problem to the substantial men of the
State.

The leaders of the mob were quick to see the danger
to their schemes, and tried several interruptions,
which Kendrick blandly ignored.  At last one of
them shouted as comment on his profession of faith:

"Then why don't you discharge your Chinese help?"

This thrust renewed the cries of anger from the
mob, and a wolfish look came on the faces about me.

"Why," returned Kendrick with a jovial laugh,
"for the same reason that the rabbit couldn't cut off
his tail--because he didn't have one.  I don't know
any reason why I shouldn't hire a Chinese cook if I
wanted one, as long as they are permitted to come
into the country; but I don't want one.  My servants
are all white."

The reply raised a laugh, and a few enthusiastic
rioters shouted "Hooray for Kendrick!"

"Shut up, you fools!" cried the leaders; and the
voice that had called on Kendrick to discharge his
Chinese shouted:

"It's a lie about there not being any Chinese in de
house!"

"The honorable gentleman has forgotten to speak
the truth," retorted Kendrick good-humoredly.  "I
keep no Chinese."

"Aw, what's de use talkin' like dat?" shouted the
voice.  "There's a Chinese girl in de house dis minute."

"Quite true," admitted Kendrick candidly.  "The
poor creature was wounded, and we took her in to
save her from the highbinders.  You surely wouldn't
have us turn her out.  She's not a servant.  She's a
guest."

The explanation was lost on half the crowd in the
clamor that had been raised.  One of the mob leaders
shouted:

"Where there's a Chinese girl there's a dozen
Chinese men,"--an opinion that renewed the jeers and
catcalls.

"Aw, the place is full of coolies!  Smoke 'em out!"
cried another, waving a torch.

Even with this renewal of hostile sentiment, the
leaders of the mob would scarce have been able to
spur their followers to violence but for the arrival
of a reinforcement of another hundred hoodlums,
shouting, swearing, and laden with the spoil of
looted wash-houses.  They came straight for the
Kendrick house, and I had no doubt that they were
directed thither by the same mind that had sent the
first company to the siege.

While the play between Kendrick and the mob
had been going on, I had edged my way toward the
steps by those alternate arts of diplomatic and
aggressive pressure which enable one to make progress
through a crowd.  The arrival of the hoodlum
reinforcement brought me assistance as unwelcome as
it was unexpected.

Wharton Kendrick faced the new-comers with a
confident smile, and appealed with a jest to "the
gentlemen in a hurry" for a hearing.  But the hoodlum
arrivals had not fallen under the spell of his
personality, and their courage and wrath had been
inflamed by their success in their wash-house raids.
With shouts of "Gangway! gangway!  Smoke out
the coolies!" they charged forward in a wedge that
struck the standing crowd directly behind me.  There
was a shock of meeting bodies, a grunt that might
have come from a giant in sudden distress, and the
crowd crumpled together like the telescoping cars of
a railroad collision; the men in the center were lifted
off their feet, and the crowd was forced forward and
scattered in disorder.

Standing directly in the line of shock, I was
thrown forward with amazing force, scraped against
the stone wall, and flung headlong on to the lower
step of the flight that led to Wharton Kendrick's
garden.  At the same moment there was an outburst
of wrathful yells, and a shower of stones rattled
about me.  I felt a smart crack from a falling stick
on my shoulder as I scrambled to my feet, and looking
upward I was just in time to see Kendrick struck
by a flying missile, reel backward, fling up his arms
with a whirling motion, and fall heavily on to the
grass.

I faced about and whipped out my revolver, when:

"Stand back there!" came from above in a determined
voice.

"Stand back there!" I repeated.  And at the
command and the show of revolvers, the advancing
hoodlums swerved aside into the street with a
sudden cooling of their ardor for battle.

"Is that you, Mr. Hampden?" came from above,
and I recognized the voice of Andrews, the head
watchman for the night.

"Yes," I replied.  "Be ready to shoot if I give the
word."  And walking backward I climbed the steps
till I stood on the landing and looked down on the
mob.  Then with an eye on the tossing, circling
array of faces below, I knelt over Wharton Kendrick.
He was limp and still.  A long cut extended from his
forehead well back into his hair, and the blood
flowing from it had moistened his face and dyed his
thinning locks.

I glanced at the mob, noted the signs that it was
gathering courage for another attack, and was
calculating on the risk of weakening our defense by
ordering the men to carry Wharton Kendrick into
the house, when I heard the door open behind me.
There was a swift patter of footsteps on the walk,
and Laura Kendrick flung herself on her knees beside
me with a cry of grief and fear, and lifted her
uncle's head in her arms.

"Oh," she cried with a choking voice, "have they
killed him?"

"No," I replied, "he's alive.  He will be all right
in a little while."  I hoped I was telling the truth.
"We'll get him into the house, and have a doctor to
look after him as soon as we can drive this mob
away.  Please go in now.  You may be hurt yourself
if you stay."

She had been wiping away the blood with her
handkerchief, to the soft accompaniment of a crooning
utterance, as though she were quieting a sick
child.

"Indeed, I shall not go in till he does," she said.
"Do you think I shall leave him out here to be killed
by those dreadful creatures?"

"Please go," I said.  "You can do nothing here,
and the mob may begin firing at any minute."

At the apparition of the girlish figure the rioters
had hushed something of their wrathful cries, but I
felt none the less apprehensive of their next act.

As I spoke, with something of peremptoriness
in my voice, Laura Kendrick started to her feet,
but instead of returning to the house she walked
hurriedly to the wall, and stood resolutely facing the
crowd.

"Come back!" I cried with dismay, and restrained
my impulse to rush before her with the thought
that I should be much more likely to incite than to
prevent an attack.

But instead of heeding my summons she began
an indignant appeal to the men before her, trying
to shame them at their errand.  As her piquant voice
rose on the air a terror gripped my throat at the
thought of the response that her call might bring,
but at her first words the crowd hushed to stillness,
and I saw a man cuff a young hoodlum who uttered
a catcall.  The appeal of the slender figure facing
the mob in the glare of the torches that had been
brought to burn her house was a better protection
for the moment than the revolvers of my men.

"Do you think it manly to strike at the sick or at
women?  Do you think it right to try to murder
your friends?  You have struck down a man who
never had an unkind word for you--who has done
more than all of you put together to keep the Chinese
out of the country.  Do you think that is the way to
help your cause?  I don't."

The mob preserved an admirable silence, and she
turned to me and said in low, excited tones, "Carry
him into the house while they are behaving themselves."

I had already given the order, and four of my men
bore the stricken magnate up the steps and through
the doors, while Laura spoke once more to the mob.

"I'm sure," she said, "you ought to see by this
time that you've done enough harm to your cause
for one day, and I hope you'll go quietly home
before you do anything worse."

"Three cheers for the leddy!" came in strong
Hibernian response, and the mover of the resolution
led off with such a will that a hundred more voices
joined in the tribute.

"Thank you," she replied, "and good night."  And
with a courtesy to the uninvited guests, she
turned, crossed the garden, and mounted the steps
with dainty grace.  At the door she turned, gave
another bow, and waved her hand in farewell, and
then slipped through the open door as another cheer
was raised.

I had followed her with the purpose of keeping
between her and possible missiles and my misdirected
solicitude was rewarded.  As she put foot within
the hall, she staggered and would have fallen had I
not caught her.  For an instant she clung to me with
a convulsive gasp of fear.  Then her grasp relaxed,
her head sank back, and her full weight rested on
my encircling arm.  At the sight of her white face,
and the crimson stains on her hands and dress that
had come from her uncle's blood, I gave a cry of
alarm, and lifted her limp form as carefully as one
takes up a sleeping child.

For a minute of tumultuous joy and fear I held
her in my arms, as I carried her to the room into
which her uncle had been borne.  But before I
reached the door she opened her eyes languidly.
Then with a startled look, full consciousness returned.

"Put me down," she said, and struggled to her
feet.  But so unsteadily did she stand that she was
forced to reach out for support, and I put a
sustaining arm about her.

"What is it?" she asked in a whisper.  "Did I get
knocked down?  My head is going round and round."

"No, you are all right," I said soothingly.  "There
was a little too much excitement outside for you, I'm
afraid."

"Oh, I was goose enough to faint, was I?" she
said, disengaging herself with a swift movement.
But once more in full command of herself, tears of
apprehension gathered in her eyes, and she asked,
"Where is uncle?"

And as I motioned to the door, she turned and
ran into the room where Wharton Kendrick lay
white and still upon a couch.  Mercy Fillmore's deft
hands were washing the wound, a servant was
assisting, and the four men who had brought the
wounded master into the house stood about in wait
for orders.  With a word I sent three to rejoin the
line of defense, and directed the fourth to slip out the
back way in quest of Doctor Roberts.

Laura Kendrick took her place quietly at Mercy
Fillmore's side and with tense self-possession assisted
at the dressing of the wound.  And in the calmness
and practised touch with which they played the part
of surgeons I had demonstration of the skill they
had acquired in the weeks of service which they had
devoted to Moon Ying.

"I don't see why he doesn't come to himself,"
said Laura, when the bandage had been adjusted.
"I wish we could get the doctor."

"I have sent a man after him," I said.

"Do you think he can get through that howling
mob of savages?  I'm afraid he will be killed; and if
he isn't, the doctor can never get in."

"Oh, there's the back gate.  I hope the doctor's
not above taking it."  I had hardly spoken when I
was checked at seeing my messenger standing in
the hall.  Before I could exclaim at his sudden
return, he had beckoned me out with a warning finger
on his lips.

At his signal I left the room with an attempt to
disguise my disturbance of mind under the pretense
of idle restlessness.

"What's the matter?" I asked, as soon as I got
the man away from the door.

"There's a gang over in the next yard," he said,
"and I couldn't get through.  I'm afraid they're
getting ready to set fire to the house.  I smelt kerosene
when I climbed on the fence.  One of 'em says something
about 'smoking 'em out,' an' I guess they're
fixing up some sort of fire-balls."

"Where are you going?" asked Miss Kendrick,
coming to the door.  "You are not meaning to
venture out among those savages again?"

"I think it's time I told them to go home," I said.
"They are making a good deal of noise out there."

"You must not do anything of the sort," she
said, catching my arm.  "I told them to go, and if
they won't go for my telling, they won't go for
yours."

I bent over her with more tremors than I had felt
in the midst of the mob.

"I shouldn't go unless I thought it would help to
protect you," I said.

"Well, if you must go," said Miss Laura, "please
be careful and do not go out the front way.  Take the
side door, where there's nobody likely to see you."  And
leading the way down the passage between the
library and the dining-room she slipped a bolt and
opened the door enough to let us out.  She held out
her hand to me.

"You're not to get hurt," she murmured, as I paused.

"That settles it.  I shall preserve a whole skin."  And
with a pressure of the hand, I hastened out the
door.

The yells from the front came with renewed
distinctness, but no sounds of attack were to be heard.
The mob appeared to have resolved itself into a
disorderly debating society.  I hurried to the rear of
the house with my messenger.

"Are any of our men back here?" I asked.

"One--Reardon is at the kitchen steps," replied
the man.

Reardon proved to be awake and ready for any
enterprise, and we advanced to the fence and
reconnoitered.  The dim light showed a band of fifteen
or twenty men gathered a few yards away in the
vacant lot behind the Kendrick place.

"Aren't they ready yet?" asked one impatient
conspirator.  "I could have fixed forty fire-balls in the
time you've taken to fix those three."

"Why didn't you come and do it then?" was the
resentful and belligerent answer.  "I'll have them
ready in a jiffy."

With a few whispered words of direction I
stationed my men by the fence, a dozen yards apart,
and took my place between them.  Then climbing up
I gave a blast on a police whistle, and cried:

"Now, boys, gather them in.  Don't let one get
away."  And at the word I fired three or four shots
at the group and my men followed my example.

The surprise was complete.  At the fusillade there
was a scattering of the gang, and with a sudden
realization of the importance of their personal safety
they took to their heels and ran into Franklin
Street.

"That was a foine job, sor.  We must have hit a
power of thim," said Reardon, with an exemplary
faith in our marksmanship.

"I hope so," I said.  I had been roused to fury by
the deliberate preparations to burn the house, and
had shot to do mischief.  "It looks as though we had
got one fellow, anyhow," I added, as I discovered a
dark heap on the ground, and heard a whimpering
groan.

We jumped down from the fence, and an advance
of a few steps confirmed my guess.  A man lay
writhing on the earth, giving utterance to suppressed
sounds of pain.  Reardon knelt over him.

"Why, it's Danny Regan!" he cried.  "What th'
divil are ye doin' here, Danny?"

"Go 'way, ye murderin' spalpeen!" replied the
stricken Danny.  "Me leg is bruk.  'Tis a bullet
sthruck me knee."

"'Twas me that give it to yez, Danny," said
Reardon with a chuckle.  "I picked ye out, me
lad--an' whin Pat Reardon takes aim he niver misses.  If
he don't hit wan thing he hits another--an' it's
dollars to dimes the other thing's jist as good."

The wounded man replied to this boast with an
outbreak of curses.

"Yer timper's been soured, Danny," said Reardon.
"That comes of mixin' in bad company.  ''Tis
evil communications corrupts a good disposition,'
says Father Ryan; an' if you'd listened to him you'd
a-been home an' in bed now wid two sound legs
instead of wan."

"Well, take me home, Pat," groaned the wounded
conspirator; "though maybe you'd like to make a
clane job of it by puttin' wan iv yer bullets t'rough
me head."

"Faith, I wouldn't waste another wan on yez.
Bullets cost money.  If I did me dooty I'd settle yer
case by mashin' yer head in wid a rock."

"We wouldn't get so far as that," I said.  "We'll
compromise by holding him prisoner of war.  Up
with him now."

Our inexpert handling brought whimpers and
curses from the prisoner.  And in a few minutes we
had him bestowed as comfortably as possible in the
little room that the watchmen had used as a
lounging place.

"Now," said I to my messenger, "get over to
Doctor Roberts' house as fast as you can.  Tell him
Mr. Kendrick is hurt, and bring him back with you.
Hurry!"

The messenger had scarce disappeared when
Reardon exclaimed:

"Whist!  There comes some more of 'em."

Above the excited hubbub of the besieging crowd
in front could be heard a swelling roar that became
more distinct with each moment.  The significance
of the sound was unmistakable.  Another reinforcement
was approaching, and in fear lest the assailants
who had been beaten off were returning to
attack us from the rear we ran back to the fence.
All was quiet in that direction, and the hostile sounds
now came so plainly from the front that I doubled
speed to the threatened quarter just as a scattering
crackle of pistol-shots punctuated the inarticulate
language of the mob, and a volley of stones hurtled
against the house with the explosive tinkle of
breaking windows.

I reached the front yard just as another volley
took out every window that faced the street, and
saw that a concerted rush was being made against
the place.  A body of men was being pushed up
the steps between the flanking walls by the pressure
of the mob behind, and immediately before me--at
the side of the garden--two young men were mounting
the wall on the shoulders of their companions,
the vanguard of a flank attack that would capture
the place if they once got a foothold.  I fired a shot
at one, who disappeared with a surprising suddenness,
and then bethinking myself of the unwisdom
of wasting bullets, I ran forward and brought down
my revolver on the head of the other invader.  He
had just got his knee on the railing, but he went
down the eight-foot drop with a yell of pain and a
torrent of bad language.  At the same moment the
men who were defending the steps threw the assailing
column into confusion by a fortunate volley, and
the attack gave back.  A score of answering shots
came from the mob, and a bullet whistled so close
to my ear that I clapped my hand to the spot with the
thought that a piece had been taken off.  The agreeable
disappointment of finding that I was mistaken
was overshadowed a moment later by the discovery
that the wall at the farther side of the garden had
been scaled by a dozen of the mob, and that others
were clambering up in their path.

"Look out there on your right, Andrews!" I cried,
hastening to join the company.  "They are on the
terrace."

Before I reached the steps the dozen had increased
to a score, and it looked as though we were to be
overwhelmed by numbers.  For an instant it seemed
that our best chance lay in retreating into the house
in the hope that it would serve as a fortress until the
police arrived.  But as the house was only a wooden
structure, and it was the expressed purpose of the
mob to burn us out, I felt it was to be regarded as
the last resort of resistance.

"Shoot them down!" I cried.

"Not much chance," said Andrews as I reached
him.  "We're down to our last cartridges."

This was a sickening bit of information, but it
assured me that prompt action was of the last
importance.  I took one of my men by the shoulder
and pushed him over toward the position I had just
left.

"Here," I said, "see that nobody gets over that
wall.  You two," picking out a pair of the guards,
"hold the stair.  Come on, the rest of you.  We must
clear these fellows out.  Double quick, now."

At this command the men sprang forward by my
side, and we ran to the invaded quarter, firing off
our remaining cartridges as we charged.

The mob was mostly of but poor stuff, after all.
Half of those who had been bold enough to climb
to the terrace halted at sight of our advance, and
dropped over the wall to the sidewalk in panic.  But
we were, nevertheless, greatly outnumbered by those
who stood their ground, and a scattering though
harmless fusillade gave evidence that they were
armed.

In a moment we were in the thick of it.  Fists,
clubs and revolvers were flying, and the thud of
body blows could be heard under the cries and curses
that formed the dramatic chorus to the struggle.
We used our empty revolvers as clubs, and we
appeared to do more execution with them handled
thus than with all the bullets we had fired.  A bullet
has a way of wandering from its mark, but a
pistol-barrel brought down with a vigorous arm on a
man's head never fails in execution, and has a
tendency to turn the most ardent warrior into the ways
of peace.  But in spite of good luck, discipline and
desperation, we were far from having the battle all
our own way.  I had envied the ease with which my
favorite heroes of romance bowled over half a dozen
enemies with fist or sword, and I envied them still
more when I found myself in a place to put their
lessons into practice.  I had not been in the conflict
more than a minute when a knock on the head from
a bony fist and a thump on the shoulder from a club
sent me to the grass with a realization of how much
better it is to give than to receive.  But I was
fortunate enough to be up again in a moment, and laying
about me with a savage hope of repaying with usury
the men who had sent me to the ground.

How the battle would have gone if we had been
left to our unaided strength, I shall leave to less
partial historians to say.  But just as I had been
thoroughly impressed with the fact that seven men
have their work cut out for them when they are
called on to attack a score, I heard a roar from the
mob that finally separated into an articulate cry of--

"Here come the cops!  Look out for the police!
Knock their heads off!"  And a company of the
guardians of order could be seen charging down the
avenue.

The pugilistic activities of the mob in the
presence of the police, however, appeared to be purely
vocal.  So far as I was able to observe, the
head-knocking business was wholly on the other side.

At the warning cry there was a sudden slackening
of activity among the invaders of the terrace.  Then
they began to drop over the wall to rejoin the
retreating main body, and in a minute, with a panic
rush, they were all gone.  And while I caught my
breath once more I had the satisfaction of seeing
the mob driven like sheep before a company of some
twenty-five policemen, who were savagely rapping
with their clubs at every head they could reach.
The crowd was flying from a body of men that it
could have swallowed up, smothered, annihilated, by
sheer force of numbers, awed less by the physical
force represented by the clubs than by the moral
force of law that lay behind them.

I hailed the police captain as a brother and a
preserver, and hastily explained the state of affairs.

"It's a bad night for us all," he said.  "We're
fighting 'em from North Beach to Tar Flat.  They've
killed a dozen Chinamen, an' I'll bet my straps there
isn't a Chinese wash-house left with a window in
the whole city."

"I'm afraid we aren't much better off here," I
said, with a rueful look at the vacant sashes of
Wharton Kendrick's windows.

"It's bad--it's bad," said the officer.  "We got
word they were coming here, and the chief sent us
up to clear the avenue.  Then we heard that they
were settin' fire to Stanford's and Crocker's so we
rushed over to Nob Hill.  It was only a small crowd
there, though, and after chasin' them out, we hurried
up here."

"You were just in time," I said.  "We were hard
pressed."

"I'm sorry I can't leave you a few men," said
the captain, "but we've got too much work ahead
of us.  I don't think they'll try it again.  But we'll
look around this way again in an hour or two."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`I BECOME A MAN OF BUSINESS`:

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   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   I BECOME A MAN OF BUSINESS

.. vspace:: 2

I was a sorry sight when I entered the house
once more, with one sleeve torn from my coat, a
large and growing lump over my right eye, and
my clothing an impressionist study in grass-stains
and earth colors.

In the excitement of the moment I was not aware
of the picturesque figure I made until I saw the
horror-stricken look that swept over Laura Kendrick's
face as she met me in the hall.

"Oh," she cried, "you did go and get yourself
murdered, after all!"

"No, indeed.  I had a day's work crowded into a
few minutes, but we got them driven off, and I'm
as sound as a dollar."  I spoke with the exultation of
victory; but with the reaction from the excitement
and fatigue of the battle I felt the need of a place to
sit down and pull myself together.

"Then you're very well disguised," she returned
anxiously.  "Are those dreadful wretches all gone?
Come into our hospital here--right away--and we'll
wash the blood off your face, and try to put you to
rights."

"How is Mr. Kendrick?" I asked, as she led me
toward the "hospital."

"He has opened his eyes and said a few words.
Doctor Roberts is here, and has stitched up his
head, and says he will be all right in a week or two
if we take good care of him."

The room set aside for the hospital had a highly
professional look.  Wharton Kendrick lay on the
same couch on which I had left him.  Doctor
Roberts was bending over him, carefully adjusting the
bandage on his head.  Near them I was surprised
to see Danny Regan of the broken leg, attended by
Mercy Fillmore, while at the other side of the room,
propped up in an easy chair, was Moon Ying,
looking on the scene with passive wonder.

"Sit here," ordered Miss Kendrick, wheeling a
big chair to the table, and I was glad to obey.  "Yes,"
she continued, noting my scrutiny of Danny Regan
and Moon Ying.  "The cook complained of the
groans she heard from the men's room, so we found
out what had happened and had the man brought
here.  And just before the rocks began to fly I had
run up to see about Moon Ying, so I had her carried
down.  It was lucky I did, for we had hardly got out
of the room when bang-cling! went every window
in the front of the house.  I thought she had best be
on the ground floor in case of fire, and this room was
as safe as any in the house.  My! what a bump you
did get.  A riot is 'most as bad as falling
downstairs, isn't it?"

With deft fingers she had wiped away the stains
of battle, and now she wrung out a cloth in cold
water, folded it into a compress, and bound it
skilfully over my swollen forehead.

I leaned back luxuriously, and gazed with
admiration on my nurse.

"It's quite worth while, after all," I said.

She colored, but looked steadily at me as she
worked.

"Don't get too appreciative," she said.

"Impossible!" I interrupted.

"Because," she said, "I'm coming to believe that
you're not so badly hurt as your poor head looks.
The blood on your face isn't yours at all, but came
from somebody else--"

"You ought to see the other fellow," I murmured
softly.

"--and you've been getting sympathy under false
pretenses, and I really think I ought to call Jane to
look after you while I attend to uncle."

"I shall sink into the last stages of dissolution,"
I protested, "if you turn me over to an incompetent
nurse."

"Incompetent!  Why, Jane is twice as competent as I."

"It depends on the complaint.  I'm sure she
wouldn't understand mine at all."

Laura smiled indulgently as she adjusted the last
knot on the bandage.

"There," she said, "you're quite picturesque, and
you'll be all right in the morning.  And I don't think
you need anybody to look after you at all."

I was about to protest that my condition was most
serious when she was called to Wharton Kendrick's
couch, and I caught Moon Ying's eyes fixed on
mine.  I smiled and nodded, and she beckoned me,
so I wheeled my chair to her side.

"What I tell-em you?" she said.  "I no go 'way,
bad man come, all same shoot, fight, tly bu'n house, eh?"

"This not for you, Moon Ying," I reassured her.
"Bad man come, anyhow.  Plenty of that kind
outside of Chinatown."

Moon Ying shook her head and pointed to Danny Regan.

"Him Li'l John's explessman--I sabby him many
time come Li'l John's place."

I looked at Danny Regan's low-browed countenance,
and realized that an attack of the highbinders'
mercenaries had been made under cover of
the larger attack of Bolton's hirelings and the
anti-Chinese mob.

"I think you're right, Moon Ying," I said.  "But
just you sabby this: bad men in front of house, they
no come from Little John; they were after Mr. Kendrick.
You can claim those fellows behind the
house.  But you see we are no worse off for having
you here.  'Twas the other fellows who broke the
windows."

I was just on the point of interrogating Danny
Regan as to the inspiring cause of his raid when I
heard Wharton Kendrick's voice rise in querulous
tones:

"Here, I must get up," he said with evident effort.
"Is the city on fire?"

"After a while," said the soothing voice of the
doctor.  "The city is all safe, and you'll have to wait
till to-morrow before you get out."

"I must look after things to-night," said the patient,
his voice rising complainingly.  "I must look
after things."

I got to my feet and walked softly to his couch.
He was vainly trying to rise, and beating the air
helplessly with his hands.

"I must get out--help me, somebody!" he cried in
an appealing voice.  He tried to lift himself, but his
body refused to obey his will.

The doctor uttered a soothing protest.

Miss Kendrick added her voice to the authority
of the doctor and at her quieting words Wharton
Kendrick closed his eyes.  Then on a sudden he
opened them widely, and again attempted to raise
his head.

"It's the business--it's the business!" he cried
with the voice of one who had brought a forgotten
thing from the depths of his memory.  "It's all
upset.  I must see to it, or it will be too late."

She patted him again with gentle hand.

"There--there," she said, in the comforting
mother-tone.  "It will be all right.  You can't do
anything to-night.  It's after ten o'clock."

He gave a groan.

"The markets will go to smash in the morning
unless we get ready for them to-night.  It's all up,"
he moaned.  "It was all in my head, and it's all gone.
There'll be a smash in the market to-morrow, and
I can't help it."  Then he broke into passionate
sobbing, while Laura Kendrick knelt over him,
wiped away his tears, and made above him those
murmuring sounds with which the mother comforts
the hurt child.

It was with something of the awe with which one
meets the earthquake that I witnessed the collapse of
the fortitude and self-control in Wharton Kendrick.
The foundations of the earth seemed breaking
up when I saw this type of self-reliant manhood
whimpering and weeping like a whipped schoolboy.

Doctor Roberts had been attending to Danny Regan
of the broken leg, but he now returned to his
more demonstrative patient.

"Come, come," he said in his most cheerful
professional tone.  "This is no way to get well.  If you
want to be out to-morrow, you must be quiet."  And
he motioned us away.

"It's all going to smash--I can hear it going,"
sobbed Kendrick, "and I can't remember what to
do."  He lay looking anxiously from side to side
and repeated over and over, "I can't remember what
to do."

As Doctor Roberts motioned us away again, I
took him aside.

"Is there any chance of his getting down to
business to-morrow?"

"Not the slightest.  And he must not be excited
by talking of it."

"I think I can ease his mind somewhat," I said.
An idea had been slowly forming in my brain, and
now it sprang forth complete.  I sat down by him
and took his hand to help his wandering attention.

"I'll look out for the business," I said.  "I'll see
Mr. Coleman to-night.  We'll get the syndicate
together, and protect the markets to-morrow."

"That's it--the syndicate--that's it," he cried
with a visible relief.  "That's what I was trying to
think of--the syndicate.  Coleman will know;
Partridge will know."

I called for paper, pens and ink, and wrote out in
duplicate a formal authorization by which Wharton
Kendrick gave Arthur Hampden, his attorney, the
power to act for him in all his business affairs.

In the meantime I had despatched one of my men
to summon a notary who lived down by Polk Street.
The official was at home, up, and dressed, and he
hurried to the Kendrick house, hot on the scent of
the liberal fee that the name called up before his
imagination.  When he had come, I read aloud the
power of attorney I had drawn.

"That's it, Hampden; you won't see me go down,
will you?" said my client in a pleading voice.  And
with some difficulty he attached his signature, and
Doctor Roberts and Mercy Fillmore signed as
witnesses, while the notary affixed his official
acknowledgment.

Armed with this evidence of power, I started for
my hat, when Miss Kendrick stopped me.

"You aren't going out in that fix, are you?" she
demanded.  And at her gesture I remembered my
torn and one-sleeved coat, and the chiaroscuro
of soil and grass stains with which I had been
decorated.

"I was thinking that I should be all right if I got
a hat, but I'm afraid it will take more than that
to fit me out," I said ruefully.  "Come to think of it,
my hat is out on the lawn with the other sleeve of
my coat.  There's quite a collection of second-hand
clothing out there, but it's rather dark to find one's
own."

"Men are so fussy about their hats," said Miss
Laura, "but I'll have the collection brought in from
the lawn, and maybe you can make yours do for
to-night.  As for the coat, I'll bring down one of
uncle's that's too small for him, and you won't look
so very ridiculous, after all."

My headgear, when recovered, bore evidence that
it had been worn on a militant heel; but when I had
brought the torn edges together, I flattered myself
that in the darkness it would look almost as good as
new.  And although the coat hung loosely upon
me, and the stains of battle refused to yield to the
brush, I was consoled by the thought that these
departures from the rules of polite dress would add
corroborative details and a livelier interest to my
tale of Wharton Kendrick's undoing.

"Now, leave that bandage alone," commanded
Miss Laura, as I raised my hand to complete my
toilet by removing that badge of battle.  "You have
to wear it.  And you have no idea how becoming it
looks."

I submitted ruefully to this edict of petticoat
tyranny, and Miss Kendrick rewarded me by escorting
me to the door.  She gave me her hand, and there
was a look in her eyes that was near to carrying me
off my feet as she said with the suspicion of a
tremble in her voice:

"I hope you don't think we are not appreciating
what you have done--and are doing."

"It is nothing," I said, looking into the magnetic
depths of her eyes, until she dropped her glance to
the floor, and blushed divinely.

"It is nothing," I repeated.  Then bending, I
touched my lips to her hand, and with no other
word ran down the steps in a tumult of elation.

The Coleman house was alight as I rang the bell,
and William T. Coleman himself appeared close on
the heels of the suspicious servant who took in my
card.  He was able to recall the circumstances of
our introduction as he gave me a cordial greeting
and shook me warmly by the hand.

"I was in hopes Kendrick would come himself,"
he said; "but as he hasn't, I am glad he sent you."

"Mr. Kendrick didn't come because he couldn't
come.  He was badly hurt in to-night's riot."

"Kendrick hurt?  How badly?"

I described the extent of his injuries as well as
I could, and Coleman's eyes took on a troubled look.

"I wanted to consult him about affairs.  A number
of our leading men have been here this evening,
and General McComb has agreed to issue a call for
a citizens' meeting at the Chamber of Commerce
to-morrow afternoon.  We must devise some way to
assist the authorities, and I looked to Kendrick to
take a leading part."

"It will be some days before he can be out.  But
he is very anxious about the state of business.  He is
afraid there will be a smash in the markets to-morrow."

William T. Coleman smiled, and the calm sense
of power that shone in his eyes gave me renewed
courage.

"Kendrick was always one of the men who think
that nothing will be done if they don't attend to it
themselves," he said with good-natured raillery.

"Well, it's usually true, isn't it?  Most things don't
get done."

"A very just observation, Mr. Hampden.  Most
things don't get done.  The man who has the brains
and will to accomplish things is the invaluable man.
It's our main trouble in every branch of the world's
work--to find the man with ideas and the force to
carry them out.  But we must show Kendrick that he
isn't indispensable in this crisis.  Did he explain to
you the state of affairs?"

"No.  He could only refer me to you for details.
He gave me the authorization to represent him in the
syndicate, and in his business generally.  It was all
he was able to do."

"Well, the syndicate brought together a capital of
ten million--I suppose you know that."

"Yes, but I believe it was heavily drawn on in the
raid of last month."

"We had to put out close to three million six
hundred thousand of loans that day, but some of it
has come back since."

"Then the syndicate must have between six and
seven million at its disposal."

"Over seven, I think.  Kendrick could give you
the figures out of his head--that is, before his head
was broken--but I'll have to get them from my memoranda."

"How long do you expect that to last in a storm?"

"It ought to see us through any crisis that can
arise."

"But this is a more serious occasion than the
other.  See our riots, and the explosion of violence
in the East.  Will not these frighten our business
men far more than the rumors that set off the
hub-bub of last month?"

Coleman leaned back in his chair, his face expressing
confident cheerfulness, and his eyes magnetic
with power.

"Very true," he said.  "But on the other hand, the
flurry of last month shook out the weaklings.  Stocks
and bonds are shifted into strong hands.  Doubtful
accounts have been closed out.  We are in much
better shape than before the squall struck us."

"I'm glad to hear it," I said with some relief,
though the thought of Peter Bolton's malign
activities weighed on my mind, and I was tempted to
confide in William T. Coleman.  But as Wharton
Kendrick had kept the matter to himself, I followed
his example, and continued: "I believe the interests
of Mr. Kendrick can best be served by sustaining
the markets and preventing failures.  But as to
details, I should like your advice."

"Well, I will read you the memorandum made at
our meeting of the other night of the men and firms
who are likely to need help, and the amounts it
would probably be safe to lend them."  And
Mr. Coleman brought a sheet of paper from his desk
and interpreted the cabalistic signs that covered it.
The freedom with which the names of banks, business
houses and individuals had been handled would
have created a sensation if the paper had been
published.  "And here is a list of the men who have had
advances," he said, taking out another sheet and
reading off names and figures.

I noted down the list for reference and study.

"Do you think," asked Coleman, "that Kendrick
will be able to get down to-morrow?"

"No, the doctor said it would be impossible."

"That is very awkward.  The syndicate's money is
deposited in his name, and he is the man to sign our
checks."

I saw the advantage of keeping this power in
Wharton Kendrick's hands, and suggested:

"Possibly he can attend to that part of the business
at the house.  I can have a line of messengers
to carry the checks back and forth."

Coleman wrinkled his brows, and gave his head a
forceful shake.

"That won't do.  The arrangement would lose us
forty minutes on every transaction.  You had better
get Kendrick to make out a check for the whole
amount in favor of Nelson, and Nelson will look out
for the details."

I was far from satisfied that this was the best way
out of the difficulty.  It eliminated Wharton
Kendrick as a factor in the operations of the syndicate,
and I had a vague but controlling feeling that this
would fit badly with his plans.  But I could give
no sound reason for dissent from the suggestion, and
at last Coleman said:

"Go to Kendrick, and ask him for the check.  I'll
have Nelson and Partridge here by the time you get
back, and we can talk the business over more fully."

The Kendrick house was bright with lights as I
reached it, and I was more annoyed than pleased to
find Mr. Baldwin busily assisting Miss Kendrick,
and directing the servants in the work of clearing
up the broken glass and securing the open windows
with boards.

Mr. Baldwin recognized me in his most superior
way, and assumed his most magnificent airs of
proprietorship from the top of the ladder, as he waved
a hammer as his baton of command.

"Ah, Hampden," he said with a cool nod, "this
is a fine mess your friends have made of things."

"Gracious, me!" exclaimed Miss Kendrick.  "Is
that the way friends act?  I've seen men play some
pretty rough pranks in the name of friendship, but
I'm sure I never knew them to go so far as they did
with Mr. Hampden.  It's a mercy he wasn't killed.
You should have seen him when he came in from the
fracas!"

Mr. Baldwin appeared to be put out of countenance
by this railing acknowledgment of my share
in the defense of the house, and I judged by his tone
that he considered it a reflection on him for being
absent in the crisis.

"I had been out of town," he said stiffly, apparently
for my enlightenment, "and got in on the eight
o'clock boat.  Later I heard that your friends were
on the war-path, and threatening to burn Nob Hill
and Van Ness Avenue.  Then I came up here to see
if I could be of service, and found that it was all
over--except the repairs."  And with this attempt
to set himself right, he resumed his air of importance.

"Well, it's very lucky you weren't here," said
Miss Kendrick.  "I don't doubt you would have got
your head broken, and you'd never be able to stand
up on that ladder if it was going around the way
Mr. Hampden's is.  Oh," she cried suddenly, "what have
you done with that bandage I put over your bump?"

"It came off," I said weakly, bringing the damp
and offending rag out of my pocket.

"I believe you took it off," she said with an air of
reprimand.

"You can put it on again," I pleaded with meek
submission.

"No--it can stay off," she said.  "You're getting
on entirely too well to be fussed over any more.
And now if you'll go in and see uncle, I'll be obliged.
He has been dozing, but he comes to with a start
every few minutes and asks for you.  I'm hoping you
can quiet his mind, for his worry isn't at all good
for him."  And her voice quivered with a pathetic
note of affectionate anxiety.

Wharton Kendrick lay on the couch with his eyes
closed, but opened them vacantly as I came in.
Mercy Fillmore sat by his side.  He collected himself
with an effort, and said:

"I've been wanting you, Hampden!  What was it
you were to see about?  Some business, wasn't it?"  His
eyes wandered, as though he were seeking for
some lost thread of memory.

I gave him a condensed account of my visit to
William T. Coleman.  He heard me listlessly until
I came to the request to make out a check for the
syndicate's balance in favor of Nelson.  Then he
started violently, and half raised himself.

"I'll see 'em damned first!" he cried.  "How can
I protect myself if the money is turned over to
Nelson?"  He looked about wildly, fiercely; then sank
back and closed his eyes.

Mercy Fillmore shook her head at me, and her
eyes expressed reproach.

"You are exciting him," she whispered.  "Isn't
this business something that can be put off?"

He heard her and answered:

"No, it can't be put off.  There'll be a smash in
the market in the morning, and I shan't be there to
stop it!"  He had begun with energy, but his voice
trailed off into a querulous tone as he added: "What
shall I do?  What shall I do?"  Then suddenly a look
of resolution came into his face.  "Bring me my
check-book," he cried with feverish impatience.
"There's one in that coat pocket.  Be quick about it!"

The book was produced, and after looking at it
helplessly for a little he handed it back to me.  Then
he seemed to collect his faculties and asked:

"What was the balance?  Why can't I remember?"

I read the figures from the memorandum Mr. Coleman
had given me.

"Seven million three hundred and twenty thousand,"
he repeated.  "Well, make out a check to
yourself for that amount.  Now help me up while I
sign it.  What are you waiting for?  Give me that pen."

I was somewhat dashed by the responsibility that
was being thrust upon me, but I could think of no
better course.  So we propped him to a sitting
posture, and he signed his name somewhat unsteadily to
the check.

"Now take it, Hampden," he said.  "You won't
see me go down, will you?  Look out for my interests.
They're yours, Hampden.  Stand by me this
time, and I'll stand by you always."  His voice
trailed off into indistinctness as we laid him back on
the pillow, and after a struggle to speak, his face
flushed a startling red, he mumbled a few incoherent
sounds, and was lost to his surroundings.

Mercy Fillmore uttered a cry at this sudden change.

"Oh, I wish Doctor Roberts was back!"

"Here is Doctor Roberts," said the quiet professional
voice, as the physician entered the room and
stepped to his patient's side.  "No more business
to-night," he continued sharply.  "I am afraid there
will be no more for many days.  I must ask you to
retire, Mr. Hampden; the atmosphere is too exciting
for Mr. Kendrick."

I denied myself the pleasure of interrupting Mr. Baldwin's
conversation, as I went out, and hastened
to the Coleman house.

Partridge and Nelson had already arrived, and I
found them earnestly discussing the situation with
Mr. Coleman.  They greeted me with condescension,
inquired civilly of the condition of Wharton
Kendrick, and warmly expressed their indignation
against the mob.

"Was Kendrick able to sign the check to Nelson?"
asked Coleman, coming abruptly to the matter of
business.

I explained, as diplomatically as I was able, the
arrangement my client had made.

"Well, then," said Nelson, "it is very easily settled.
All you have to do is to indorse the check over
to me."  And he looked at me with the self-satisfied
air of the business man whose word is law to his
employees.

The calm assumption that I was to be eliminated
from the proceedings without so much as saying
"by your leave," roused my combative instincts, and
it was only by drawing a firm rein on my temper that
I was able to reply calmly:

"I do not think I am justified by my instructions
to take such a step."

"What do you propose to do, then?" asked Partridge
shortly.

The tone in which the question was put added fire
to my resentment, and I replied with emphasis:

"I shall be guided by the wishes of my client,
and where he has not expressed a wish, I shall
follow my own judgment."

Partridge and Nelson looked at each other.

"I think I shall go and see Kendrick," said Partridge.

"Mr. Kendrick is in a stupor, and the doctor
would not permit him to be seen, even if he could be
roused," I replied.

"This is very awkward," said Nelson, drumming
on the table with his fingers.

"Not at all," said Coleman, in calm and tactful
voice.  "Mr. Hampden has the money that was
intrusted to Kendrick.  He has Kendrick's power of
attorney.  For all practical purposes he is Kendrick.
He will sign the checks just as Kendrick would have
signed them.  Is not that your idea, Mr. Hampden?"

"You have stated exactly my understanding of
my instructions, Mr. Coleman.  I am ready to sign
any checks that Mr. Kendrick would sign if he were
here."

Partridge nodded his assent to this construction of
my orders, but Nelson still looked sourly at me.

"What checks do you think he would sign?" asked
Nelson.

"Why, in general, I should say that they would
be any that are approved by you three gentlemen."

Nelson's face cleared and he stopped drumming on
the table.

"That is satisfactory," he said.  "Then we had
better make our headquarters again in Mr. Kendrick's
office.  It is the most central location.  We
shall be there a little before ten o'clock."

"You had better see the bank about transferring
the money to your account before the opening," said
Partridge, as we rose to go.  "When the fun begins,
you'll have no time to waste."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE COMMITTEE OF SAFETY`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE COMMITTEE OF SAFETY

.. vspace:: 2

I came out of the bank from my morning visit in
a daze of emotions.  The street was thronged with
hurrying crowds.  The air was electric with the
tension of social storm.  The echoes of the mob's
outburst could be heard in the indignant comments that
passed from mouth to mouth; the fears that it
inspired could be read in the tense lines that it had
written on men's faces.  But it was all one to me.
I saw and I saw not.  I heard and I heard not.  I
walked the street stunned, overwhelmed with the
conviction that an irreparable blunder had snatched
the control of events from my hands, and doomed
Wharton Kendrick to swift and certain ruin.

I had found the president of the Golconda Bank
in his private office at a few minutes after nine
o'clock, and Wharton Kendrick's card had secured
me prompt admission.  I had known the president
slightly for several years, and he received me with
brusk kindness as I stated my errand and exhibited
my credentials.

"Oh, we'll arrange that for you in two minutes,"
he said, after he had examined my papers, and
questioned me on Wharton Kendrick's condition.
"Just indorse that check, and I'll have the account
put in your name."

When he had sent his messenger to the cashier
with his directions, he continued:

"That is a heavy responsibility you have on your
shoulders to-day.  There is plenty of trouble ahead.
We look to the syndicate to do the work of a
commercial fire-patrol."  And he favored me with a few
words of advice for which I professed myself grateful.
He was still giving counsel, when the cashier
reappeared with a troubled face.

"There's something wrong about this," he said,
laying my check before the president.

"That is Kendrick's signature," said the president,
scrutinizing it once more.

"But look at the figures," urged the cashier.

"Seven million three hundred and twenty thousand
dollars?"

"Yes; but there is only six million eight hundred
and twenty thousand in the special account on which
this check is drawn."

The president drew his lips into a whistle, and
then said:

"Well, we can't do anything with it, you see.
You'll have to go back to Kendrick and get him to
correct it."

If I had been as wise at the moment as I became
by subsequent reflection I should have summoned
all my powers of eloquence to convince him that the
safety of the bank as a part of the commercial structure
of the city lay in getting that fund promptly
released for use in the coming crisis.  The arguments
with which I could have supported such a thesis
came to me in abundance a day later.  But at the
moment I was stricken dumb and my wits were
scattered by the thought that Wharton Kendrick had
used for his own purposes a half-million dollars of
the syndicate's money, and was to be dishonored
before the world.

Before I could recover myself the president had
bowed me out of his room, and I was mechanically
guided by my subconscious self to Wharton Kendrick's
office.  In my bewilderment I came into collision
with a man who stood by the door, and begged
his pardon without getting an impression of his
personality.

"Why, God bless my soul, Hampden!  What's the
matter with you?  You run over a man without even
the politeness to call out 'Hi there!' and then you
look at him as though it was the first time you'd
ever set eyes on him.  Is this the day you pick out
to send your wits a-wool-gathering?  Where's Kendrick?
I see by the papers there was a row up at his
house last night, and he got a nasty knock on the
head."

It was General Wilson, looking more fiery and
self-important than ever.

"What's the matter?" he continued, slapping me
jovially on the back.  "Is Kendrick worse hurt than
the papers say?  You look as though the bank had
broken."

I told the general of the assault on Kendrick
and of his perilous condition, and the general puffed
out his red cheeks, blew out his breath with a noise
like a porpoise, and cursed the mob with a heartiness
and good will that was inspiring.

"Put me in charge of this town for twenty-four
hours, and I'd hang every mother's son of those
agitators higher than Haman," said the general,
when the ready stock of curses ran out.  "That's the
way to deal with 'em.  But cheer up!  Kendrick will
be all right in a few days."

I felt an inward shrinking from telling General
Wilson the rest of the woeful truth.  But the truth
would be the property of the street within an hour,
and it could not be made worse by trusting it to even
so garrulous a confidant as he.  Perhaps I had a faint
hope that the old campaigner might make a suggestion
that would help me out of my difficulties; but
the overmastering thought in my mind was that I
held the position of a conductor of a runaway train
that was plunging down a mountain grade to certain
wreck, and it did not matter what I did or said.  So
taking the general into Wharton Kendrick's office, I
told him my tale of the dishonored check.

He took it more calmly than I had expected.
"How much did you say he's overdrawn?" he asked
in businesslike tones.

"Five hundred thousand dollars."

"That was the deuce of a mistake for Kendrick to
make.  Can't you get him to correct it?"

I groaned out a miserable negative.

"I left there at half-past eight this morning," I
returned, "and he hadn't come out of the stupor that
I left him in last night."

General Wilson drew a prolonged whistle, and
looked grave.  Then he said:

"There's just one thing to do.  Get some of Kendrick's
friends to advance the half-million.  Deposit
it to his account.  Then the bank will pay your check.
Then you'll have the money, and can pay back the
advance inside of one minute."

"Half a million is a big sum," I said doubtingly.
"I don't know anybody who will put that up at short
notice."

General Wilson threw himself back in his chair
with an air of marvelous self-importance.

"Hang it, man!" he cried.  "Why don't you ask
me?  You don't suppose that General Wilson would
let his friend Kendrick go to the wall for want of a
trifling favor like that, do you?  I've a notion to be
insulted at not being asked--hang me if I haven't!"

I grasped his hand, and expressed my opinion of
his offer in dumb show.  There was a painful task
before me, however, and as it could not be postponed,
I hastened to perform it.

"You're a trump, General Wilson, but I can't
take up with your offer."

"Why not?"

"Because," I said slowly, "I can't pay back the
five hundred thousand if you advance it."

"What do you mean?" demanded General Wilson
in bewilderment.

"Well, I am afraid that the figures on the check
are correct."

"Correct?  How's that?"

"They are the figures of the balance of the syndicate's
fund deposited in Wharton Kendrick's hands.
They show the amount of money that ought to be in
the bank--and it isn't there."

General Wilson drew another long whistle, and
his face suddenly became grave again.

"Then he has used half a million of the
syndicate's money?"

"I suppose so."

"What in the name of common sense did he do
that for?" demanded the general irritably.

"I suppose he was sure he could make it up when
the time came," I said in feeble defense.

"They always are," said the general grimly.

"Oh, I have no doubt he had everything calculated
out to the last dollar," I returned.  "The only
thing he didn't calculate on was this knock on the
head.  If he was on his feet he would have the money
in five minutes."

"Well, I suppose he would," said the general.
"But he isn't on his feet, and what's the result?"

"The result is smash," said I with grim despair.
"Partridge, Nelson and Coleman will be here inside
of twenty minutes.  When they set foot inside
that door, Wharton Kendrick had better be dead."

General Wilson studied vacancy for a minute.
Then he said slowly:

"You said you got a power of attorney out of
Kendrick, didn't you?"

I handed him the paper I had drawn and Wharton
Kendrick had signed.

He studied it carefully, and then nodded his head
as though it met his approval.  At last he said:

"Well, then, there's a way out.  I was coming in
this morning to put through that swamp-land deal.
Why, you were at Kendrick's on Sunday when I told
him that he was going to accept eight hundred
thousand for that land, and he hemmed and hawed, and
told me to come in this morning.  Of course I could
see in his eye that he was going to take me up, but
he was playing coy.  Now I'll make you the offer I
would make him if he was here.  I'll pay you five
hundred thousand down, balance in thirty days, or
when deed passes."  He looked at me with a mixture
of business shrewdness and bluff friendship.

"I'll take the responsibility of accepting that
offer," I said promptly.  And General Wilson drew his
check and scribbled a few lines on a sheet of paper.

"Here, sign this receipt and memorandum of
agreement, and give me that power of attorney; I'll
have it recorded," he said.  "Now take that check
and get over to the bank as quick as the Lord'll let
you.  We'll make out the contract in due form this
afternoon, and I'll get that on record, too."  Then
he chuckled jovially, and gave me another slap on
the back as he added: "Stick to me, and I'll make
a Napoleon of Finance out of you yet, Hampden."

Until I felt the sudden rebound of my spirits when
I saw the check in my hand, I did not realize how
horribly I had been scared.  I was in a position to
appreciate the feelings of a man who felt his house
tumbling about his ears in a mighty earthquake, and
had waked to find it only a nightmare.  But I thanked
General Wilson calmly, and rushed hurriedly over
to the bank.  I had small difficulty in impressing the
president with the importance of haste; and the
account was cleared and entered in my name before
the opening hour.

As I returned to the office I met William T. Coleman
coming away.  His face was calm with resolute
strength, and his eyes carried the magnetic
inspiration of courage.

"I just looked in to tell you that I can't sit with
your committee for an hour or two," he said.  "I
have some other irons in the fire; but I'll be in later.
Partridge and Nelson are there now, and whatever
they approve will be satisfactory to me.  If you get
at loggerheads, send for me, and I'll come."

His manner more than his words put me in heart
with the assurance that I should not have to stand
alone in battle, and I hastened with fresh confidence
to take my place in the council.

"They're hammering things pretty hard on the
exchanges," said Partridge after greetings had been
made.  "Prices are holding up well, so far, but I
guess we'll have to put a brace under some of those
fellows inside of half an hour."  And with a clouded
brow he studied the strip that came from the ticker.

"Carey and Son are shaky," said Nelson.  "So are
Benbow and Johnson, and a dozen others.  And
worst of all we've got to put some more coin into
those confounded banks."

"It's like throwing the money away," groaned
Partridge.  "They can't put up collateral that a
gambler would look at."

Nelson adjusted his gold-rimmed eye-glasses to
look at his list of suspects, and gave his head a shake.

"Well, we've got to keep them afloat till these
troubles are over," he said with decision.

"And the infernal part of it is," said Partridge,
"that those fellows know it.  I'd give a thousand
dollars out of my own pocket, if we could let them drop
without hurting any one else."  And he resumed his
study of the ticker with an irritated face.

The noise of the shouting crowds that filled and
surrounded the exchanges floated up through the
windows, rising and falling like the roar of ocean
breakers.  There was a curious variation of quality
in the swelling volumes of sound.  Now it expressed
apprehension; now desperation; and again there was
the tonic roar of exultation rising above the lesser
cries.

We had not been in consultation ten minutes when
the first application for support came from a pale
but assertive man who tried to conceal his
desperation under an air of bluster.

"Manning, of Smith and Manning," whispered
Nelson to me, as the man entered the door.

He began to explain his business in roundabout
phrase.

"Never mind that, Manning," said Partridge.
"You're in the door, and you'll be squeezed if we
don't help you.  That's the long and short of it.  How
much are you in for, and what security can you
offer?  Let's see those papers.  They tell the story,
don't they?"

Manning wiped his forehead, with a sigh, and
looked relieved rather than hurt at Partridge's
abruptness.

"Five thousand will pull us through," he gasped.

"No it won't," said Partridge, running over the
papers.  "Here's another note for thirty-five hundred.
Einstein and Company won't wait.  This is a
pretty poor showing.  No wonder the bank wouldn't
carry you any longer!"

"We can get along all right if we get out of this
hole," pleaded Manning.

"Well, we'll take up these two claims on your note
for thirty days," said Partridge after a telegraphic
glance at Nelson and me.  "Sign here."

I made out the checks, and Manning, once more
putting on his blustering air as he would have put
on an overcoat, went out to face his enemies.

From this time on, there was a steady stream of
applicants, some frankly admitting their desperate
condition, some trying to conceal their fears under
an assumption of confidence.  But whatever of
pretense a man had covered himself with to enter our
office was ruthlessly stripped from him as soon as he
made his request for money.  For one minute of the
day, at least, he had to face the truth, and to see
himself as he was.  I soon discovered that Partridge's
judgment of commercial paper was quick and sure.
Nelson and I recognized our inferiority and
promptly deferred to his opinions.  Only once during
the day did we overrule him, and in that instance we
acted rather on an inspiration of mercy than on our
commercial judgment.

"His paper is no good, and he wouldn't carry anybody
else with him if he went to the wall," objected
Partridge, when the man we had insisted on saving
from ruin had gone out.

"The paper is bad," admitted Nelson, "but the
man is all right.  I like his looks."

"Yes," I added, "we have double the chance of
getting the money back from him that we have of
getting it from that fat, oily-tongued fellow who
stood us up for twenty thousand a few minutes ago."

I was pleased to remind Partridge of the incident a
few months later when our protégé redeemed his
obligation in full at the same time that the oily-tongued
heavy-weight compromised for thirty cents on the
dollar.

But despite this temporary disagreement I was
none the less ready to follow Partridge's judgment
on the cases that came before us.  And after the
cross-questioning of the applicant was over, Nelson
and I rarely refused a nod of assent to his inquiring
glance.  His comments ran something like this, as
the stream of the financially lame, halt and blind
passed before us:

"That's all tommyrot--you don't need the half of
that.  Seven thousand will pull you through.
Here! what do you mean by coming to us?  Any bank in
the city would take that collateral.  No.  Not a dollar
unless you will make over your stock to Nelson as
trustee.  Here! you'll have to get your brother to sign
that note.  Take it now.  He'll do it, when you tell
him that we won't touch it without.  That collateral
is no good; I know you've got better.  Don't waste
our time, unless you're willing to show it.  See
here! you'll need more than that.  What do you mean by
telling us that you owe only ten thousand when your
balance-sheet here calls for eighteen?  Come now, do
you think we are running a charity soup-house?
You've got unencumbered real estate; raise your
money on that."

We had been at this work close upon two hours
when William T. Coleman returned.  He brought a
list of merchants who would need assistance, and the
amounts that we might safely advance them.

"There's a very scary feeling outside," he said.
"There are all sorts of rumors about plots to burn
the city, and some men are foolish enough to say
that San Francisco is going to be worse than Pittsburgh."

"That's not impossible," said Nelson.

"I know there has been plenty of talk in the
anti-coolie clubs about burning the Pacific Mail
steamers," I said.  "But I don't think they will have the
courage for it."

"It's only a question of leadership," said Coleman,
"and that may develop at any minute.  A mob is a
queer creature.  You can't tell what it will do.  It is
a coward by itself, but it is often capable of great
courage when it has a leader--sometimes when it
thinks it has a leader."

"What we need is troops," said Nelson.  "I hope,
Coleman, that you will use your influence with
Bryant and Governor Irwin to get the militia called out.
They ought to ask for Federal troops.  There'll be
no nonsense where they are stationed.  They shoot
to kill."

"You might bring your plans before the citizens'
meeting this afternoon," said Coleman shortly.

Partridge had been studying the ticker intently,
and now growled:

"There's somebody raising the devil out there in
the stock-market.  He's got the El Dorado Bank
behind him by the looks of things, and he's whacking
at prices with a sledge-hammer."

The name of this modern practitioner in the black
art was on the tip of my tongue, but I kept it from
escaping.  If Wharton Kendrick had not revealed it
in the course of the previous raid, it was evidently
my cue to keep still.

The contest grew hotter as the day advanced.  The
waiting-room was filled with anxious men, and we
watched with concern the growing total of advances
we had been compelled to make.  The Sundown Bank
had to be rescued twice from imminent failure, and
two other banks called upon us for loans.  We had
groaned at the character of the collateral offered by
the Sundowners, but there was no help for it.  We
had to advance enough to keep their doors from
closing, or the wreck would have begun; and once under
way at this troublous juncture we saw no limit to
the ruin ahead.  But at last it was over.  Three o'clock
came, the banks closed, and rumor and fear could
only threaten of trouble to come.

"Well, there's a hard day gone," said Partridge
with a sigh of relief.

"And another one just beginning," said Coleman
placidly.

"How do we stand now?" asked Nelson.

"We paid out three million seven hundred and
ninety-eight thousand," I returned, glancing at the
figures.

"That leaves us--?"

"Three million five hundred and twenty-two thousand."

"That is too small a margin for safety," said
Coleman with decision.  "This thing isn't over yet.  I
thought we would have enough to carry us through,
but I see we must have more.  You'll have to get
out, Partridge, and you, too, Nelson, and see what
can be done in the way of raising more money."

"I suppose it has got to be done," said Partridge.
"We can't afford to go broke now."  And Nelson
nodded assent.

Coleman then turned to me: "It's time we were
going over to the citizens' meeting," he said.  "I've
promised to preside.  We are to meet in the Chamber
of Commerce rooms, over here."  And taking me by
the arm, he led me out of the office.

During the stress of the day's business, we had
come into close relations, and I had been more than
ever impressed with the vigorous sense of this man.
He displayed on that small field all the qualities of
leadership demanded in the management of a nation.
His resource and calm strength of mind inspired me
with an unwonted warmth of admiration, and I
could even then think only with regret of the ruler
and statesman who had been smothered into the
habit of a painstaking merchant.  The generous
emotions of hero-worship thrilled within me, and I was
delighted to find that my admiration was repaid with
a show of liking and confidence.

"There is one thing I am apprehensive about," he
said, as we climbed the stairs to the Chamber of
Commerce.  "This meeting is a necessary thing, but
it seems to have roused anxiety rather than allayed
it.  I hope that the speeches will be of a character to
inspire confidence in our ability to handle the situation.
If we don't inspire that confidence, we shall do
more mischief than good."

As we entered the hall, we saw that it was
already well filled with the solid men of the city.
Mayor Bryant was there with the chief of police.
General McComb nodded to me, and hastened to
speak to Coleman.  Members of the state and city
governments, bankers, merchants, and a sprinkling
of other classes of society were to be seen in the
groups about the room.

There was more of cheerful calmness about the
meeting than I had expected to find.  The fact that
these men were present was proof that they felt the
emergency to be grave; but their talk was flavored
with the saving salt of American humor that no
calamity can suppress, and inspired by the optimistic
American sentiment that "it will all come out right
somehow."

I had scarce found a seat when General McComb
with his most impressive military air called the
meeting to order.  When the company had been reduced
to silence, he continued:

"I have taken the liberty of sending out the
circulars that requested you to meet here for the
purpose of considering the safety of the city.  The
people see in Monday night's outbreak the dangers
that come when the passions of the mob are given
full sway.  An honored citizen has been struck down,
property has been destroyed, and threats of worse
things to come are heard on every side.  In this
emergency we should organize to give the city the
protection essential to its preservation.  We have
with us a man who has twice come forward to lead
the loyal citizens in the task of putting down the
lawless and criminal elements of the city.  I ask that
William T. Coleman be chosen as chairman of this
meeting."

The response left no doubt that Mr. Coleman was
the assembly's unanimous choice.  The men who had
gathered there looked toward him with as unquestioning
confidence as ever soldiers looked to their
captain.  And at the shout that answered General
McComb, he walked to the chair with the assured step
of a man accustomed to command.

"I thank you for your confidence," he said.  "I
have not thought, I do not think, that there is any
pressing danger.  But I recognize the moral value of
organization in times of disquiet, and I am here to
assist in putting the physical force of the city at the
disposition of the authorities.  I have not seen any
need for augmenting the military or police forces of
the city.  But General McComb and Mayor Bryant,
who have had better opportunities than I to observe
the situation, have thought differently.  Therefore
let us take precautions.  The people of this city have
proved through many trials that they are essentially
law-abiding.  But there is a dangerous element
here--an element of lawless young men who do not think
of results, and who do not shrink from violence.  If
I had not realized this fact before, I should have
been forced to acknowledge it when one of my
closest friends fell a victim last night to their anger.
But I have full confidence in the manhood of San
Francisco.  If the city is threatened by a rising of the
disorderly elements I am ready to assure the authorities
that a force of twenty thousand men can be
raised, if need be, for the defense of our homes and
property."

A silence followed the applause evoked by this
speech.  If the speaker expressed more confidence
than he felt, his words accomplished their purpose
of rousing the courage of the assembly before him.
Then a mild-faced man rose, and in halting voice
asked the privilege of putting a question.

"Mr. Chairman," he began, "why are not the
constituted authorities sufficient to cope with this
outbreak?  We have police.  We have a militia.  They
are the lawful arm of government to chastise the
evil-doer.  Why are they not competent to handle
the hoodlum mobs?"

General McComb was touched to the quick by the
question thus put, and rose with an air of military
dignity.

"I can answer for the militia," he said with some
asperity.  "There is no more loyal and competent
body anywhere than the one I have the honor to
command.  But the troops must be supported by the
assurance that they have the moral and physical
backing of law-abiding citizens.  That is why I have
asked you to meet us here.  I have no doubt you
would like to hear from our worthy mayor on the
needs of the city in this emergency."

Mayor Bryant got to his feet at this indirect
appeal, and a much troubled mayor he appeared.  I
doubted not from his expression that he would have
welcomed some plan by which his office might be
administered on the model of those German newspapers
whose editors delegate to some hireling the
responsibilities that lead to *lèse-majesté* and the jail,
and pursue their way undisturbed by thoughts of
consequences.

"I approve the proposed organization of citizens
to coöperate with the municipal authorities," he
began in halting and anxious tones.  "It will help us to
keep the peace.  But there wasn't so much violence
last night as some have thought.  The body of the
meeting was orderly.  The trouble came only from
the hoodlums who broke off from it in droves to
commit violence.  The responsible men of the labor
organizations who were present have called on me
to say that they had no idea that the hoodlums would
take advantage of the meeting to create disorder."

Several military men followed the mayor with
speeches of a fiery nature, and advocated stern
measures to subdue the riotous elements.  At these
outbursts of martial ardor I could see Coleman's mouth
tighten imperceptibly into lines of disapproval and
determination.  At last his growing impatience could
be restrained no longer, and he interrupted a
resplendent militia colonel who was in full flight of
an oration calling for "action at once."

"I understand this subject," said Coleman with
decision, "and you don't.  This is a matter that should
not be discussed too fully or too publicly.  But since
so much has been said, I will inform you, gentlemen,
that you don't know the mine you are standing
on.  The safety or destruction of the city hangs on
a pivot.  There must be more spirit shown by the
law-abiding elements, or the balance will turn
toward destruction.  There must be action, not talk.
I do not want to accuse anybody of lethargy, but the
fact is there are too many men who call for the
suppression of disorder, and then go home and leave
somebody else to attend to their protection.  The
men who most deserve protection are those who are
ready to take arms in their hands to get it."

"Well, what course would you advise this meeting
to take?" asked General McComb.

"Organize at once," said the chairman in vigorous
tones.  "Appoint a central committee--say of
twenty-four.  Then open rolls for men to sign,
pledging their persons and their money to protect the
wives, children and fortunes that are now at the
mercy of the mob."

This inspiring counsel brought the assembly to its
feet.  In a tumult of enthusiasm it was agreed that
the chairman should appoint the committee, and that
the work of organization should begin at once.  It
was over in another ten minutes.  Coleman named
the committee without hesitation, and after it had
held a brief session he announced that it had
reported in favor of immediate organization, and added:

"You are invited to put your hands to this instrument:

.. vspace:: 2
   
"'We, the undersigned citizens of San Francisco, do hereby
enroll ourselves as a General Committee of Safety, subject to
the requirements of the Special Committee of Twenty-Four,
of which William T. Coleman, Esq., is President, and we do
hereby bind ourselves to act with the committee to preserve
the peace and well-being of the city with our money and
persons.'

.. vspace:: 2

"You will be given directions where to assemble,
and what duties you are to perform.  I hope no
able-bodied citizen will fail to give us his services and
support."

At a significant gesture from the president, these
solid men of the city crowded about the secretary
to sign their names, and the Committee of Safety
was born.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE JUSTICE OF BIG SAM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE JUSTICE OF BIG SAM

.. vspace:: 2

"You seem to have done a good day's work," was
Miss Kendrick's comment on my brief account of
the commercial struggle, "and you'll make a business
man yet if you keep on.  I wish you could tell uncle
about it, but he's still unconscious."  And her lip
trembled at the sudden remembrance of Wharton
Kendrick's peril, until I thought for the moment that
she was going to burst into tears.  But she
commanded herself, and continued in steady voice:
"And now that you've done so well, I'll give one of
those reward-of-merit cards you used to get in
school.  It came this afternoon, and I'm dying to
know what's in it."  And she brought out a letter
addressed in fine Spencerian copperplate script to
"Mr. Hampden, the Lawyer of Mr. Kendrick's House on
Van Ness Avenue, San Francisco."

I read the address with some wonder, and Laura
Kendrick continued:

"Moon Ying says that funny little sign up in the
corner is Big Sam's seal; but he surely never wrote
that remarkable address.  I suppose it is by one of
his clerks."

At this, I hastily opened the envelope, and found
within a formal note:

.. vspace:: 2

Kwan Sam Suey requests the pleasure of Mr. Hampden's
company, at his office in Waverly Place, this evening, at as
early an hour as convenient.

.. vspace:: 2

I passed the note over to Miss Kendrick.

"It looks as though there was going to be a party,"
she said, "or a supper at the very least.  I hope you
won't overeat--or worse."

"Big Sam has never suggested such an idea as
eating or drinking, though I don't put it beyond him.
But he surely hasn't picked out this season of alarms
to give a reception.  So if you'll excuse me, I'll run
down to his place.  It may be something important."

"Of course you must go--and you must come
back, too.  I'm sure I can't sleep till I know what it's
about.  I shall be up most of the night, and so will
Mercy; so you needn't have qualms about ringing
the bell, even if you are later than late.  There will
be somebody to let you in."

"As I'd rather be here than anywhere else, I shan't
miss the chance to come back," I said boldly.

She ignored my words, and evaded my devouring
glances, and with a sage nod suggested that the
sooner I was on my way, the sooner I should have
a chance to come back.

As I went down the steps I was stricken with a
jealous pang to see Mr. Baldwin coming up with the
air of a conquering army.  He gave me a cool "Good
evening," and then asked, in his most superior
manner, if I were on my way to stir my friends to
further exertions.

"I have but one object in life," I returned in a
confidential tone, "and that is to put your particular
friend and client inside four stone walls where he
can't do any more harm.  And you can tell Mr. Bolton
so with my compliments, too."

From his muttered response, I gathered that my
reminder of his connection with Peter Bolton did
not give him unalloyed pleasure, and pleased with
the consciousness that I had given more than I had
received in the way of irritation, I went my way to
Chinatown.

There were abundant signs of unrest in both the
white and the yellow city.  Bands of hoodlums still
ranged the streets, and fought runaway actions with
the police.  Householders seemed in fear, and windows
that were customarily cheerful with lights now
looked with darkened shades upon the streets.

Chinatown was as forbidding as on the night of
my last visit, and such lights as were to be seen
shone through closed shutters and barred doors.
But despite the atmosphere of sullen hostility that
lay like a fog upon the district, I made my way
without interference to Waverly Place and rapped
on Big Sam's door.  My name secured prompt
admittance.  The door was unbarred for a moment for
my entrance, and promptly barred once more, and I
was led through a crowd of sullen, hostile-faced
hatchet-men to Big Sam's reception-hall.

The King of Chinatown sat by his desk in his
flowing robes of state, but rose and offered me his
hand as I entered.

"I thank you for your prompt attention, Mr. Hampden,"
he said, motioning me courteously to a
high-backed chair at his side.  I thought I could
detect a trace of worry in his eyes, but his face was as
impassive as ever.

"I am flattered to receive your invitation."

"It is not an idle one."

"I should be slow to believe so--especially after
the prompt fulfilment of your last prophecy."

"You have the eye of the reader of thoughts,"
said Big Sam with a faint smile.  "You speak of the
very point I wish to ask about.  I note by the papers
that you were attacked--or Mr. Kendrick, to be accurate."

"Oh, I was fortunate enough to share in it," I
said nonchalantly.

"Hardly a matter for congratulation, Mr. Hampden.
Kindly let me know what happened.  Was it
by my people, or--"

He paused, and I replied:

"We were attacked in front by the anti-Chinese
mob, three hundred or more strong, and in the rear
by a score or so of ruffians that I have reason to
suppose were hired by your people."

"I should be obliged for your reasons."

"They are at your service."  And I gave the
accumulated facts from Little John's attempt to drag
away the Chinese girl, to Danny Regan's identification
by Moon Ying.

As I set forth my tale, a certain fire of rage
kindled in Big Sam's face without disturbing the
impassivity of his features.  He seemed to grow larger,
and I could understand how great monarchs cause
men to tremble by something more than the physical
forces at their command.  Some subtle force irradiated
from the man, and only a strong will could
refuse to yield to the fear that he inspired.

As I ended my tale, he muttered, "The dogs--to
violate their word--to cross my orders--to risk
everything at this crisis!"

Then he clapped his hands, and two men appeared,
and after a few words vanished.

"I hope you will not object if I detain you for a
time," said Big Sam, relaxing something of his
anger.

"Not at all, if I can be of service."

"You mean that you would not stay as a social
diversion," he said with a faint smile.  "Well, you
can be of service, Mr. Hampden, and permit me in
the interval to offer you the hospitalities that should
pass between friends."  He gave his hands another
clap, and in a moment a servant entered bearing a
tray with a teapot and cups, and placed it before
Big Sam.  My host poured the tea as I exclaimed at
the beauty of the porcelain in the highly decorated
pot and the thin cups.

"I presume you prefer sugar and milk," said Big
Sam, hesitating.

If I had possessed an insatiable appetite for these
luxuries, the note of scorn in his voice would have
forbidden me to confess it.  But I had been dealing
with Chinese clients long enough, and had drunk tea
enough in Chinese fashion, to make it a matter of
indifference to me, and I gave him a cheerful negative.

"What an exquisite flavor!" I exclaimed, as I
sipped from the dainty cups.  "Where do you get
such tea?"

"I have it brought over by a special agent.  It is
not such as you can buy in the stores.  That you may
realize that you do not see all of China in the
externals we present in San Francisco, I will remind
you that you consider that you get a very good tea
when you pay two dollars a pound for it.  It is a
good tea.  But this that you are drinking costs eighty
dollars a pound in China.  You see we have a few
luxuries--possibly some that you would not recognize.
This is the tea of the gods, and I am pleased
to see that you do not profane its flavor."  The
servant had brought in another tray, and Big Sam
pressed me to eat of some preserved fish, which he
praised more highly than I thought it deserved, and
a fowl deliciously cooked with strange seasonings,
ending with Chinese sweetmeats and a dash of fine
Chinese brandy.  I ate without hesitation, for all my
suspicion of Chinese dishes, for I could believe that
the man who drank tea at eighty dollars a pound
would have nothing below the best.

And as we ate, Big Sam questioned me with a
devouring curiosity of my views on the relations of
China and the United States, on the future of the
Orient, on the possible waking of China, on the
destiny of the races, on the results of the anti-Chinese
agitation; and though he gave little expression to
his own views, he let drop many statesmanlike
observations that showed how deeply he had thought
upon these problems.  Then at a sound from without,
he had the trays cleared away, and the look of stern
anger came back to his face.

"Now, Mr. Hampden, is the time for your assistance,"
he said.  "I did not, as you may assume, invite
you here to talk politics.  That pleasure might
have waited till a less troubled time.  Matters of more
importance await us.  With your kind permission, we
shall hold a high court of justice."

I had ceased to be astonished at anything that
might happen in Big Sam's apartments.  I bowed
assent, and at a sharp rap on the desk, a score or more
of sullen-faced Chinese entered, and formed in line
along the walls.  Apparently they bore no arms, but
I judged from their expression that they belonged
to the notorious hatchet-men, and carried all the
paraphernalia of war under their loose blouses.
Then entered two men of stern aspect, who walked
with an air of command, and after greeting Big
Sam they were introduced to me as the presidents
of the Sare Bo and the See Yung tongs and were
given seats beside us.  Then at a curt order from Big
Sam, another door opened, and two men entered
dragging a protesting prisoner between them.

It was Little John, and by the fear that gleamed
in his eyes and set his chin a-tremble, his forecast
of the judgment of the high court of justice was
most grave.  He dropped to his knees, as he was
dragged in front of the desk and made to face us,
and beat his forehead on the floor with exclamations
of protest and appeals for mercy.  At a word from
Big Sam the guards brought him to his feet, and
Big Sam spoke briefly in Chinese.  Then he turned
to me.

"Is this the man, Mr. Hampden?"

"I have no doubt it is," I responded.

"Please repeat your story to these men," and he
indicated the two Chinese presidents who looked
with stern, impassive faces upon the trembling
wretch before us.

"You will understand that this is not evidence,"
I said.  "It is nothing that could be received in court,
as I speak for the most part by hearsay."

"Proceed," said Big Sam.  "Our justice is not
pinioned in the bonds of your rules of evidence."  And
I repeated the account of the first visit of Little
John, of his attempt to capture Moon Ying, of the
assault on the Kendrick house by Danny Regan's
ruffians, and Regan's identification by Moon Ying
as Little John's expressman.  From time to time Big
Sam acted as interpreter, though in the main the
Chinese appeared to understand me well enough.

The prisoner shook as with an ague at my disclosures,
and his coarse goatee fluttered in sympathy
with his flying heart.  A few questions were put to
him, and after admitting that he had visited the
Kendrick place, he turned to denial, and became glib in
his own defense.  Big Sam translated to me in an
undertone, and I could feel the anger in his voice
rising higher and higher at each prevarication.  At
last Big Sam sprang to his feet, and pointing at me,
thundered a question at Little John.

Little John hesitated, stumbled in his speech,
hastily denied his words, then stopped and looked about
him with evident realization that he was lost; and
with a scream of terror he would have fallen had
not the guards caught him and brought him roughly
to his feet.

"Mr. Hampden, what shall be done with this
man?" asked Big Sam.

"I have a warrant out for his arrest for disturbing
the peace.  I'm afraid I haven't evidence enough
to satisfy our courts on a higher charge."

"Well, this court is satisfied--you believe him
guilty, Mr. Hampden?"

"He is certainly guilty of attempted abduction."

He apparently put the same question to the two
stern-faced men beside us, and they gave assent in
brief phrases.

"The court is unanimous," said Big Sam.  "Guilty
of attempted abduction, violation of the bargain
between the tongs, sacrificing the interests of his race
to the interest of his tong by challenging the white
vengeance.  What should the penalty be, Mr. Hampden?"

"I think in our court he would get two years
for the attempted abduction, assuming that he was
convicted."

"A mild punishment, Mr. Hampden.  I do not
wonder that crime flourishes in your country with
justice so feeble.  But we have no prisons at our
command.  Death or exile or fine--these are the
punishments we can enforce."

I shuddered at his words and tone, but it seemed
impossible that we were discussing more than a
theoretical case.

"Do you mean to say that our judgment will be
carried out?" I cried.

"Certainly.  An example is necessary; an offense
has been committed; the guilty is before us for sentence."

"I should be satisfied with exile," I said, as Big
Sam's eye demanded my choice.

He spoke to the two stern-faced men beside us,
and at their answer turned to me.

"All but you, Mr. Hampden, favor death.  It is
less costly, and more effective."

"But he has not committed a capital offense," I
protested.

"It is a capital offense by the laws of his own land.
And if he had succeeded in burning Mr. Kendrick's
house and killing Mr. Kendrick's family, I understand
that it would have been a capital offense, even
by the emasculate laws of your country.  Is he the
less guilty that his accomplices failed in the parts he
had arranged for them?"

"Our laws give a lower punishment to the attempt
than to the completed offense," I objected.

"Thereby making the suffering of the innocent
and not the wickedness of the criminal the measure
of guilt," said Big Sam.  "It is enough.  Let the
sentence stand."  And with a few words to the men
who held the hapless Little John between them, the
prisoner was dragged protesting through one of the
mysterious doors of Big Sam's apartment, and
disappeared at a turn of the labyrinth.  Then with
ceremonious bows, the stern-faced presidents of the
tongs took their leave, and lastly Big Sam's
retainers filed out.

"Do you mean that this man is to be killed?" I
cried, when the doors had closed behind the departing.
"Why, he is not even the principal in the crime.
You have told me yourself that he is the
representative of the Hop Sing Tong."

"When we can not catch the shark, we catch the
pilot-fish," said Big Sam.

"But this is murder."

"Mr. Hampden," said Big Sam calmly, "this has
been a very unpleasant affair, but, believe me,
necessary.  Let us not discuss it further.  I have put it
from my mind.  I advise you to do the same.  Do you
believe that the organization of the Committee of
Safety will have any effect on the troubles in the
city?"

"I have every confidence in the man at the head
of it.  I believe it will be of material assistance in
suppressing disorder."

"The revolutionary elements are strong," said
Big Sam.  "I have information that there is to be an
armed outbreak to-morrow night.  Will the Committee
of Safety have its organization completed in
time to check it?  After that, it may be too late."

I wondered whether this warning had come from
Peter Bolton, but I saw the futility of asking such a
question of the man before me.  I could merely
express the hope that the huge task of enrolling,
arming and instructing the men who were flocking to
the Committee's leadership would be far enough
advanced to make it of service before a serious
outbreak occurred.

"If the Committee is overpowered, I presume we
shall be left to our own defense," said Big Sam.
"Well, we shall try to be ready.  Permit me to thank
you again for the pleasure of your company; and
good night."

The retainers who held Big Sam's store in force
looked at me impassively from their slant-eyes as I
went out, and they appeared undisturbed at the
scene that so many of them had witnessed.  But as
the door was closed and barred behind me, their
voices broke forth in a chatter of singsong tones that
revealed the excitement they had repressed to the
eye.  Big Sam's justice had at least impressed his
followers.

Once more in the streets, the scene in Big Sam's
hall seemed impossible, far away, of another world.
I studied my duties to the laws of my own land, as
I made my way through the darkened thoroughfares.
Should I interfere, and try to save the life of
Little John--even supposing that it was possible to
find him in the Chinese labyrinths?  Why?  Did he
not deserve his fate?  And as the picture of Laura
Kendrick crushed in the burning ruins of her house
rose before my mind's eye, I could not deny that the
world would be better off without the man who had
planned such a deed.  And with the conclusion to
leave Chinese justice to the Chinese, I made my way
back to the Kendrick house.

As I came up the steps, I was struck by the
coincidence of meeting Mr. Baldwin coming down, and
wished him a polite "Good night."  He halted in
evident anger, as though my words had been a
personal insult.  Then with a muttered "Go to the
devil!" he strode up the street.

These signs of perturbation upon the cold and
unemotional Baldwin were a portent to wonder at, and
I suspected that his visit had not been as happy as he
considered to be his desert.

Inside the house, I discovered some reflection of
the perturbation displayed by the retreating Baldwin.
Miss Kendrick's face was flushed, and I thought I
discovered traces of tears on her cheeks, and a
tendency to hysteric laughter, very foreign to her
nature.  Miss Fillmore was embracing her with
sympathetic attention as I entered.

"Men are such queer creatures," said Miss
Kendrick sagely, "and they do make themselves
ridiculous when--"

Then catching sight of me she uttered a cry of
dismay, and said:

"Why, what is the matter?  Is the house in danger
again from those shocking hoodlums?"  But she
recalled herself as soon as she spoke, and said: "Oh,
I remember now.  I am Miss Scatterbrain to-night.
What did Big Sam want?"

"He wished to assure me that there was no further
danger from Little John," I returned, with
prudent reserve.

She looked at me suspiciously, as though she
detected something behind my words.

"Do you believe him?"

"I have no doubt of his good faith."

"Well, that's one relief.  But just the same Moon
Ying doesn't go outside this house till all the
troubles are over."

"Is there any fighting to-night?" asked Mercy
anxiously.

"Only a few hoodlums.  I think we shall get
through the night without serious trouble, and
to-morrow the Vigilantes will be organized.  Then the
city can sleep in peace."

"Well, I hope so," said Laura, and Mercy breathed
an assent.  "I feel as though I hadn't slept for a
week.  And now you go and get some sleep yourself,
for you're going to have a hard day to-morrow."

Between the recollections of business, of Big
Sam's justice, and of Laura Kendrick, sleep was long
in coming.  Yet of all problems that kept my mind
in ferment, the most disturbing was "What
happened to Baldwin?"  And after arguing myself to
the pleasing conclusion that he had, in his most
superior manner, put his fate to the test, and had
fallen from the full height of his self-esteem to the
bottomless pit of rejection, I fell into dreamless
slumber.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FACING A CRISIS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center medium bold

   FACING A CRISIS

.. vspace:: 2

As I neared the office on the following morning in
some depression of spirits at the reports from
Wharton Kendrick's bedside, I heard my name called, and
turned to find Parks signaling me.  His face was
alight with self-importance, his hair stood out with
electric aggressiveness, and he seemed to tremble
with superfluous energy, like a superheated boiler.

"You should have stayed to the rest of our meeting
on last Monday night," he said abruptly.  "We
succeeded in strengthening our cause among the
working-people, even though the misguided violence
of a few young men interfered with our plans for
freeing the people from their oppressors."

"I had other business than listening to speeches."

"Sir," he cried, "you do wrong to speak with
contempt of those appeals that rouse men to a
knowledge of their rights and their powers.  I want you
to be with us again to-night.  We are to hold another
meeting on the New City Hall lots, as you will see
by this circular."  And he waved a number of sheets
that called upon all men to "Rally, Rally!" at the
"Great Anti-Coolie Mass Meeting" at eight o'clock.

"Another meeting!" I exclaimed.  "You are very
indiscreet to hold it at this time."

"Not at all," returned Parks enthusiastically.
"Now is the time.  We must take advantage of the
roused feelings of the people.  The outbreak the other
night came to nothing because it was but an ebullition
of misdirected energy.  But it was prompted by
a generous desire for action that would free the
people, and had we been prepared to take advantage of
the opportunity, the strength that for want of
intelligent leadership was wasted in profitless attacks on
Chinese wash-houses would have put us in possession
of the city government."

"Do you think you are prepared now?"

"We are ready to seize the opportunities that
fortune may offer."

"Why, you're not so absurd as to suppose that you
can seize the government now," I said.  "Even
supposing you might have done something the other
night--which I don't think you could--the time has
gone by.  The city is roused.  The Committee of
Safety is organized.  The militia is under arms.
You will certainly land in jail if you make a move,
and if you're locked up, there will be one very
unhappy girl in this city.  For her sake, Parks, keep
out of this affair."

"Sir," said Parks, his aggressive manner a little
softened, "I am committed.  I can not in honor draw
back, even to please the best of women.  But you
underestimate our strength.  The Committee of
Safety itself springs from the people, and will
assist, not hinder, our movement.  The militia is
recruited from the same class, and will not fire on the
people at the command of plutocracy.  We shall meet
and we shall triumph.  Be with us to-night, at eight
sharp."  And he hurried on.

A second warning of the intended meeting came
from Clark, who was lying in wait for me at the
office door.

"Parks just told me about it," I said.  "What are
they going to do?"

"Why, the men of the Council are talking about
taking possession of the city government, but the
talk of the men around town runs to burning the
Pacific Mail docks and the steamers, and running
the Chinese out of Chinatown."

"Burning the Mail steamers!" I cried.

"Yes.  We've got word that the *City of Tokio* is
in with a cargo of a thousand coolies, and the men
say that the only way to stop them from landing is to
burn them in the steamer, and make an end of the
docks.  Anyhow, if they don't do that, they'll do
something else that's likely to be as bad.  Waldorf
and Reddick held up Bolton in his office last night
and got more money out of him--ten thousand or
twenty thousand dollars, I don't know which--so
they are in funds to organize trouble."

This information seemed to call for action, but I
could think of nothing better to do than to order
Clark to engage a dozen more stout fellows to be on
guard at the Kendrick place in case the mob should
pay it another visit.  And this done, I walked with
some perturbance of mind into the office.

Nelson soon arrived, carefully groomed, fresh-shaven,
his side-whiskers trimmed, and his eyeglasses
heightening his air of authority, and greeted
me with more consideration than he had shown
yesterday.  A few minutes later Partridge followed in
more free and easy fashion.

"I met Coleman on the street just now," said
Partridge.  "He's too busy with his Vigilantes to do
much with us to-day."

"I hope he'll get his twenty thousand men and
drive every hoodlum out of town," said Nelson.  "Is
it true that Kendrick is going to die?"

My heart climbed into my throat at this disturbing
question.  The business as well as the personal
reasons that would make his death a calamity had led
me to put this thought rigorously out of my mind,
and it was an emotional shock to be compelled to
face it.

"I can't think so," I replied, as soon as I could
command my voice.  "But I'm sorry to say he is no
better.  When I left the house this morning, he was
still unconscious."

"I heard he had no chance," said Nelson, "but I
hoped it wasn't so."

For a moment I lost the firmness of mind that had
supported me in the trials of the situation.  Between
the affection I had conceived for Wharton Kendrick
and the thought of the confusion in which his
affairs would be left, the apprehension of his death
threw me into mental distraction.  I was recalled by
the voice of Partridge:

"Well, we must get down to business.  Here's a
list of men who will call for loans.  There'll be plenty
of others.  By the way, Hampden, I got pledges of
seven hundred and twenty-five thousand more to
go into the pool.  You can deposit it, if you like, with
the rest of the syndicate fund."  And he tossed me
a bundle of checks.

This simple act of confidence pleased me more
than words.  These men treated me as one of them.
I was trusted as Wharton Kendrick would have
been trusted under the same circumstances, and at
this certificate of confidence I was warmed by a
pardonable glow of pride.

The morning was a repetition of its predecessor,
as the elements of the city's commercial woes trickled
in concentrated form through the office.  It was a
depressing business, as the line of embarrassed
merchants, brokers and speculators passed rapidly
before us.  Some were snatched from the brink of ruin.
Some were sent about their business as frauds, seeking
to use the syndicate's funds in speculation.  Some--too
unimportant to affect the commercial fabric
in their failure--were left to stand or fall as their
own strength should determine.

"I never supposed there was so much rotten timber
afloat," said Partridge.

William T. Coleman joined us at the lunch hour,
and the sight of his face, masterful and calm,
renewed our spirits.

"You are keeping things pretty near even in the
markets," he said.  "We shall weather the gale if
there isn't another outbreak."

"Well, that's on the cards," I said.  "The circulars
are out for another meeting on the sand-lots."

"Come with me, and tell what you know about
this, while we have a bite of lunch," he said.

I was more than pleased at this request, but looked
doubtfully at the accumulation of papers before us
with the feeling that I was the indispensable man at
the desk.  Coleman interpreted my unspoken
thought, and said:

"Oh, sign a dozen checks in blank, and Partridge
and Nelson can attend to everything necessary while
you are gone."

I was reluctant to surrender my place as dispenser
of fortune, even for a brief space of time.  The
position of a financial magnate in a period of storm and
stress was not one that I could conscientiously
describe as free from anxieties and perturbations.  But
it was clothed with power, and power possesses a
fascination of its own.  Monarchs do not abdicate,
except under compulsion; and even among minor
office-holders, whose mastership is far more limited
than that of a millionaire in business, we have the
word of a president that "few die and none resign."  But
at the compelling glance of William T. Coleman
I signed my name to twelve checks, and said that I
was happy to attend him.

During our hasty luncheon I told of the warning
of coming outbreak that had been given me by Big
Sam, of the words of Parks, and of the information
I had received from Clark.  Then, at his inquiries,
I told all that I knew of the Council of Nine--its
organization from among the anarchists, socialists
and communists, its visionary idea of seizing the city
government, and the manner in which it was using
the anti-Chinese agitation to secure the physical
force to bring about its revolutionary ends.

"You think the anti-Chinese leaders are being used
without their knowledge?" asked Coleman thoughtfully.

"To a large extent, yes.  They know, of course,
that these men have wider designs, but they do not
take them seriously."

"Nevertheless," said Coleman, "they may prove
dangerous in a crisis like this.  They have the
reckless courage of leadership that may turn a mob into
a destroying body.  We must do everything we can
to hasten the enrollment and organization of the
Committee of Safety's forces.  By the way, have you
signed the roll yet?"

"No.  I haven't had time to think of it."

"This will never do.  You are a leading citizen
now and must set a good example.  Come with me.
We have our headquarters in the Chamber of
Commerce rooms for the day, but at night we shall
assemble in Horticultural Hall.  We are going to have
a big force, and must have a big armory."

The assembly hall of the Chamber of Commerce
was fitted up with desks, and a score of clerks were
busy with books and papers.  Two or three hundred
men had gathered in the hall, and the clerks were
surrounded by confused but orderly groups.
Coleman led me to one of the desks, and I signed my
name while he himself pinned on my coat the badge
of the Vigilantes.

As I wrote, I was astonished to see a dozen lines
above my pen the signature of Peter Bolton, and it
struck fire to my anger that the arch-conspirator--the
man who had inspired the disorder that threatened
the city--should have enrolled his name among
those who pledged their lives and fortunes to its
defense.  I gave a quick look about the room with the
thought that I should discover the spare face and
sardonic smile of the curmudgeon enjoying the
flutter into which he had thrown the solid men of the
city.  But he was nowhere to be seen, and I debated
whether I should call Mr. Coleman's attention to the
matter; but as I remembered that Wharton
Kendrick had checked a mention of Bolton's name in
Coleman's own house, and saw no present purpose
to be served by the discovery, I followed the sound
rule of keeping my mouth shut.  And as William
T. Coleman retired to the office of the Committee of
Twenty-four, I returned to my duties.

On entering the door of my office I was given a
shock of surprise.  A man of spare figure, tall, with
bowed and narrow shoulders, sat facing Partridge
and Nelson, and presented only his back to my
view; but the back was unmistakably the back of
Peter Bolton.  Nelson leaned forward, watching
him with close attention, while Partridge was
running rapidly through a bundle of papers.

"I've got to have the money," were the first words
that came to me in Peter Bolton's complaining
voice.  "Here are the securities--pretty good
securities, too--better than you took from Packenham,
or Hooper, or a dozen others--ten times as
good as you took from the Sundown Bank."

Partridge swiftly sorted the papers into two
packets.  The larger one he threw across the desk to
Bolton.

"The banks will take those," he said with crisp
brevity.  "We can advance three hundred thousand
on the others, if necessary.  What do you want to
do with the money?"

Peter Bolton gave his head a slow shake.

"I've got to save myself from going under," he
said in a whining tone.  "I've got notes to pay, and
three hundred thousand dollars won't cover them.
I ought to have a million."

"Let's see the statement of your liabilities," said
Partridge.

Peter Bolton fumbled in his inside coat pocket,
brought out a large pocket-book, untied the string
with which he had secured it, and then looked
through its bulging compartments.

"I don't like to show it," he complained.  "It's
Private Business, and I don't like to trust any one
with my Private Business."

"Suit yourself," said Partridge.  "Try some other
place if you like."

Peter Bolton's trembling hand brought out a sheet
of paper from one of the recesses of the pocket-book,
and passed it over to Partridge.

"There it is," he said.  "You can see I've got to
have money right away.  If I don't pay them notes,
I'll be posted on the Exchange; and you can't afford
to have that happen.  If I go down, there'll be such
a smash in the markets as you've never seen.  I
shan't go down alone."

Partridge rapidly drew his pencil through several
of the items of Peter Bolton's statement.

"Those will renew," he said.  "You can get four
hundred thousand from the banks on the securities
you have in your hand.  Three hundred thousand
will be enough for us to let you have.  It will see
you through."

"I don't see how I am to get along without more
than that," said Peter Bolton, with a slow shake of
the head.  "But I'll do the best I can with it."  He
gave the outward evidences of dissatisfaction, but
there was an undertone of triumph in his voice,
inaudible to any ear but mine.

I had listened thus far without an attempt to
interrupt.  I was curious to see what plea Peter Bolton
would make in support of his audacious attempt to
turn the syndicate's money against the syndicate's
objects; and it had not occurred to me as possible
that Partridge and Nelson would fail to penetrate
his scheme.  I forgot for the moment that my
colleagues were not informed of the purposes of the
arch-plotter, and it was therefore with something
of a shock that I heard Partridge consent to put
three hundred thousand dollars into Bolton's hands,
and saw Nelson dip his pen in ink to fill out the
check.

"I beg pardon," I said, stepping forward, "but I
think it will be better to hold that money."

At the sound of my voice Peter Bolton gave a
violent start, and for a moment his face turned ashy
gray, as he seized the arms of the chair to support
himself.  Then with an effort he recovered his
self-possession, and gave me a nod that was meant to be
ingratiating.

"Well," said Partridge, "if you'd like to look over
Mr. Bolton's papers, here they are."

I waved them away.

"I don't doubt your judgment on the securities.
It is beyond question.  I merely object to making the
loan at all."

Peter Bolton raised his hand, threw back his head
with open mouth, and spoke in his most sarcastic
drawl.

"Some Young Men like to interfere with Other
Men's Business.  But all that has been discussed.
The matter is settled."

I took up the signed checks that lay before Nelson
and replied:

"Oh, no; there are several points to be explained
before we go further."

"We haven't time to run a debating club," said
Nelson, a little huffed by my strategic move in
securing the checks.  "We have consented to the loan
for excellent reasons.  Mr. Bolton's failure would
be certain to start the panic we have been staving off
for two days."

"Very true.  But Mr. Bolton is unduly anxious.
He is in no more danger of failing than the Bank of
California."

Peter Bolton turned on me with suppressed anger
glowing in his eyes, and drew down the corners of
his mouth in a sarcastic snarl.

"Maybe, young man, you know more about My
Business than I know."

"I shouldn't put it that way," I retorted.  "I
should say that I know more about your business
than you are ready to tell."

Peter Bolton drew down the corners of his mouth
again and turned to Partridge with the air of
putting me aside.

"Young Men have Strange Ideas," he drawled,
"but you are Men of Experience, and you know
what it means to refuse this loan.  If you are sure a
Panic would help your Business, why, all you have
to do is to say I can't have the money.  If I don't
get it, I'll be posted on the Exchange this afternoon."

"And I warn you that Mr. Bolton is perfectly
solvent," I said.

Partridge rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and
Nelson studied the floor in perplexity.

"I am inclined to overrule Mr. Hampden in this
matter," said Partridge; "but he represents
Mr. Kendrick, and I don't wish to go in flat opposition
to his judgment."

Peter Bolton gave me a malignant glance.

"Judgment! judgment!" he exclaimed in his most
sarcastic drawl.  "The Young Man knows that
Kendrick and I haven't been on good terms, and he
thinks he can Curry Favor by ruining me.  But if I
can have a word with him, I can convince him it's
to Kendrick's interest to keep me afloat this time."  And
seizing my arm, he attempted to draw me to the
other end of the room.

"I don't care to hear anything you can't say before
these gentlemen," I replied.

"Come just a minute," he persisted, with a wheedling
tone in his voice, and drew me to a farther corner.
Then he said in a low, eager tone: "It will be
fifty thousand dollars in your pocket if you say yes."

"No!" was my curt reply.

"It will be cash," he urged.  "You can hold the
money out from the advance from the committee.
You'll be perfectly safe."

"No!" I repeated, with the emphasis of disgust,
and walked swiftly back to the desk.  For an instant
I had the resolve to explain to my fellow-members
the offense that Peter Bolton had proposed.  But an
uneasy conscience reminded me that I had brought
it upon myself, and instead of revealing the
shameless offer, I said sharply:

"I ought to have saved time by telling you at the
first that nothing could serve this man's profit so
well as a panic.  He above all other men is
responsible for the present troubles, and any money
advanced to him will be used against the interests
we are here to protect."

Peter Bolton's hand trembled, and a look of
desperation came into his eyes.  Otherwise he gave
no sign of lessening self-possession.

"It's a lie, it's a lie!" he cried.  "I shall be
ruined."  Nelson turned to me.

"That is a very serious assertion.  You should be
certain of your ground to make such a charge."

"He can't prove it.  It's a lie!" repeated Peter
Bolton eagerly.

"Mr. Bolton is the father of the present crisis,"
I said.  "He is the financial backer of the agitators
that the Committee of Safety has been organized to
put down.  It was not so much as two weeks ago
that he paid thirty thousand dollars to the Council
of Nine."

Peter Bolton attempted to resume his sarcastic
air, and drew down the corners of his mouth into
his sardonic mask, though his lip trembled with the
effort.

"You can't believe lies like that," he said, in
appeal to Partridge and Nelson.

"And last night," I continued, "he received two
members of the Council of Nine in his office, and
paid them a sum of money that I believe was ten
thousand dollars.  It may have been twenty.  An
armed outbreak is planned for to-night.  If it comes,
there stands the man who furnished the money for
it."  And I pointed an accusing finger at the spare,
bent form of the arch-conspirator.

At this evidence of the accuracy of my information,
the sallow face of Peter Bolton once more
turned to an ashy gray, and he looked from side to
side as though seeking some avenue of escape.  Then
he faced me.

"You're talking nonsense," he cried with tense
determination in his voice.  "Nobody will believe
you.  You ought to be sent to the asylum."

I looked into his eyes.

"Waldorf and Parks are within call," I said with
calm and assured mendacity.  "Shall I bring them in?"

Peter Bolton dropped his eyes, trembled as he
stood silent for a moment, then seized his papers
and walked to the door.  As his hand was on the
knob, he turned and shook his fist at us.

"I'll smash you yet!" he cried in a harsh voice,
his anger getting the better of his fears.  "I'll smash
you and that scoundrel Kendrick.  I'll grind the
whole pack of you down into the dirt."  And he went
out with unexpected nimbleness, and slammed the
door behind him.

I looked at my associates with a word of
self-congratulation on my tongue.  But the shamed and
apologetic air with which they studied the
documents before them stopped my mouth.  It was
evident that they needed no one to inform them that
they had been gulled by Peter Bolton, and I had the
discretion to perceive that the temper of the office
would not be improved by discussion of the
circumstances.  So I took my seat without a word.

The stream of imperiled merchants again trickled
through the room, and for an hour we worked
rapidly and with exemplary harmony.  The self-esteem
of Partridge, cut down by the treacherous hand of
Peter Bolton, spread and blossomed once more as
his skill in estimating the value of securities and the
needs of borrowers was put to the test and proved
without flaw.  The phlegmatic Nelson had shown his
discomposure for but a moment, so we were again
upon a footing of close confidence.

It was half-past two when Brown, Wharton Kendrick's
head clerk, peered in at the door and beckoned
to me with a face full of trouble.  I made some
excuse, and followed him to his office.  He closed
and locked the door and looked at me in silent dismay.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"We're ruined!" he gasped.

"What's that?" I cried.

"We must close the doors--unless you have three
hundred and fifty thousand," he whispered slowly.

He looked at me with the white face and colorless
lips of a man in the final stages of nausea.  The
misfortunes of Wharton Kendrick were taken to heart
by at least one man.

"It's some of Mr. Kendrick's notes," he said.
"They've just been presented.  There's four hundred
and fifty thousand of them altogether--lacking a
few hundreds, and all the money we've got is a little
over one hundred thousand."

"Where do these notes come from?  Who presents them?"

"They are made out to different persons; but they
are presented by the El Dorado Bank."

"Didn't Mr. Kendrick make any provision to
meet them?"

"Maybe he did--I suppose so, for some of them
are three weeks overdue.  But he never said
anything to me about them."

"Let me see them."

The bank's messenger was brought in, and I
scrutinized the notes he presented.  They were on
their face made payable to a dozen or more men--some
to one, some to another--but all had been
indorsed to Peter Bolton.

There was no time to waste in lamentations, and
there was but one resource in sight.  I bade the
messenger wait a minute, and hastened back to the
syndicate's office.

"Here are three checks for you to sign," said
Partridge.  "The men are waiting for them in the
anteroom."

They were for but small amounts, and I hastily
added my name to the slips.

"I have something more important yet to lay
before you," I said boldly.  "I want three hundred
and fifty thousand dollars."

"What's that?" cried Partridge.

Nelson looked too shocked for words, and I
repeated my request.

"What do you want it for?" demanded Partridge.

"Gentlemen," I replied, "I am sorry to say that
we are face to face with the greatest danger we have
yet met.  Peter Bolton has made good his threat.
He has struck quick and hard.  He has presented for
payment through the El Dorado Bank nearly four
hundred and fifty thousand of Wharton Kendrick's
notes, and there is only one hundred thousand in
the house to pay them with.  I must ask you for the
balance."

Partridge drew a whistle of surprise, and Nelson
turned pale.

"The old fox!" cried Nelson.  "We might have
known he was up to mischief."

"And he put them in through the El Dorado
Bank," said Partridge reflectively.  "I wonder if he
is with the bank's wrecking combination."

"He is at the head of it," I said.

Partridge drummed on the desk with nervous
fingers, and his face took on a grim look.  As
neither of my associates spoke, I said:

"Well, there can be no doubt of our duty to
support Wharton Kendrick in this emergency."

"Of course not," said Partridge.  "What security
can you offer?"

"Haven't the least idea," I replied curtly.

"You'd better make us a general assignment,"
said Nelson.  "I suppose that will cover it."

"I couldn't think of doing such a thing," I replied,
restraining my indignation with an effort.  "A
note will have to do."

"It's a very irregular proposition," said Nelson.
"Even the Sundown Bank has put up a pretense of
collateral."

"Well," I returned, "as a business proposition,
wouldn't you rather hold Wharton Kendrick's note
than the Sundown Bank's collateral?"

"Yes, of course--provided Wharton Kendrick
lives.  But Wharton Kendrick is likely to die.  The
question we have to consider is, What will his note
be worth in the Probate Court?"

"You see how it is," said Partridge, with the
patient air of one instructing a novice.  "If you
haven't anything to pledge, why, an assignment is
the thing."

I faced my associates with the determination to
yield nothing.

"I act on the assumption that Wharton Kendrick
will get well," I replied.  "And if he gets well only
to find that I have made a general assignment of his
business, how much further do you suppose he will
trust me with his affairs?"

"That's all right for you," said Partridge.  "But
how shall we look when we present our account to
the syndicate and show that we have loaned one of
our members three hundred and fifty thousand
without security?  How long do you think it would be
before we got a chance to handle any more of their
money?  We'd be waiting till the next day after
never, I guess."

The knot of circumstances seemed to be pretty
firmly tangled, and I saw no way but to cut it by a
bold stroke.

"I don't want to act without your consent--" I
began.

"You have no right to act without our consent,"
interrupted Partridge, with quick insight into my resolve.

"Right or not, I have the power.  And you will be
relieved of responsibility if I pay the money without
your consent."

"You wouldn't do that!" cried Nelson and Partridge
in a breath, their faces showing signs of rising
temper.

"I certainly shall do it before I see Wharton
Kendrick's notes go to protest and a financial panic
start in San Francisco."

Partridge and Nelson looked at me with concern
and anger pictured on their faces.  But before either
could speak, the door opened and William T. Coleman
entered.

"You're just in time, Coleman," said Partridge
explosively.  "See if you can't put reason into this
young man's head."

"What's the trouble?" asked Coleman, looking
calmly at the flushed and angry countenances before him.

Partridge and I attempted to explain our positions
at the same time, but Coleman picked out the
facts from the confusion, and with a few tactful
questions had the situation clearly in his mind.

"The solution is very simple," he said.  "Wharton
Kendrick subscribed five hundred thousand to the
syndicate.  Mr. Hampden will assign us three
hundred and fifty thousand out of that sum, and we
shall be perfectly protected."

Coleman's plan was so logical and businesslike a
way out of our difficulties that I breathed a sigh
of relief, and the anger of my associates evaporated
in a laugh at our stupidity in not thinking of it for
ourselves.

"How much does that leave in the fund?" asked
Coleman, when I had taken up the notes, and sent
the clerk on his way.

"A trifle over twenty-three thousand."

"Gentlemen," said Partridge, rising with a theatric
gesture, "the syndicate retires from business.
Thank Heaven it is striking three."

"And what of to-morrow?" I asked.

Partridge shrugged his shoulders.

"I wish to God I knew," he said.





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.. _`ON THE PRECIPICE`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI


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   ON THE PRECIPICE

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The air of gloom that enveloped Wharton Kendrick's
home was almost physical in its intensity.
It was with apprehension that I awaited the opening
of the door, and it was with anxious eagerness that
I looked to Mercy Fillmore as she stood behind the
servant who answered my ring.

"Oh, Mr. Hampden," she exclaimed, as she advanced
and gave me her hand, "I have been wishing
you would come."

I was gratified at the tone of relief and confidence
with which she spoke, but my response was to ask
of the condition of Wharton Kendrick.

"He is still out of his head," she replied, dropping
into a seat.  "Sometimes he talks a little--a few
broken words--but most of the time he lies there
silent, with vacant eyes.  If it were not for his
heavy breathing we should hardly know that he was
alive."  Her sympathetic face was filled with
concern as she spoke.

"What does the doctor say?"

"He tries to look cheerful and speak confidently,
but it is such an effort, I am afraid.  Yet for Laura's
sake I hope, and try to be convinced by the doctor's
words."  Then she added quickly: "I said I wanted
to see you.  Mr. Parks was here to-day.  We had a
long talk, and truly, Mr. Hampden, I want you to
believe that he is a man of noble impulses.  He is so
unselfish, so eager for the good of others."

"I don't complain about his instincts.  His heart
is in the right place, as the saying goes, but his head
is upside down."

"Oh, Mr. Hampden, you do not understand him!"
said Mercy in a pained voice.

"Perhaps not; but surely he has not convinced
you that he is wise to engage in such desperate
enterprises as the overthrow of the government?"

Mercy was silent a little, and then she said:

"I should be glad if he could see some other way
to work for the good of the people, but I am not
wise myself, so how can I judge him?  He tells me
that it is not right to reason from womanly fears.
Do you think he is in danger, Mr. Hampden?  He
is planning some important enterprise for to-night.
Is there anything we can do to save him?"

My private opinion was that Parks would end
by getting shot or thrown into jail.  But I could not
pain Mercy with any such brutal statements, so I
soothed her fears as best I could.  "We can't
influence him to keep out of the movement," I said,
"but ten to one it won't amount to anything but a
lot of oratory, and hard words break no bones.  You
have no cause to worry about him."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so," said Mercy,
looking relieved.  "And now I want to tell you
about Danny Regan.  You know that Moon Ying
recognized him as that old Chinaman's express-man?"

"Yes.  She told me."

"Well, I talked to him until he confessed the
whole plot to me.  It began last week, after a good
deal of bargaining, when he agreed to steal the girl.
He came late one night with two others, and
thought there would be nobody watching the house.
But your men surprised them coming over the fence,
and caught Danny's friend.  He is the sergeant-at-arms
of an anti-coolie club, he said.  Danny and the
other one got away.  Then Danny came around in
the daytime, and pretended to be a tramp, and got
something to eat and talked everything out of the
cook.  She told him all about Moon Ying, and where
she slept, and Danny raised a company to attack the
house.  He was going to set it on fire, and capture
the girl as we all ran out, and when the hoodlums
came in front, he thought it would be easy.  I asked
him how he could do such a thing, and his excuse
was that he was drunk.  He wants to know if you
are going to have him arrested, and tries to lay the
blame on the Chinaman he calls Little John.  Do
you intend to put him in jail?"

"I can't think of a better place for him.  How
soon can he be moved?"

"I suppose he ought to be punished.  But he has
suffered much for his crime, and now appears to be
truly repentant.  And at best he can not well be
moved until next week.  Don't you think we might
forgive him?"

"No, I don't.  You and Miss Laura might have
been killed.  I am angrier every time I think of it.
Where is she now?"

"She is with Mr. Kendrick.  She has hardly left
his side to-day.  She gave ten minutes to Moon
Ying--it's a blessing that our little protégée is
getting able to help herself--and she gave about as
much more to looking after the house.  The rest of
the day she has spent with her uncle."

"I should say, then, that it was about time she
took some rest."

"Well," said Mercy, rising, "I hope you can convince
her of it.  I'll tell her you are here."  And she
left me alone.

It was ten minutes before the door opened and
Miss Kendrick entered.  I greeted her with some
surprise, for she was dressed as though she had just
come in from the street.

"Oh, you needn't look so astonished," she said, as
she gave me her hand with a tired smile.  "I haven't
been out of the house to-day, so I thought I'd enlist
your services as cavalier.  I'm dying for a breath of
fresh air."

"I'm glad to find you with some spirit left.  I
was afraid you would be dead."

"I am," she returned, leading the way out of the
door.  "But I shall be alive after a little walk.  I
don't like being a ghost, but it's much more tolerable
than one would suppose before trying it."

She was in no mood to make conversation, and
walked by my side for a while without speaking.
But there was such an air of confidence in her
manner, such unspoken expression of comradeship in
her attitude, that I was content to follow her
example and find satisfaction in the silent communion and
feel delight at the pressure of her hand upon my
arm.  We had walked a few blocks thus before she
said, with an abruptness that startled me:

"Tell me about to-day."

I had been thinking of far more agreeable things
than business, but I recovered myself from the
momentary confusion into which I was thrown, and
replied:

"It was a very lively day indeed."  And, once
started, I described, with such entertaining details
as I could recall, some of the incidents of our
struggle to keep the car of commerce on the track.

"I didn't mean all that," she said at last.  "It's
very amusing, but I'm not in the mood to be amused.
Neither are you.  What I want to know about is
uncle's business."

"Well, as for that," I replied, "we got through
another day safely.  We had one or two exceedingly
tight pinches, but we wriggled out all right.  I guess
the worst of it is over, and we shall pull through in
good shape."

She dropped my arm with an impatient gesture,
and I felt a sudden breaking of the current of silent
communication that had drawn us together.

"Won't you tell me just what happened at the
office to-day, and just how we stand?  Didn't I tell
you that I find nothing so terrible as uncertainty?
It is the unknown that scares me.  Let me see what
is before me, and I'll have the courage to face it.
Tell me the truth as you would tell it to uncle if you
were talking to him instead of to me."  Her tone was
so pleading that my heart melted within me, and I
was shaken with the desire to take her in my arms
and tell her that it would be the business of my life
to shield her from harm.  It was a minute before I
had a firm grasp on myself.  Then I laid the whole
account of Wharton Kendrick's business before her,
as fully as I knew it.

She heard me soberly, with only a question here
and there to clear up the points she did not
understand.  Then she asked:

"The troubles aren't over yet, are they?"

"No."

"And what shall you do to-morrow?"

"I wish I knew."

She reflected a little, and then said:

"You can't perform miracles every day.  You
could not get through another day like to-day, could
you?"

"Not without help from somewhere.  But I hope
that the worst is over."

"Oh, you needn't think I'll blame you if everything
goes to pieces.  You've done ten times as much
as anybody had a right to expect.  But there is a
limit to the things that can be done, and I know it
very well."

I tried to speak, but she continued quickly:

"Oh, I haven't given up hope.  Not a bit of it.
But I have to look ahead.  That's a part of me.  But
I won't talk about it if you don't like."

At the thought of her anxieties my feelings
over-mastered me and I said:

"I do like.  But I want you to look ahead to
something else--to another future than taking care of
your uncle's house."  My heart thumped in my
breast, and I felt a throb in my throat playing
strange tricks with my voice.  In the instant I
thought of all that I had put at stake, and wished
I had not begun.  But with an effort of will I
continued: "I want you to think of another future.  I
love you more than all the world, and I want you to
be my wife."

She walked silently by my side, neither increasing
her distance nor drawing nearer to me.  But she
walked on and spoke no word, and I fell into a panic
over the boldness that had inspired me to my avowal.
We had proceeded thus for two or three blocks
before I plucked up the courage to ask:

"And what is the answer?"

She kept her head down, but replied with a trace
of drollery in her tone:

"It wasn't a question.  And there isn't any answer."

"I'll make it a question then."

She looked quickly up into my face.

"It wouldn't do any good if you did.  Anybody
can ask questions, but it takes a very wise person to
answer them."

"But," I pleaded, looking into her eyes till she
cast them down once more, "it means everything to
me, and--"

"I know all that you would say," she interrupted.
"But how can I think of such a thing when I have
so much that must be done--so many uncertainties
to face?"

She laid her hand appealingly on my arm, and
looked up into my face again.  Then she continued:

"My uncle is perhaps dying.  I don't have to tell
you how all his affairs are in confusion.  And you
are the friend I have most to look to for help and
counsel.  You won't take my chiefest reliance away
from me, will you?"

Her appealing look and tone were too much for
me.  It was a very quiet place on a very quiet street,
and the dusk had fallen almost to darkness; so I
yielded to the impulse and stopped and kissed her.
She did not resist, but drew a quick breath that was
almost a gasp, and lowered her eyes.  Then she said
quietly:

"There--all that is to be put away with the things
that were.  And you're to think of all you have said
as something that came in a dream.  And now we'll
wake up and look to the serious business of life.  It
isn't such a very pleasant season of life is it?"

Her voice broke a little as she ended and my heart
smote me.

"I hope," I said, "that I don't have to tell you
that you can depend on me for every service that I
have power to give."

She took my arm again with an air of confidence.

"You are always to be my good friend," she said.
"And now we'll go back.  It's getting dark, and
maybe the fresh air wasn't what I wanted after all.
I'm a bit upset."

I felt somewhat upset myself.  I was certainly left
hanging in a most uncertain and unsatisfactory
position; but I saw no way to better it, and held my
tongue, and wondered with a jealous pang if
Baldwin had, after all, won the prize I coveted.

We walked on in silence for a time, but at last she
suddenly said:

"Oh, there was something I was near forgetting
to tell you.  I've been sitting by uncle, almost all day,
and for the most of the time he has lain there more
like a log than a man.  But sometimes he has talked--not
to know what he was saying, you understand--but
some ideas are bothering his poor head.  I am
supposing that they have to do with his business.
A dozen times in the day he spoke your name, and
seemed to be trying to tell you something.  He told
it over and over, but the only words I could make out
were 'notes,' 'million,' and 'five hundred and
sixteen.'  The figures seem to mean something to him,
for he has repeated them oftener than anything else."

She paused for comment, and I submitted my
guesses:

"The notes are probably those that Peter Bolton
presented to-day.  The million is roughly the amount
we are short in the business, counting the deficit in
the syndicate fund.  I can't imagine what the 'five
hundred and sixteen' can mean.  It is not the
number of his office, for that is in the four hundred
block.  There doesn't seem to be anything in the
business that it could signify."

Laura Kendrick halted me, and looked up in my face.

"I am not given to intuitions," she said, her tone
thrilling with earnestness, "but I have one now.  As
sure as you stand there, uncle made provision for
paying the notes and raising the rest of the money
you have had to find, and the number 'five hundred
and sixteen' has something to do with it.  Find the
five hundred and sixteen and you'll find the million
dollars."  And with a nod of conviction she walked
forward once more.

"It may be one of the banks," I ventured to suggest,
"but I can't remember that any of them are at
that number."

"Mightn't it be the place of business of some
friend, where he has left this money?"

I shook my head at this improbable guess, and
turned the problem over in my mind without result.
Then I ventured to propose that I should see Wharton
Kendrick.

"My presence might stir his thoughts to some
more definite speech," I argued.

"Well, I'll let you in for just a minute.  But Doctor
Roberts said that nothing must be done to excite
him, and I don't know as it is right to take the risk."

In a few minutes we were in the sick-room where
Wharton Kendrick lay.  His large frame was
motionless, except for his breathing.  His face was
flushed, and the lines of strength and power that it
bore in health had faded into expressionless weakness.

"He is like this for the greater part of the time,"
said Laura; "yet I have the feeling that under it all
he is conscious of what is going on about him, and
I do everything just as if I were sure that he could
hear and see."

It was beyond all bounds of probability, yet at the
conceit a sudden thought came into my mind.

"If you should be right, he must be horribly worried
about his affairs.  I'll just say a word to relieve
his mind."  Then speaking slowly and distinctly I
gave a brief account of the course of the markets,
dwelt on the success of the syndicate in sustaining
the business fabric, and hinted at the need for more
money on the morrow.

There was no physical response.  If there was an
intelligent brain in that inert body, it found no
servant at its call among the flaccid muscles, and not even
the moving of an eyelid gave sign that I was understood.
Yet as I spoke, there came somewhere in my
consciousness the conviction that I was heard, and
that my words had brought relief to an overstrained
mind.

Laura Kendrick looked quickly from the face of
her uncle to mine, and a sudden light sprang into her
eyes.

"You felt it, too," she said.

"Yes."

"You have done good; but you mustn't stay here
any longer.  Don't leave the house, though, unless
you have to.  I shall be afraid when you are gone."

As she opened the door to banish me from the
sick-room, a servant had just raised his hand to tap
at the panel.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A man to see Mr. Hampden.  I took him into
the library."





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.. _`A CALL TO ARMS`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A CALL TO ARMS

.. vspace:: 2

I followed the servant and was surprised to find
Clark uneasily seated on the edge of a cushioned
chair, nervously twisting his hat, and looking as
though he was afraid he was going to break something.

"I'm sorry to bother you here," he said
awkwardly, "but things have come to a head."

"What is it now?  Do you think that to-night's
meeting is going to make more trouble than the
other one did?"

"Well, no, sir.  The meeting don't amount to
much.  To tell you the truth, sir, the meeting is only
a blind.  Parks got out the notices, and he's going to
make a speech.  But he's the only one of the Council's
people who will be there.  The others are down
at headquarters getting ready for the real work of
the night."

"The real work?  What do you mean by that?"

"Well, the truth of the business is," said Clark,
"that the rifle clubs are to be called out to-night.
Orders have gone out to all the Council's clubs to
assemble at eleven.  At twelve they will be given their
guns, and then they will be sent out to seize the
city.  One company is to take possession of the City
Hall; another will take the Committee of Safety's
headquarters; and others the National Guard
Armories, the Mint, the Subtreasury, and so on."

"Are they crazy?  Why, the Committee of Safety
has fifteen thousand men enrolled by this time."

"Crazy?  Not a bit of it," protested Clark warmly.
"The Committee of Safety won't have any leaders
or any guns left by to-morrow.  Coleman, and
Mayor Bryant, and General McComb, and every
man of the Committee of Twenty-Four will be
under lock and key before morning if something isn't
done about it.  They all go home to sleep, and there
isn't a man of 'em that's thought of having a guard
about his house.  They'll all be taken like rats in a
trap.  Then where's the Committee of Safety and the
militia?  They'll be without leaders and without
guns, and what'll they do?  They'll scatter like sheep.
The whole scheme has been worked out like the
plans for a building, and if the Council isn't stopped
before twelve you'll wake up to-morrow morning
under a new government."

"Nonsense!" I said.  "They can't do that."

"All right," said Clark, with a hurt and offended
look, "they can't, then.  But it was my duty, sir, to
warn you, and I've done it, so I'll be going."

"I beg your pardon, Clark," I said hastily.  "I
didn't mean to doubt your word or hurt your feelings.
You've done quite right in coming here, and
it's my business to see that they don't carry out their
crazy schemes.  Wait a minute, and I'll walk along
down with you."

I had a hurried word with Laura Kendrick, and
explained to her the importance of the information
Clark had brought, and the necessity of laying it
promptly before the Committee of Safety.

She looked up at me with some apprehension in
her eyes.

"Well, if you must, you must," she said.  "But
don't you get into any mobs or into any fighting.
Just remember that it's the man who orders somebody
else to do his fighting that gets the glory out
of it.  If there's any trouble, see that you're one of
the orderers instead of one of the ordered."

I laughed at her anxious counsel, and promising
to use all the caution with which nature had
endowed me, I joined Clark and left the house.

Directing Clark to attend the sand-lot meeting
and to get word to Andrews at once if the mob
should head for the Kendrick house, I caught a car
and rode to the headquarters of the Committee of
Safety.

Horticultural Hall resembled a beehive on swarming
day.  Wealth and poverty were represented side
by side.  Merchants, workmen, lawyers, doctors,
laborers rubbed elbows, and their stern and serious
faces testified to the depth of feeling that had
brought them out to the defense of the city.  It was
an outburst of the same spirit that had given birth
to the nation, and had again called forth vast armies
to preserve it when its existence was threatened by
civil war.

At the end of the hall a number of desks had been
arranged where enrolment was still in progress.
Behind the desks was a platform, and as I approached
it I saw William T. Coleman walk briskly to the
speaker's stand.

"Three cheers for Coleman!" came the cry from
a strong-lunged Vigilante, and three cheers were
given with a will.

The president of the Committee raised his hand to
command silence.

"Fellow-citizens:" he cried in a full, resonant
voice.  "You have come here to fight--not to talk
or cheer.  We find a mob spirit abroad, very dangerous
to the peace and order of the city.  It is your
business to put that spirit down.  For this purpose
you are clothed with all the powers of police officers.
The mayor has issued his proclamation, commanding
disorderly persons to disperse, and it is our part
to see that this proclamation is obeyed.  You have
behind you the armed force of the State and Nation.
But it should be a part of your pride as San
Franciscans that this force should not be needed for your
protection.  The people have shown on former
occasions that they were able to protect themselves.
Show now that your courage and self-reliance have
not degenerated in twenty years."

There was a warm response to this exhortation,
and, at a sign from Coleman, the adjutants began
calling forward the companies, and despatching them
to their work.

"Captain Korbel!" called the commanding voice
of the adjutant at the desk nearest us.

"Here!" came the reply in a strong German accent,
and a man with energetic face stepped out from
a company of twenty men.

"You will patrol Mission Street, from Sixth to
Twelfth.  Keep the street clear of all persons having
no business there.  If they resist, put them under
arrest, and turn them over to the police at the Southern
Station.  Get your arms from that pile."

"So ist righdt," said the captain, and giving a
salute he marched his company to the west side of
the hall where a great number of pick-handles that
had been sawn in two, base-ball bats, and wagon
spokes, had been arranged in convenient stacks.
Each man of the company picked up a club, balanced
it in his hand, and brought it down on the head of
an imaginary hoodlum with the solemnity of a
prepared ritual.  Then at the word of command the
company marched out while others were receiving their
orders from the desks of the adjutants.

I had observed this lively scene with but half an
eye, shouldering my way forward to meet William
T. Coleman as he descended from the platform.  He
had talked for a little with some member of the
Committee, but as he came down the steps on his way to
the side room that served as a private office, I hailed
him.  He looked up quickly, and his face changed as
he caught sight of me.

"Is Kendrick dead?" he asked anxiously.

"No.  He is still unconscious, but living."

"What is the trouble, then?" he asked, looking
keenly into my eyes.  "You have bad news."

Then before I could reply, he said, "Come in
here," and led me into the private office.  "Now let's
hear about it," he said.

"The Council of Nine is ready to use its rifles," I
replied.  And I gave with rapid phrases the tale of
the imminent revolution as it had come from Clark.

William T. Coleman listened with a rapt attention
that showed he took the warning more seriously than
I had taken it.

"Then we have till midnight," he said, after he
had digested the information.

"My informant said that the rifle clubs are ordered
to assemble at eleven o'clock."

He looked out of the window into the darkness;
then he turned to me again.

"It will never do to let those men come together
with arms in their hands.  That would mean
bloodshed--terrible bloodshed.  I am using every effort to
prevent an appeal to arms.  I have refused to call for
the militia.  The National Guard is under arms, but
I have a promise from Bryant that he will not ask
for it until I give the word.  I have refused an offer
of Federal troops from the Presidio.  I have a note
from the admiral that the marines and sailors at
Mare Island have been put under arms, and that the
Pensacola is ready to take a position that will
command the city.  But I have refused to permit them to
be summoned.  I shall never summon them except
as a last resort.  It is an awful thing to have men
shot down, and the memory of such an affair would
be a lasting stain on the city."

"It would be sad to have innocent men killed," I
said; "but I shouldn't weep over the loss of some
of those demons I saw raiding wash-houses and
trying to kill Wharton Kendrick.  The world would be
better off without them."

"Do not judge them too hastily," said Coleman
quickly.  "Civilization is at best only skin-deep.
Scratch the civilized man, and you find the wild
beast.  It takes a little deeper scratch to find it in
some men than in others; but it is there.  You and
I think ourselves well-balanced, Hampden, yet I
have seen men of our nature turn into ferocious
beasts.  I pray God I may never see the like again.
These men you saw in the shape of demons the other
night may be good citizens in quiet times.  Thank
God, young man, for government.  It is the blessing
of organized society--of organized government--that
keeps the wild beast behind bars."  He spoke
with feeling, yet with the philosophic calm of the
lecturer on law, and he impressed me profoundly
with his momentary unveiling of a broad and tolerant
mind.  Then he became the man of affairs again.

"Do you know where to find the headquarters of
the Council?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you know these men by sight?"

"I believe I can recognize eight of the nine."

"Well, then, I shall have to ask you to go down
to the Council's headquarters at once, and arrest the
leaders of the movement.  You will have the honor
of ending the uprising before it has begun."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WITH THE PICK-HANDLE BRIGADE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   WITH THE PICK-HANDLE BRIGADE

.. vspace:: 2

If I had stopped to consider how fully the safety
of Wharton Kendrick--to say nothing of his
niece--depended upon me, I should perhaps have found
courage to decline the dangerous mission.  But
William T. Coleman's commanding eye was upon me;
and after a gulp to moisten my dry throat, I replied
with an attempt to put a cheerful spirit into my
voice:

"Very well; but I'd like to take a man or two
along--merely as a guaranty to the Council that
I'm not joking."

Coleman smiled.

"Oh, I didn't expect you to go alone.  Take as
many men as you like.  Will twenty be enough?"

I thought so.

"Well, then, here are a dozen John Doe warrants.
They will be your authority for whatever you may
find it necessary to do in arresting these men.  Now
come out here and pick your company."

He led the way to the main hall, glanced over the
throng that still pervaded it, and cried in a resonant
voice:

"Volunteers wanted for dangerous service."

His discouraging form of statement did not
dismay all of the company before him.  At least fifty
men stepped forward at the call.

"Take your pick," said Coleman with a wave of
his hand.  "If they haven't revolvers, I will supply
them.  You'd better take the clubs for ordinary
service."

I selected a score of men whose faces showed
vigor and determination, looked to their arms,
directed them to the pile of pick-handles, and when
each man had satisfied himself of the virtue of his
weapon by knocking down an imaginary enemy, I led
the way to the street.

"Where are we going?" asked one of the men
with the easy familiarity of the volunteer.

"Secret service," I replied.  "Don't make any more
noise than you have to."  If we were to arrest the
conspirators without bloodshed it was necessary to
take them by surprise, and we approached their
meeting-place with as much caution as I could contrive.

The House of Blazes blinked more furtively than
ever on the darkness.  The outer door was but half
opened, and the lights within burned but dimly.  Yet
a faint murmur that thrilled the air gave warning of
many voices in converse, and stray gleams of light
from the shuttered windows above bore ample witness
to the fact that there was hidden activity in the
den of the revolutionists.

I posted a number of men in position to prevent
escape through the windows, and instructed the
remainder to await my signal outside the main
entrance.  Then pushing open the swinging door, I
entered the saloon.

The long room was almost deserted.  A man in an
apparent stupor sat with his head on a table in the
dim light at the farther end of the place.  Another
lay on a bench snoring in drowsy intoxication.  A
short, round-faced young fellow with a dirty white
apron stood behind the bar, and looked up with
cheerful expectancy as I entered.

"Take me to the Council," I said peremptorily.  "I
am just from Mr. Parks."

"The Council!" stammered the man.  "I don't--I
don't know what you mean."

At the sound of my voice, the fat pasty face of
H. Blasius appeared through the doorway at the
right of the bar.

"Ah, Meestaire--Meestaire--friend of Park," he
said, recognizing me and coming forward.  "I salute
a brozaire in arms."  And he would have embraced
me but for my nimbleness in avoiding his odious
clutch.

"I have come for orders," I said.  "I must see the
Council."

"Ah," he cried, "you have come to give your
ar-rms to ze inauguration of ze gr-rand r-revolution."  And
he rolled out his "r's" in a way to make
the revolution very grand indeed.

"I have brought more than my arms," I said.  "I
have the first company of our troops outside."

"*Mon Dieu*!" he cried, his pasty face growing
paler, and his blinking eyes opening wider in alarm.
"*Mon Dieu*!  You have come mooch too soon.  Ze
police will cast ze blow of an eye upon zem, ze
alar-rm will sound, and Zip! away goes ze chance of
winning by surprise."

"That's so," I exclaimed, with the accent of one
overwhelmed at conviction of a lack of judgment.
"I will bring my men in and march them up to the
Council-room where they can lie hid till the hour
comes."

"*Non! non!*" cried H. Blasius in alarm.  "No one
can go to ze Council-room.  Zere is no Council-room."  His
old distrust had overcome the alcoholic
enthusiasm with which he had received me, and his
eyes blinked cunningly upon me.  Then he gave an
apprehensive glance at the door by which he had
entered, and I was confirmed in the suspicion that it
led to the rooms of the conspirators.

"Well, if you won't take me up, I must go by myself.
My business must be laid before the Council at
once."  And I moved with determination toward the
suspected door.

H. Blasius placed himself in the way with arms
outstretched.

"*Non--non!*" he cried.  "You can not *entrez* wizout
ze *mot d'ordre*--ze password."

"Give it to me, then," I demanded.  "You are
delaying the Council's business."

He was overawed a little by my authoritative tone,
but before he could bring his tongue to answer me,
the barkeeper accidentally dropped a glass on the
floor, and the men whom I had stationed at the
door, mistaking the crash for the sounds of conflict,
rushed in to my rescue.

"The Vigilantes!" cried the barkeeper in dismay,
at the sight of the badges and the pick-handles.

"*Mon Dieu!* we are betrayed!" cried H. Blasius,
whirling around with a step toward the door that
led to the Council-room.

I divined his purpose.  He was bent on warning
the conspirators.  With one bound I had him by the
collar, and with a fierce wrench dragged him back
and flung him against the bar, spluttering inarticulate
protests.

The barkeeper had seized a revolver, but before
he could raise it, he was in the hands of my men.  He
submitted without resistance and with the cheerful
spirit of one to whom the outcome is a matter of
small importance.

"Keep that man quiet," I said, with the hope that
the noise of struggle had not reached the Council-room.
Then I gripped H. Blasius by his fat throat.

"Give me the countersign!" I demanded.

He gave a scream of terror and dropped to his
knees.

"Have pity--do not keel me.  *Mon Dieu*!  I am
one good citizen.  I make no plots wiz ze
r-revolutionists."

"The countersign," I repeated grimly, tightening
my grip on his throat, while two of my assistants
reinforced my argument by prodding him in the sides
with their sticks.

"Leeberty--leeberty or deat',"--Mr. H. Blasius
pronounced it "debt"--"zat is ze countersign," he
gasped through his constricted windpipe.  And
assured by his eyes that he was telling the truth, I
flung him into the arms of my men.

"Shut off his wind if he tries to give a warning,"
I said, and with a word I picked a squad from my
company and gave them brief instructions:

"Follow me up the stairs.  Don't make a noise.
And when I give the signal push me through the
door."

A dim illumination filtered through a ground-glass
transom at the top of the stairway, and the
murmur of voices that floated down gave evidence
that a busy meeting was in progress.

I walked up the stairs with bold step, and my men
crept cautiously after me.  At the top was a landing,
large enough to hold my squad, and I signed to them
to collect behind me.  Then I gave three resounding
blows on the door--a compelling summons that I
had learned as a lawyer's clerk in serving papers on
unwilling defendants.  There is some mystic virtue
in the slow triple knock that brings the most wary
from their holes.  At my rap there was a sudden
hush of voices.  Then some one by the door cried:

"Who is there?"

"A friend you are expecting."

"If you are a friend, give the countersign."

"Liberty or Death."

At this reply the door opened cautiously for a few
inches, and a man peeped through the crack.

"Now!" I cried.  And with the force of six men
behind me I shot forward, flung the door wide open,
and sent its guardian sprawling backward, as I was
projected a dozen feet into the Council-room.  The
room was large, and around a large table in front of
a pulpit-like platform sat twelve or fifteen men.  The
Council and its advisers were in session.

At my unceremonious entrance the conspirators
gave a prompt exhibition of their qualities.  Waldorf,
Reddick and Seabert sprang to their feet, and
their hands went to their pockets with the evident
purpose of drawing their revolvers.  Others ran from
side to side of the room, wildly seeking some way of
escape.  Two crawled under the table.  The rest
remained motionless in their chairs, looking with dull
apprehension at our sudden irruption.

There were more of the conspirators than I had
reckoned on meeting.  But we had the advantage of
surprise, and signing to two of my men to hold the
door, I walked calmly forward with the others.

"Gentlemen," I said to the startled group, "you
are under arrest."

"The devil we are!" cried Waldorf, snatching a
revolver out of his pocket and snapping it at me.

There was a deafening report, and a bullet clipped
my ear, but before Waldorf could raise the hammer
a second time a rap from a pick-handle laid him
sprawling limply across the table.  Reddick's weapon
was knocked from his hand with a blow that broke
his wrist.  Seabert was seized and thrown before he
could get his revolver out of his pocket, and a fiery
little German in spectacles, who shot a hole in his
coat in an excited attempt to draw his weapon, fell
limply to the floor and squirmed like a shot rabbit
at a skull-cracking stroke from a Vigilante's club.

It was after all but a tame affair.  For men who
were planning to seize a city and overturn a nation,
there was an absurdly small supply of fighting blood
among them.  The sprawling figure of Waldorf,
lying face upward on the table with the blood trickling
over his forehead, the fiery German in a limp
heap on the floor, and the sight of Reddick and Seabert
disabled, took all the fight out of the rest of the
company.  They submitted without resistance to be
searched, disarmed and bound.

"Where are the rifles?" I demanded, when these
preliminaries had been completed.

"Don't know of any rifles," said Seabert sullenly.
"Never had any."

The arrested company at once became unanimous
on this point.  There were never any rifles in their
possession.  They became so insistent in the denial
that I jumped to the conclusion that the arms could
not be far away, and looked about for their
hiding-place.  The ornamental work behind the platform
and about the hall gave opportunity for concealed
doorways and false partitions, but when they were
sounded none could be uncovered.

"There's room for them under that platform," I
said at last; and by the falling countenances of the
conspirators I saw that I had hit upon the hiding-place.

The flooring was ripped off the platform, and we
uncovered something more than four hundred rifles
with a well-filled cartridge-belt strapped to each.
Encouraged by this success we ransacked the place
to discover the rest of the Council's armament, but
had at last to give it up with the conclusion that the
remainder of the thousand guns had already been
distributed to the clubs.

A messenger sent in haste to the headquarters of
the Committee of Safety brought a train of
express-wagons with orders to hurry the arms and
ammunition to Horticultural Hall, and send the prisoners to
the City Prison and Receiving Hospital.  And
stationing a guard to receive any of the revolutionary
spirits who might come seeking the Council's
instructions, I set off for the headquarters of the
Committee of Safety.  The House of Blazes, as I took
my last look at it, seemed smothered in an atmosphere
of angry discomfiture, as it scowled at us from
its blinking windows, fit tomb of the evil purposes
it had harbored.





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.. _`A TONGUE OF FIRE`:

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   CHAPTER XXIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   A TONGUE OF FIRE

.. vspace:: 2

We had reached Union Square on our return to
the Committee's headquarters, when the night air
burst into a clangor of alarm.  There was a sudden
chorus of shrieking whistles, a distant tintinnabulation
of gongs, and the great bell in the fire house on
Brenham Place thrilled the air with its tolling
vibrations.

"Box fifty-nine!" cried one of the men who had
counted the strokes.  "Where's that?"

"It's the Mail docks, I'll bet!" cried another.
"They've been threatening to burn 'em."

I turned to look, and the guess was confirmed.  A
glare of red had flamed up in the southeastern sky,
and the fire was already under good headway.

"It's the third alarm," said a sentinel who stood
by the corner.  "The Committee's been sending men
down there already."

The sharp cry of commanding voices echoed from
Horticultural Hall, men were climbing into express-wagons
and hurrying off on the gallop, and our way
was blocked for a minute by a company that marched
rapidly out of the building, quickened its pace to a
run, and sped down Post Street.  Instead of clubs
they carried rifles, and I surmised that the armament
of the Council of Nine was being turned against the
Council's purposes.

Within the hall all was excitement; cries of
command rose sharply as companies were assembled by
zealous officers, and squads were marching out as
rapidly as they could be armed.

William T. Coleman met me by the door of the office.

"Well, it seems to have begun at last," he said.
"The Mail docks have been set afire, and the report
comes that the Chinamen down there are being
killed by a big mob."

"There was talk of burning the *City of Tokio*
with the thousand coolies it has brought," I said,
with a shudder at the thought of the barbarities that
were perhaps being enacted on the threatened dock.

"The *Tokio* isn't in yet," said Coleman.  "The
report of her arrival was a mistake."

"I don't believe there's any real fight in the mob,"
I said.  "We have just cut the head off the beast."

Coleman grasped my hand.

"I'm obliged to you for the work you have done,"
he said.  "The guns you sent in will be put to good
use.  And now would you mind taking a company
down to the docks?"

"Not at all," I returned unhesitatingly, resolved
to live up to the figure I had assumed in his eyes.

"You have something of an interest down there,"
he added.  "Kendrick's lumber-yards are right near
the docks, and you may want to do something to
protect them."  Then turning to the despatching
officer, he said: "Put Brixton's company under
command of Captain Hampden.  Brixton won't be back
to-night."

"I should like," I said, "to add to it the men I
have brought back from the House of Blazes.  In
affairs of this sort it's some advantage to be
acquainted with your men, and we've rubbed shoulders
to-night in a way that is better than an introduction."

Coleman looked at the dozen men who lined up at
my call, and gave a nod of assent.

"Enroll Captain Hampden's volunteers with the
company," he said.  "That will give him about sixty
men.  Now get down to the docks on the double
quick.  Remember that the first thing to be looked
out for is the fire-hose.  In times like this it carries
the life-blood of the city.  If any one tries to cut it,
shoot him."  And with this curt direction he waved
us forward.

The rosy glow that illumined the southeastern
sky had spread and deepened since we entered the
hall.  The ruddy light rose and fell in sudden tides,
as the eddying-clouds of smoke reflected or obscured
the fierce flames that leaped below them.

The sound of the fire-bell and the reddened sky
had been a signal to other ears and eyes than those
of the Vigilantes.  Market Street was a hurrying
stream of men and women and children, carried
along by a common impulse, like wreckage on flood
waters.  Bands of young hoodlums rushed down the
street with blackguardly cries, rudely jostling those
who neglected to make way for them.  A sibilant
clamor of excited voices filled the air,--hoarse shouts
of men, yells from the hoodlums and shrill chatter
from the women and children, roused by the thrill of
them.

At the corner of Beale and Harrison Streets we
were halted by a densely packed mass of people
striving vainly to press forward to a point from
which they could get a closer view of the conflagration,
now but a block away.  The roar of flames could
be heard above the volume of rattling sound that
came from the massed confusion of firemen, rioters,
Vigilantes and spectators.  A ruddy glare illumined
the great throng.  Waves of heat reached us even at
this distance, and farther down the street we could
see men protecting their faces from the burning
effulgence by holding their arms before their eyes.
The great furnace sent up swift peaks of flame that
fell as suddenly as they rose, and gave place to
rolling clouds of smoke that turned the blaze to a dull
red glow.

Before I could give the order to charge a passage
through the crowd, a fire-engine dashed up with the
clatter of galloping horses, the wild shouts of the
firemen, the ringing of gongs and the cries of the
frightened spectators.  The throng pressed aside,
and by some magic of contraction made a lane for
the swift horses as they drew the engine up to the
hydrant.  At this moment the engine across Harrison
Street, that had been whirring away with convulsive
energy, gave vent to a splutter of steam, slowed
down, and came to a stop.  A fireman came running
over to the newly arrived engine from its fellow
across the street, scattering in his train an eruption
of oaths that gave a verbal effect that was
comparable to the shower of sparks from his engine.

"Look out for your hose!" he shouted wrathfully.
"They've just cut ours again."

"Where's the police?" cried the captain of the new
engine, as he gave orders to couple the hose to the
hydrant.

"There's one policeman to the block, an' if he
ain't dead he ought to be," returned the wrathful
engineer.  "They was talking about what the
Vigilantes was a-goin' to do, but I ain't seen none of
'em.  I reckon they's a-holdin' a promenade concert
up to Horticultural Hall, and ain't got time to come
down here.  If you want your hoodlums knocked
out, you'll have to do it yourself."  And running
back to his engine he suited action to word by seizing
a stick and clearing a space about it with fierce
flourishes and fiercer words.

"Here are your Vigilantes," I shouted.  "Now lay
your lines of hose side by side, and I'll see that
there's no more cutting."

"Well, clear the track for us then!" cried the captain
with a volley of excited oaths.  "Can't you see
that my men are blocked there?"

I stationed half my company by the engines,
formed the other half into a wedge, and rushed them
down the hill.  They plowed a wide lane through the
massed throng, and the firemen ran behind them
hauling the lines of hose, and howling orders and
encouragement at every step.  Along the path I
dropped out man after man, with instructions to
keep the crowd back, and shoot the first person who
attempted to touch the hose.  When I was satisfied
that the lines were secure, I followed the advance
guard down the slope to the corner of Beale and
Bryant Streets.

Here I could for the first time see the full extent
of the conflagration.

A bold bluff nearly one hundred feet high at First
and Bryant Streets diminishes gradually till it
permits Beale Street to descend by a moderate grade to
the level of the wharves.  Between the face of this
bluff and the docks lay a medley of warehouses,
coal-bunkers and lumber-yards, all now involved in a
conflagration that turned the amphitheater between
the bluff and the bay into a furnace filled with
tossing, leaping flames of weird diversity of color.  The
warehouses were filled with sea stores and the spoil
of commerce from many lands; one was stocked with
barrels of whale-oil and other products of the Arctic
trade; and over them all flickered red, green, orange
and yellow flames, in endless confusion.  The
coal-bunkers gave off great clouds of smoke, while the
fiercest flames shot up from the oil warehouses and
the blazing lumber-piles.  Now and then a dull
explosion, followed by a temporary dimming of the
light at the eastern end of the furnace, pointed out
the location of the oil; then a black cloud would roll
up and drift away, and in a moment red and smoky
flames would leap three hundred feet in air with a
vicious eagerness that made them seem almost a
sentient agent of destruction.

The wharves appeared to be yet untouched by the
fire, but they were visibly in imminent danger, and,
above the roar of the flames, the shouts of the
firemen and the clamor of the crowd, we could plainly
hear the cries of the sailors as they strove to move
their vessels from the perilous neighborhood.

At the foot of the hill the heat was blistering.
Planks a hundred feet from the blaze were smoking;
the light was blinding, and even the boldest of the
spectators had retired half-way up the hill.  Yet two
engines had been pushed forward almost to the
border of the flame-covered area; and the firemen,
attacking the conflagration with reckless energy, could
be seen dragging their hose over planks that still
glowed with half-extinguished embers.

At the entrance to this inferno my eye was caught
by a reminder of difficulties that stirred my heart
to a leap of apprehension.  A long sign-board that
had been set across the gate to the lumber-yards, now
twisted and ready to fall from the half-burned
uprights that supported it, bore across its face the
words, "The Kendrick Lumber and Milling Co."  Another
of Wharton Kendrick's activities was destroyed,
and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth
of his property was now represented by a few acres
of roaring flames.  For a minute I was struck
motionless with the fear that this loss might prove the
final blow, and bring down in one avalanche the
accumulated difficulties that I had evaded or postponed.

Then I was roused to attention by the words:

"Here is the man who can tell you all about it;
he's the one that turned in the alarm."

The speaker wore the badge of an assistant chief
of the fire department, and he was addressing two
young men who held pencil and paper in their hands
and looked eagerly at a roughly dressed man who
seemed to be dazed at the destruction that was going
on about him.

"Yes, I'm the man," he said slowly.  "I'm a
watchman.  I was over there on the wharf--the
Beale Street wharf.  A while ago--it was a long
time ago--"

"Never mind the long while ago--tell us about
to-night," interrupted one of the young men impatiently.

"That's what I was telling you about," said the
man in an injured tone.  "It was a long while
ago--to-night.  I looked over here just the other side
of that oil warehouse--there's only one wall left to
it now--an' I saw a fellow strike a match.  I thought
he was goin' to light his pipe, but he took a box
from under his arm an' stuck the match in it.  The
box flared up as though it was full o' shavings, an'
then he stuck it under a lumber-pile.  I hollered at
him, an' he ran.  Then the fire started up, an' I got
to the fire-box an' turned in the alarm.  Then there
was hell to pay."  The man made this announcement
in a dull, matter-of-fact way that gave a touch of
comedy-in-tragedy to his words.

"What sort of looking man was he?" I asked.

"Oh, he was an oldish man--an old man--tall,
an' sort of stooped."

"Stout or thin?"

"Thin, I guess--he was too far away for me to
say for sure, an' bein' as I was kind of flustered by
the fire, too."

At his words an illuminating light came to my
mind.  The fire was not directed at the Pacific Mail
docks.  It was set to destroy the yards of the
Kendrick Lumber and Milling Company, and it had
succeeded.  It was the crowning stroke of Peter Bolton's
assault on Wharton Kendrick's fortune.

I wondered whether Peter Bolton had himself set
the match to the lumber-pile.  The description by the
watchman fitted him, and he did not lack the will for
the deed.  But it was so foreign to his cautious
temper to take the risks of committing such a crime with
his own hand that I hesitated to believe.  Yet when
he had once resolved upon such a step, it might well
have seemed safer to him to perform the act himself,
than to confide it to an accomplice who might betray him.

I was turning over this problem in my mind, and
watching with unconscious eyes the bold and resolute
efforts of the firemen to fight back the flames, when
I was roused by a flight of stones.  Two of them
struck the nearest engine; one knocked the hat off
a man of my company; and a fireman was struck
down, only to jump to his feet in a moment with a
torrent of oaths.  The fire chief roared a profane but
vigorous condemnation of the assault, and devoted
its authors to an even warmer place than the furnace
that blazed before us.

"That's the fifth time we've got it," said the
engineer, backing up his chief with a contribution of
blistering words.

I looked about for the assailants.

"It's those fellows up there on top of the bluff,"
said the fire chief.  "They've been pelting the
firemen and the police for half an hour.  They can't
reach this end of the line very well, but they've made
it hot for our men up near First Street.  I hear
they've killed some of the Vigilantes up there.  The
Vigilantes tried to rush 'em, but it's up a hundred
foot of narrow stair, and they had to give it up.  I
wish the whole gang up there was pitched into the
middle of the fire."

I looked up at the bluff, and saw a black mass
lining its upper edge.  Two or three hundred men and
boys were clustered along its front, yelling and
throwing stones.  It was evident that their position
could not be taken from the front.  In no place was
there less than fifty feet of sheer ascent.  But I
recalled that the bluff was open to attack from the rear
by the way of First Street.

"I'll settle those fellows," I said.

"I'll see that you get the department medal, if
you do," returned the fire chief.  "But you can't get
up there without wings."

After stationing guards along the line of hose, I
still had twenty-five men who could be spared for
other service.  Most of them were still standing by
the engines at the top of the Beale Street hill.  So I
made my way back to the corner, and with a few
words explained the purpose of the expedition we
were about to undertake.  They had heard the
report that a number of the Vigilantes had been killed
by the hoodlums, and burning with indignation they
welcomed the chance to inflict vengeance on the
rioters.

"Keep together," I cautioned them, as we pushed
our way through the mob of sightseers and
mischief-makers up Harrison Street to First.  Evil faces
in the crowd gave us savage glances of dislike.  But
the white band on the arm that marked the members
of the Safety Committee, the warning word of
"Here come the Vigilantes," and the display of
pick-handles, served to discourage the thought of
molesting us.  There was mass enough among the
rough element in that crowd to swallow us ten times
over, but they knew that we represented the force of
law and government, and the rage for mischief fell
to a muttering of threats as we passed.

When we had forced our way through the mass
of sightseers to a distance of fifty yards from the
edge of the bluff, there was a sudden shot, followed
by an answering rattle that sounded like the firing
of a pack of giant fire-crackers.  Screams of women
and shouts of men reinforced the noise of the guns,
and we were borne backward in a terrified rush of
the crowd.  The infection of panic was hard to
resist, but I succeeded in giving a steadying word to
my men, and they breasted the current till the ground
cleared before us.  Then I saw that my manoeuver
had been anticipated.  A company of the Vigilantes
had made a flank attack on the hoodlum position
from the west by way of Bryant Street.  We ran
forward to reinforce the company, and I offered our
services to its captain.

"They fired on us," he said, "and we've cleaned
'em out, I guess.  Here's one fellow shot, anyhow.
They've been throwing rocks down on the firemen
below, and knocked out half a dozen of them--killed
two of 'em, I heard.  The cowardly brutes!
Hunt 'em out, boys!  There's some of 'em left in
those yards along the bluff."

I made a dash along the edge of the bluff, and was
rewarded by flushing a half-dozen hoodlums who
rose from behind an outhouse, like quail from a
clump of bushes, and hastily scrambled over a fence.
I called to them to halt or we would shoot, and was
over the fence after them in an instant.  Most of my
men were too old for fast work of this sort, but a
glance behind me showed that half a dozen had
followed me.

The hoodlums had led the way to a cul-de-sac of
buildings, and were cursing as they scattered here
and there in the effort to find a way out.  The form
and voice of their leader, and his running stride
stirred faintly the chords of memory.  I tried vainly
to recall where I had seen him before, and the elusive
recollection multiplied my desire to capture him.  In
this resolve chance favored me.  A stumble sent him
to the ground, and before he could rise I was on
top of him, and held a revolver against his head.

"Damn you!" he cried, puffing hoarsely in the effort
to regain his breath.

"Take it quietly," I advised him, "or you'll lose
what little brains you have."

"Damn you!" he repeated.  "Let me up, or I'll
kill you."

This time his tone and words stirred memory to
definiteness.  I had in my hands the fellow whose
knife-thrust had been near ending my career, and
whose gift of an overcoat had led me to Big Sam.
and the train of events which followed upon my visit
to the King of Chinatown.  Here, then, was an agent
of Bolton, and perhaps of Big Sam as well, leading
one of the hoodlum gangs in its career of riot and
arson.  And I felt, as I gripped his throat, that I
had within my hand the proof of Bolton's criminal
conspiracy.  If this man could be got to talk, the
jail would close on Peter Bolton in the hour of his
triumph; and the furnace that roared and glowed
below us would bring ruin to his plans as swiftly as
it had consumed the property of his enemy.





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.. _`THE END OF THE FEUD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE END OF THE FEUD

.. vspace:: 2

At last the night of alarms was over, and the
forces of law and order held San Francisco firmly in
their grasp.  The police and the Vigilantes were
fagged out but triumphant.  And though the
warehouses and lumber-yards in the amphitheater before
the Mail docks were but a smoking mass of ashes
and charcoal, the dangers of the conflagration were
over.  The exhausted firemen were withdrawn to
fling themselves down to rest, and only a few
hosemen were left to guard the smoldering ruins.

The great conspiracy of the Council of Nine had
come to nothing.  Parks was the only leader out of
jail, and, in the absence of its active heads, the
revolution had deliquesced into a series of scattered and
objectless riots.  The Committee of Safety had
proved strong enough to handle the emergency, and
the militia companies, held all night in their armories
without a call for their services, were dismissed with
the dawn.

The first gray of the morning was lightening the
eastern sky as I disbanded my company.  I had
landed my captive in the City Prison, stubbornly
uncommunicative, and jauntily confident that he was
to be protected from harm.  And when at last I had
made my report at the Vigilante headquarters, I was
driven to Wharton Kendrick's home, consumed with
anxiety lest some of the wandering bands of rioters,
or another gang of bravoes sent by the highbinders,
had been inspired to attack it.  Peter Bolton had
succeeded in one of his schemes of vengeance, and I
trembled lest in the wreck of his conspiracy against
the peace of the city he had struck another blow at
the person of his enemy.

As we turned the corner into Van Ness Avenue
my mind was relieved of one anxiety.  The Kendrick
house still stood untouched by fire, and the gray
dawn showed no sign of further attack.

Andrews received me with composure.

"Oh, yes," he replied to my eager questions,
"there was some of them hoodlums come along here--gangs
of ten or twenty at a time--and they yelled
a good deal.  But when we showed our teeth they
went by on the other side.  There was some shooting
a block or two away, but they didn't even throw a
rock around here."

At this soothing report I flung myself down in
the men's quarters for a hurried sleep, dog-tired,
but gratified to feel a reviving spring of courage.
It seemed but a moment later that I saw Laura
Kendrick threatened by the largest dragon I have
ever met--in Dreamland or out.  The uncanny
monster had the face of Peter Bolton, marvelously
magnified to fit a hundred-foot body, and he opened
his mouth in sardonic laughter as he moved forward
to crush the slight figure that stood in his path.  At
this sight I was oppressed by a modest but terrified
conviction that I would cut but a poor figure in a
contest with a dragon.  But spurred by fear for the
life of the most important girl in the world I ran
forward shouting out such threats as I could
summon, in the hope of communicating some of my
own terrors to the monster, when on a sudden his
boiler blew up, and he was scattered into nothingness.
The shock of the explosion waked me, and I
started up to find Andrews at my side.

"I didn't mean to knock the chair over, sir," he
said apologetically, "but you told me to call you at
seven.  And Miss Kendrick says you are to go
upstairs to breakfast, as soon as you're ready."

I collected my faculties sufficiently to make
myself presentable, and was received at the door by
Laura herself.

"I'm afraid," she said, as she ushered me into
the breakfast-room, "that it doesn't agree with you
to stay up all night.  I don't believe you've had a
wink of sleep, but I've made some coffee that's
warranted to bring you wide awake before you can shut
your eyes."

"If that's the way I look, my personal appearance
is a libel on a peaceful citizen.  I have slept for close
on three hours, and have dreamed of acres of fires,
and enough fighting to fill a book."

"Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Laura.  "I don't see why
men so like to fight.  Do you take two lumps in your
coffee or three?"

"The explanation is very simple," I returned.
"They don't like to fight.  One lump, please."

"Then what do they do it for?" she asked.  "You
had better take more than one chop; they're pretty
small, and you've got a big day's work ahead--and
behind."

"Why," I argued, "they fight for power, or
reputation, or money, or a pair of brown eyes--or blue,
as the case may be--for fear somebody will think
them afraid--for anger--for almost any reason but
enjoyment.  I saw ten thousand men in a scrimmage
last night, and there were not twenty of them there
because they enjoyed the fight.  At any rate, I can
assure you that the man in the crowd I have the best
right to speak for wished himself anywhere but in
the front rank of battle."

"Humph!" sniffed Miss Laura incredulously.  "I
know very well that you couldn't have been hired
to keep out of it.  You haven't been doing much else
but fighting since I got to know you."

"It wasn't from choice," I pleaded.

"Just tell me what happened, and how," she said.
"I was scared blue last night with fire-bells and
hooting whistles, and men shouting in the streets;
and when I peeked out I saw a glare down town as
though half the city was going up in smoke."

Laura listened with a grave face as I gave a
succinct account of the night's adventures.

"And do you really believe that Mr. Bolton set
fire to uncle's lumber-yards?" she asked.

"In person or by proxy," I replied.

"Well, there doesn't seem to be any end to his
wickedness," she said.  "I suppose he's prepared to
finish us to-day."

"I don't think we can count on repentance--not
from him.  We shall have to find something a great
deal safer than that to pull us through.  Has your
uncle dropped any more hints about that million
dollars?"

"He talked of it more than ever, last night.  He
went over the word 'million' hundreds of times.
Then he would call your name and say 'five-sixteen'
as though he was trying to make you understand
the meaning of the figures."

It was an incomprehensible mystery, and we had
to leave it so.

"Do you know what you are going to do, then?"
she asked.

"Sell all the unpledged stock in the house, see
what Partridge and Coleman can do for us, and try
to stand up the banks for the balance."

Laura Kendrick shook her head, with a business-like
expression on her face:

"I wish I could think of something better than
that," she said with an attempt at cheeriness.  "We
shall never get through the day at that rate.  But I
suppose it's the best that's left us."

The door opened, and Mercy Fillmore appeared.
The sudden intrusion of a third person brought to
my consciousness a realization of the fascinating
breakfast I had been conceded.  But if I was so
ungallant as to feel disappointment at her interrupting
presence, it melted away under the soothing
influence that surrounded her.

"What a night we have had!" she said, with an
anxious note in the gentle harmonies of her voice.
"We were worse frightened at the fire-bells and the
shouting of men in the distance than at the drunken
hoodlums who passed by the house.  Was there much
fighting?"

"Enough--but nothing to be frightened about."

"If there was violence," said Mercy, with a trace
of anxiety in her tone, "I am afraid that Mr. Parks
was among the misguided men.  Did you see
anything of him?"

"No," I replied.  "He escaped arrest when the
Council of Nine was gathered in, for he was making
a speech on the sand-lot.  I inquired for him at the
City Prison and the Receiving Hospital, but he
wasn't there, so I'm sure he must have escaped."

Mercy breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well, Mercy," said Laura Kendrick, "if you
expect men to have any sense about such things,
you are going to be disappointed.  They are fighting
animals--at any rate some of them are--and the
best we can do is to have a good supply of lint and
arnica on hand, and read books on the best way of
treating wounds and bruises."

But a few minutes later she had forgotten this
sentiment of resignation, for when I set out for the
office to prepare for the onslaught that must come
with the opening of the business hours, her parting
injunction was to "Leave the business of the police
to the police, and don't let the Kendrick family go
to ruin by getting yourself knocked on the head in
some harum-scarum expedition."

I found Brown already at work, and his haggard
face showed that he shared in the keen anxieties of
the day.

"This is a bad business, Mr. Hampden, a bad
business," he sighed.  "Four hundred thousand
dollars' worth of lumber went up in that fire last
night."

"Didn't we have any insurance on it?"

"Why, yes--we had one hundred and fifty thousand
on it.  But we had borrowed that much on the
stock, and the bank holds the policy.  I was hoping
to get some more money on the lumber to-day, but
that chance has gone."  Brown shook his head and
sighed as though his courage had fallen to a low
ebb, and added: "I'm afraid every creditor we have
will be down on us now."

"How much shall we have to meet?" I asked.

"I wish I could tell," he groaned.  "Mr. Kendrick
has been so careless about giving out his notes
without having them entered on the books that I
can't say.  I think there are about two hundred
thousand of unsecured notes out, but there may be a
million, for all I know."

"How much money have we in hand?"

"It's not much.  Not over twenty thousand."

"How much can we get if we drop that confounded
load of stock we are carrying?"

"Oh, if we could unload it without breaking the
price it would stand us something like two or three
hundred thousand dollars, after paying off all loans
on it.  But it's a ticklish market--a ticklish market.
If we start to throw the stock out, there will be a
slump that will wipe out our margins and leave us
on the wrong side of the ledger."

"I'll see what can be done about it.  Perhaps
Partridge can get the stock taken into stronger hands.
Can you think of anything else that we can turn
into money?"

"There's just one thing I have remembered since
yesterday.  The Oriental Bank let us have a
hundred thousand on those Humboldt lumber lands a
while ago.  The lands ought to be good for as much
more if the Oriental is lending at all."

"That sounds as though there might be something
in it.  I'll see the Oriental Bank people at
once--Partridge, too.  If we can get a hundred thousand
from the bank, and get our margins out of those
stocks, we shall have, a fair chance of weathering
the storm."  As I turned to go, I bethought me to
say, "Don't pay out a dollar that you can possibly
hold on to."

Brown gave his head a deprecating shake.

"That won't do, Mr. Hampden.  You see, we're
tied up to our open-handed way of doing business.
Now, if we were acting for Peter Bolton, it would
be different.  When he tells a man to call again for
his money, nobody thinks anything about it.  They
just say he's a skinflint, who could pay and won't.
But you know how Wharton Kendrick has run his
business.  Whenever a man wants his money, he gets
it as fast as it can be counted out.  There's the trouble
now.  If we go to asking for time, or putting them
off, why everybody will say: 'Aha!  Kendrick is in
difficulties; I always thought he would go under.'  And
every account that stands against us would be
in before noon."

I had to admit that he was right, and sallied forth
to the Oriental Bank.  The president received me
genially, when I announced myself as the ambassador
of Wharton Kendrick, and threw up his hands
in good-humored refusal when I told what I wanted.

"You couldn't get a cent on that property
to-day, if the trees were made out of gold, Mr. Hampden,"
he said.  "Property outside the city is worth
nothing to us.  To be frank with you, we should feel
easier if we had the money out of the last loan we
made you people.  I'll make you a first-class offer:
Pay the principal, and I'll strike off the interest."

Partridge was hardly more encouraging than the
president of the Oriental Bank.  He promised to
bestir himself to find some one to take the stock, but
confessed that he was unable to suggest a buyer.
And I was forced to turn toward the office once
more with a feeling akin to desperation.

The atmosphere about the business district was
not of a quality to reassure the despondent.
Although the banks and exchanges had not yet opened
for business, I could hear everywhere the buzz of
apprehension.  Frightened traders hurried along the
streets with eyes eloquent of their fears; anxious
holders of stocks gathered in groups about Pine and
Montgomery Streets, with pale and troubled faces,
as they began their curbstone trading; and there
were signs of storm indicating that we should have
a worse day before us than any that we had
weathered.

As I reached the Merchants' Exchange, I came
upon William T. Coleman, and he greeted me with
an air that warmed my spirit.

"That was a good piece of work you did last
night, Hampden," he said.  And I blushed under the
commendation as proudly as though I were a soldier
of the Grand Army called out to receive the ribbon
of the Legion of Honor from the hands of the
Great Napoleon.

"We suppressed the riots last night," I replied,
"but the people don't seem to know it.  I see more
anxiety among the business men this morning than
at any time yet."

"It's absurd," said Coleman abruptly.  "I can't
understand why they should take that tone.  The
danger is over.  We have the situation perfectly in
hand.  Men are signing the rolls by the hundred
now.  We shall have the city so thoroughly guarded
to-night that not even a rat can come out of the
sewers.  It's nonsense to talk of panic conditions, as
some of these fellows are doing.  By the way, how
are Kendrick's affairs?  He had a bad loss last
night."

I did not hesitate to describe the difficulties of the
position.

"I'll see if something can't be done for you," he
said.  "If I had a little more time I could arrange it,
I am sure, but I have my hands pretty full now.  As
it is, I can't be of much help to you till
to-morrow."  And he passed on.

There was a stimulating influence in his tones,
and, though I had little confidence in his power to
arrange for aid, his words sent me back to the office
in better spirits.  I had need of all my courage, for
Brown met me with word that the money was going
out rapidly, and that without a turn in the tide we
should not last beyond noon.

"God bless you, Hampden!" cried a familiar voice
as I entered the waiting-room.  "I was wondering
whether some of your long-haired Bedlamites hadn't
got you and hanged you to your own lamp-post."  And
the fiery face of General Wilson beamed at me
with lively interest as he hastened forward to grasp
my hand.  "How's Kendrick coming on?  I see by
the papers that you've been having the devil of a
time here."

I admitted the plutonic nature of the city's recent
activities, as I led General Wilson into the private
office.

"I've been in Stockton," said General Wilson
with explosive energy.  "To tell the truth, I went
up to file that contract for the sale of the tule land.
I didn't know how Kendrick's affairs were going
to turn out, so I didn't lose any time getting it on
record.  I've never been caught napping yet, and it
wouldn't do to begin at this late day.  Now, how
are things going?  Will Kendrick pull through, or is
he up against the wall?"

My heart misgave me at having Wharton Kendrick's
business on the tongue of this loquacious
boaster, and I was of a mind to deliver to him the
same cheery lie that I had poured into the ears of a
dozen inquisitive acquaintances.  But I remembered
the substantial proof of friendly interest that he had
already shown, and thought it better that I should
once more be frank with him.

General Wilson shook his head with sympathetic
concern when I had finished my tale.

"That has a bad look," he said.  "You can't get
through, unless you get help.  Now if it was only
fifty thousand, why, I would strain my authority so
far as to let you have it--or, by Jove, I'd advance it
out of my own pocket, to help Wharton.  But the
chances are that you'll want ten times that amount,
so I can't risk it.  You can count on my services,
though, if you have to call a meeting of the
creditors.  I'm famous for managing such affairs, and
in Chicago they have a joke about Wilson's Elixir
Vitæ for Broken-down Corporations.  If the business
stops, I can put it on its feet, if anybody can.
Why, I've managed twenty big failures if I've
managed one, and I brought 'em all through with flying
colors.  It wasn't three years ago that I was called
in to help Seymour, Peters and Blair.  They had
failed for four million, and their affairs were in the
devil of a tangle.  I wouldn't have touched the thing
for money, but I couldn't resist the pleading of my
old friend Seymour.  He came to me crying like
a baby, and was ready to blow his brains out if I
failed him.  So I took hold, worked like a beaver
for three weeks--night and day--got the creditors
to scale their claims and take six-, nine- and
twelve-months' notes, and had the concern going smoothly
inside of thirty days.  To-day you'll find Seymour,
Peters and Blair one of the soundest firms in Chicago.
Why, I've reorganized three railroads, and--"

General Wilson's flow of reminiscence was
interrupted by the sudden entry of Brown.  I saw by
his distressed face as he beckoned me that a crisis
had arrived.

"What is it?" I asked.  "You can speak before
General Wilson.  He is our counsel now."

"The El Dorado Bank has just presented notes
for a hundred and fifty thousand," he gasped.

The El Dorado Bank!  I had no need of second
sight to tell me from whose hand the blow had come.
Peter Bolton had brought together another packet
of Wharton Kendrick's paper, and had put it
through the bank for collection.  My heart sank,
and my face must have grown as long and white
as Brown's.  Was the game up at last?  Had the
struggle ended in defeat?

"I'm afraid you're going to need my services,"
said General Wilson with a shake of his head.
"Send out a hurry call to Kendrick's friends, and
if they don't come to time, I'll see you through a
meeting of the creditors."  General Wilson spoke
with professional cheerfulness, as though he would
convince me that a meeting of the creditors was one
of the pleasurable experiences of life.

As he spoke, the door opened, and I was startled
to see Laura Kendrick enter.  Her face was flushed,
and excitement sparkled in her eyes.  She paused
irresolute, as she saw the two men with me, and I
jumped to my feet and hastened to meet her.

"Am I too late?" she gasped.

"Too late?" I echoed in wonder.

"For the money--uncle's money, you know!" she
cried impatiently, as she saw no sign of
comprehension on my face.

"Why, I guess we can let you have whatever you
need," I said.  "It had better go to you than to the
creditors' attorneys."

"No--no!" she cried, grasping my arm and looking
up in my face, "I don't mean that.  I mean the
money that uncle put away.  It's in the safe deposit
vaults."

"The safe deposit vaults!" I cried, grasping her
meaning at last.  "Why didn't I think of that?"

"I ran as soon as I heard the words," she said.
"Am I in time?"

"To the minute," I said.  And at the words she
sank into a chair with the reaction from the stress
of anxiety.

Brown knew nothing of any safe deposit vault,
so with a hasty word of explanation to General
Wilson, I seized my hat, and said to Laura:

"You had better come over with me."

"I suppose I'd best go," she said.  "It's a feeling
I have, and as I don't have such inspirations very
often I'd better obey this one."

"How did you find out about the money?" I asked
as we descended the stairs.

"Why, uncle got dreadfully uneasy this morning,
and I couldn't quiet him.  He went over and over
his words--'million,' and 'notes,' and
'five-sixteen'--and sometimes he called your name, and
sometimes he called for Mr. Brown, and he was much
vexed that you didn't understand him.  Then about
half an hour ago he cried out angrily, 'Go over to
the safe deposit and get it.  Why don't you do as I
tell you?'  At that I flew, and here I am."  And she
looked up in my face with an anxious smile.

The safe deposit building was but half a block
away, and we were soon in the office.  There was a
minute or two of consultation between the officials
when I had delivered my credentials as the
representative of Wharton Kendrick.  Then one of them
asked:

"Have you the key number of the box?"

I was nonplussed for the moment, but Laura
Kendrick whispered:

"Remember the number he has been calling out
for the last two nights."

"Five-sixteen," I replied confidently.

The guardians of the treasure-house bowed, led
me to the vaults and at my demand unlocked the box.

At the top of the miscellaneous papers that the
box contained were two book-like packages, both
marked with the inspiring figures "$500,000."  I
tore off the wrapping of the larger package.  It was
filled with gold notes of large denominations, and
the slip that bound them was indorsed "For the
Syndicate."  The other package proved to be filled
with United States bonds.  It was all clear now.
Wharton Kendrick had deposited his contribution to
the syndicate's fund in this box instead of in the
special account in the Golconda Bank, and had
provided here his reserve of securities with which to
meet the outstanding notes.

Laura Kendrick exclaimed with delight at the
sight of this wealth.

"Is it all there?" she cried.

"Yes.  Here is the full million he has been talking
about, and there seem to be more securities in the
box.  You have saved the day for us.  We should
have gone to wreck without you," I replied.

"Well, I've been fuming and fretting all these
days because I was so useless, but now if you'll take
me to the carriage I'll go home with my self-respect
quite restored."

"It was you that made the battle worth while," I
murmured.

My return to the office brought an outburst of joy.
At my announcement of the result, Brown jumped
up with an enthusiastic whoop, and lumbered about
the room with awkward capers.  Then he checked
himself suddenly, and very shamefacedly begged
my pardon.

"I haven't done that since I was a boy, sir," he
said.  And I believed him.

With the business once more on a solid basis, I
walked over to Partridge's office to relieve his
anxiety on the subject of Wharton Kendrick's solvency.
He had gone to the Exchange, and I followed him
thither.

Pine Street was still thrilling with the energy of
a steam-engine working at high pressure.  Waves of
excitement agitated the crowds that hung about the
entrance of the Stock Exchange, and there was the
familiar succession of roars and barks with which
the traders in stocks find it necessary to transact
their business.  Yet I thought I saw a weakening
of interest among the speculators--a lessening of
the tension among the excited men who were
following the course of the market.  I leaped to the
hope that the crisis was passing.

As I reached the steps of the Exchange the
confused roar of the crowd was interrupted.  Three
short, sharp explosions crackled upon the air with
staccato distinctness and the clamor hushed for a
moment with a suddenness as startling as the shots
themselves.  A dozen yards down Pine Street a thin
cloud of blueish smoke rose and drifted away on
the morning breeze.

For a moment the crowd surged back as though
in fear, and I saw a bent, white-bearded man
standing with a revolver in his hand, looking down at a
prostrate something on the pavement.  A few trailing
threads of smoke floated up from the revolver's
muzzle.  Then there was a forward rush, and the
crowd closed in; but in that momentary glimpse
I had recognized the bent form and dreamy face of
Merwin.

The hush gave way to shouts.  Men were running
from all directions.  The crowd pushed closer.
Windows overlooking the place were suddenly filled
with excited observers, questions were eagerly
exchanged, and the cry rose:

"Peter Bolton has been shot!"

At the name of Bolton the blood bounded through
my arteries with suffocating force, and I pushed my
way through the throng with feverish energy.  When
I broke through the ring that surrounded the
prostrate form, a policeman was just laying his hands
on Merwin, and raising his dub as if to strike him.
The old man handed his revolver to the officer, and
cried:

"I am Merwin.  He has robbed me of my money
for twenty years, and he said I should die a beggar.
And I shot him!"

On the pavement lay Peter Bolton.  His hands
were pressed to a reddening circle on his coat, and
his face was drawn into an expression of anxious
fear.  As I bent over him, a look of recognition
flashed into his eyes.  And even in the pangs of
dissolution a sardonic smile drew down the corners of
his mouth, while has sarcastic voice, reduced in
volume till it was scarcely more than a whisper, drawled
painfully:

"You've missed your chance, Hampden.  You'll
never get rich now.  I fought--you all--and I've
beat--you all."

He paused in weakness, and the murmur of voices
about me filled my ears.  There was scarce a sympathetic
tone to be heard, and thrice the words floated
to me:

"It's a wonder he didn't get it before."

Peter Bolton had lived without good will to man,
and he was dying without man's regret.  He
summoned up his failing energies and continued:

"If I had another day,
your--man--Kendrick--would--be--smashed!"  The
last word was spoken
almost as a hiss.  Then the blood welled up in his
throat, and with a convulsive effort to rise he fell
back and was still.

The Bolton-Kendrick Feud was over.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BROKEN WEB`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BROKEN WEB

.. vspace:: 2

With the death of Peter Bolton there was an
immediate slackening of the tension in the commercial
exchanges.  The shock of his sudden end turned
men's minds for a little from the market-place, and
when they turned back it was not the same.  The
enginery of evil that he had set in motion to crush
Wharton Kendrick ran slower and slower, and at
last came to a stop.

"The El Dorado Bank has thrown up the sponge,"
said Partridge when I met him at noon.  "They were
acting for Bolton more than for themselves in this
deal.  Now that the old fox has gone, they have lost
stomach for the fight."

And with this assurance, I walked the street with
the buoyancy of heart that follows a hard-won victory.

I was still in exultant frame of mind when I came
a few minutes later upon the personification of
Gloom.  It was Parks.  His mouth was drawn down
into an expression of somber weariness of the world.
A piece of court-plaster ornamented his cheek; and
his right eye was swollen and discolored until it
resembled nothing so much as an overripe tomato.

"Why, what's the matter?" I asked with exuberant
spirit.  "You look like the day after the fight."

He looked resentfully at me, with a sad shake of
the head.

"Sir," he exclaimed, "it is unfair to jest.  I have
suffered the burial of my hopes.  I am done with
the affairs of life."

"What!" I cried.  "Have you given up the
revolution?  Have you abandoned the battle for the
rights of the people?"

"The people be damned!" responded Parks angrily.
"Why should I give my life to fight for those
who won't fight for themselves?  Why should I
scheme for the slaves who have not the sense to
follow the leaders who point the way to emancipation?
We perfect our plans to free them from the oppressions
of a capitalistic government, and when we call
on them to take arms and follow us they fall to
robbing Chinamen.  When I appeal to them to follow
me to the City Hall instead of the wash-house, the
response I get is a black eye.  That's my reward for
devotion to the rights of the people."

"It must have been a most demonstrative meeting,"
I replied without a trace of sympathy, "and
it did one good thing, for it knocked some sense into
you."

"Hampden," said Parks, with a lofty air that
made a comic contrast with his flaming eye, "I
forgive you the expression.  But I assure you I retract
nothing of my views.  What I have learned is that
the great era for which I have worked can not be
brought about by men who understand neither their
wrongs nor their rights.  We must educate them
until they see the truth."

"Oh, then I suppose you are on your way to the
City Hall to get your leather-lunged orator out of
jail to resume his teachings?"

Parks flushed angrily.

"Kearney?" he cried.  "He can rot in his cell for
anything I will do to get him out.  I refuse, sir, to
voice the suspicions that I have been forced to
entertain, but he is a hindrance, not an aid to the
cause of the people.  They must be taught the large
truths, not the little truths, if they are to act wisely.
Let us not mention his name."

I left Parks at the corner of Kearny and Merchant
Streets, and walking down to the door of the
City Prison, applied for permission to see the
prisoner I had captured in the final riot above the Mail
docks.  The death of Peter Bolton made it likely
that I could induce him to answer the questions he
had flouted the previous night.

I was admitted without difficulty, and found the
cages filled with scores of men herded together into
brutal contiguousness.

It was impossible to examine the prisoner before
these cell-mates, but by the exercise of diplomacy
I secured the privilege of talking with him in the
comparative quiet of the Receiving Hospital.  The
man was brought shambling in, cast an impudent
glance at me, and then looked sullenly at the floor.
His pale face and sunken eyes and cheeks betrayed
the opium smoker, and his manner was that of the
hoodlum.

"You had better make a clean breast of it," I
exhorted him.  "I suppose you know that Bolton is
dead."

"Yep," he said uneasily.  "The old rooster that
done for him was in here.  He didn't look like he'd
nerve enough to kill a cat."

"Well, I warn you that you have no one to protect
you now, and your only chance of getting off with
a light punishment is to answer my questions and tell
the truth."

"Ask what you like, cully," he replied with an
impudent leer.  "You can bet I'm too fly to give up
anything I ain't wanting you to know.  I ain't a-goin'
to split on the man that paid me, even if he has gone
to the morgue.  I'm game, I am."  And he straightened
himself with a pitiful exhibition of the criminal's pride.

"Oh, you needn't be afraid of giving away Bolton's
secrets," I said.  "I know more about them
than you do."  And I mentioned several incidents of
his employment that made his eyes open and his
face pale with the fear that he was caught beyond
escape.  "What I want you to tell me is what Bolton
was doing with Big Sam?"

The spy looked sullenly at the floor, and shook
his head.  And it was not until I had threatened to
put a charge of attempt to murder against him that
he replied:

"Well, I don't see as there's any harm in tipping
it off to youse on that.  The old rat's game was to
get Big Sam to put up money for them crazy bunko-men
on the Council of Nine.  He done it, too.  I'll
bet he got the coolie to put up as much as he gave
himself."

"Did you take the money from Big Sam to Bolton?"

"Me?  Not much!  They was too fly to let me get
my nippers on it.  I was plain messenger-boy--that's
what I was--and I carried a lot of talk about
what the Council was going to do.  You knows all
that game.  If youse want it, I can give youse a yard
of it now."

I could well believe that this creature was not
trusted with any of the purposes that these men had
in their alliance.  So I turned to the question:

"What was that Chinese paper in the pocket of
the overcoat you left with me that night you tried
to kill me when I chased you out of Mr. Kendrick's
yard?"

"Oh, youse is the feller that got that coat, are you?
Well, that paper was just an order or ticket that
would let me into Big Sam's tong house when the
tong was meeting--so as I could see him without
losing time.  It wasn't no use to me; but Big Sam let
on he was giving me first cousin to the Mint when
he passed it over."

Nothing more was to be got out of this man, so
I left the fetid prison, and followed up the line of
inquiry by seeking Big Sam.

I found him just entering the store that led to his
dwelling.  He received me with courtesy, but there
was a trace of suspicion in his eyes as he invited me
to follow him to his office.

"I suppose I do not bring news in telling you that
our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Peter Bolton, is no
more," I said, as we entered the oriental hall.  In
that room with its intricate ornamentation, its
grotesque carvings and garish hangings, Peter Bolton
and the troubled city of San Francisco seemed
thousands of miles away, and I felt like a traveler in
Cathay, who had come overseas bearing news of
distant countries.

"You are not the first to tell me," said Big Sam.
"I had the regret of hearing it some hours ago."

"It was a sad loss to the Council of Nine," I said,
watching narrowly if the name brought any change
of expression to his face.  But no shadow crossed
the yellow mask with which he concealed his
thoughts.

"I am not familiar with Mr. Bolton's relations
with society," said Big Sam blandly.  "But I'm sorry
to have lost a good customer."

It was hopeless to study that changeless mask--hopeless
to seek to match the Oriental in guile.  So
I abandoned the task and asked bluntly:

"Now that Peter Bolton is dead, and the Council
of Nine is in jail, and the conspiracy is smashed
beyond repair, would you mind telling me why you
contributed money to such a harebrained scheme?"

"Your question makes an unwarranted assumption,"
said Big Sam dryly.  "I know nothing about
contributing money to Councils of Nine, or other
harebrained revolutionists."

"Oh," I said, "you need not fear that I am asking
this in the character of a public prosecutor.  It is
merely a feeling of private curiosity.  In protecting
Mr. Kendrick's affairs I have learned most of the
inside history of the movement.  And I should really
like to know what led a man of your intelligence to
further a cause that was apparently so opposed to
his interests."

Big Sam looked at me in silence with calm and
unflinching gaze for two or three minutes, and I
suspected that the expediency of my mysterious
disappearance was canvassed behind the inscrutable veil
of his eyes.  Then a sarcastic smile stole about the
corners of his mouth, and he said:

"I am sorry to disappoint you.  I must plead
ignorance of the circumstances you mention.  If
Mr. Bolton was the representative of criminal or
treasonable designs, I do not know it.  But if it will be
of any assistance or satisfaction to you, I will
describe a hypothetical case.  Let us suppose that an
harassed race had found an insecure footing--say in
Sumatra.  Suppose that the head man of this harassed
race had been approached by the leader of a
revolutionary party, with whom he had been in business
relations.  This leader, or backer, or whatever you
wish to call him, we may suppose, insists on the
prospects of success of the revolutionary
movement--enlarges on the certainty of disturbances to come
among the classes of the people most opposed to this
alien race, and urges its head man to raise up friends
in the revolutionary party by a contribution of
money.  I put it to you, Mr. Hampden, would it be
worth this man's while--in Sumatra, you
understand--to pay enough to secure toleration for his
race, in case its enemies came into possession of the
government?"

"Candidly--since you ask my opinion--it was the
most unpromising investment I could have suggested."

Big Sam was so far nettled by my judgment on
his hypothetical case that he dropped his diplomatic
pretense, and said:

"A judgment after the fact, Mr. Hampden, when
it is easy to be wise.  Yet even now it is not difficult
to see that bitterness and division have been sown
among the enemies of my race.  Action against us
has been postponed for years--perhaps for all time.
The mass of your people--especially beyond the
mountains--are shocked at the excesses of the past
week, and will oppose the demands made by your
disorderly classes.  Like all the weak, we must
conquer by the division of those who could harm us.
The division has come."

"I think you mistake its extent," I said.  "The
riots may have roused a prejudice in the Eastern
States against the demand for the exclusion of your
race.  But it is only a temporary check.  It will not be
five years before there is a law on the statute books
forbidding the coming of your people."

Big Sam looked over my head, with the far-away
gaze of one who was looking to the distant future.
Then he sighed and spoke:

"Perhaps you are right.  You must understand the
temper of your people much better than I.  But it
will be as it will.  If we are permitted to come
unchecked, we shall build up on this coast a great
Chinese State that will change the face of the world.
We are adaptable, as you know.  We are arming
ourselves with the methods and machinery of western
progress.  Put a state of ten million of Chinese
on this coast, and from this vantage point we shall
break down the barriers between Orient and Occident,
put the productive forces of the West into the
hands of my people in China, add what is best in
your life to the superior qualities of our institutions,
and make China the leader instead of the hermit of
the world."

Big Sam's face was calm with the self-possession
of his race, as he described this vision, but his eyes
glowed with magnetic fire, and his voice thrilled
with enthusiasm as he spoke.

"A magnificent plan--but there are difficulties," I said.

"Difficulties, yes--but only such as the intellect
and energy of man may overcome.  The old order
in China is tottering to its fall.  The dynasty of
usurpers is held in place only by the arm of the
foreigner.  Its strength is typified by its head--a child
and a woman!"  Big Sam spoke thus of the baby
Emperor and the Empress Dowager, with an infinite
scorn.  "It needs but the man with the resources
behind him to rouse China to herself--to show to
the nations a new and magnificent civilization--more
splendid and solid than the world has ever seen."

I was stirred to admiration at his dream.

"I believe," I said heartily, "that you are the man
to do it, if it could be done by a single man.  But I
warn you now that the white race will never surrender
California, except at the compulsion of arms."

Big Sam sighed again, but his face retained its
impassive calm.

"In that case I shall live and die a Chinese
merchant--Big Sam, the King of Chinatown, as your
people are kind enough to call me."

There was something of pathos in this descent
from the heights of his great projects.  He had given
me a glimpse of the purposes nearest his heart, had
shown me something of the real man that lay behind
the disguise of his impassive face and every-day
pursuits.  But he closed the door of his soul with a
sudden contraction of his eyes, and said in a
matter-of-fact tone:

"And now are you tired of the girl I intrusted to
you?  Is she still a convalescent?"

"Why, we have no thought of surrendering her,"
I said, in some surprise that he should renew the
subject.  "She is improving rapidly.  She is able to walk
about, and is considered a most tractable patient."

"That is very satisfactory," began Big Sam, but
I interrupted:

"There is only one question agitating us about her.
She seems so much above the women of your race
we see about us that we should like to know
something of her history."

Big Sam bowed courteously, as though I had
offered him a compliment.

"I see that you are looking for a romance," he said.
"Well, possibly I can gratify you.  I had supposed
myself that she sprang from a low parentage--or at
highest from the shopkeeper class--though, as you
say, she seems much above the Chinese women you
are privileged to see.  She came hither from an
orphan home in Canton, and was said to be of
unknown parentage.  I have made further inquiries,
however, and have just received a letter from a friend
in Canton with a few details that may please you.
The girl is the daughter of a mandarin, descended
from a long line of scholars.  But her father, mother,
brothers and all known relatives perished in the
plague, their fortune was confiscated, and the
girl--then an infant--was turned over to the keeping of
the orphanage."

"That is very interesting.  Is there any chance of
establishing her rights?"

"Not the slightest.  But you will be glad to hear
that I shall soon have a home for her among her
own people."  Big Sam was, as usual, coming to his
point by indirection.

"I trust it is one you can recommend," I said bluntly.

"It is one that exactly fills the conditions under
which the girl was taken," he responded dryly.  "A
reputable man of her own race--a merchant--wishes
to make her his wife."

"He is well-to-do, I assume."

"Naturally, or he would not be able to meet the
demands of the tongs."

"Has he another wife?" I asked, with mistrust of
the Chinese domestic arrangements.

"None."

"In that case, I think he may be ready to offer his
credentials in something less than a month."

"He will find it difficult to repress his impatience,"
said Big Sam gravely.  "He is a widower."

And with a bow of ceremony he dismissed me.





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.. _`THE ANSWER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ANSWER

.. vspace:: 2

The duties of the day were at last done, and I
turned toward the Kendrick house with a lively
sense of my obligation to relieve the anxieties that
might still be felt in that household.  The afternoon
had been taken up with the fag ends of our business
complications, and darkness had set in before I could
leave the office.  The streets were quiet, and, except
for the Vigilante patrols, were almost deserted.

As I neared my destination a large man halted
me with a raised pick-handle, and said:

"Vere go you, mine vrendt?  Don'd you petter go home?"

I laughed and showed him my committee badge.

"That's where I'm going.  And I hope you will
have a quieter time than they gave us last night."

"Oxcuse me," said the Vigilante.  "I mine orders
obey, and mine block of hoodlums kept swept."  And
with a good night, I hastened on my way to the
Kendrick place.

I found Laura and Mercy together.

"Well," said Laura graciously, "I'm glad to see
that you have kept out of the fighting for one little
while.  I was supposing that you were down on the
Barbary Coast getting your head smashed.  Take
that big easy-chair; it's the softest, and I'm sure you
ought to appreciate it after all the knocks you've
had."

"Oh, it looks as though there was no more fighting
to be done.  The hoodlums have taken to their
holes, and the Vigilante pick-handles rule the city."

"Well, if it's all over it will be a great relief to
my mind," she replied.  "And I suppose you'll be
glad to hear that uncle is better.  He has come to
his senses again, and I've set his mind at rest about
the business, and Doctor Roberts says he will be out
in a few weeks."

"Well, all our troubles are coming to an end at
once then," I said with a lightened spirit.

"Yes, I got your note saying that the worst was
over, and the business safe.  It was good of you to
send it.  That was a shocking thing about Mr. Bolton.
He was an old--well, I won't say what, for he's
dead and gone--but I believe I feel sorry for him,
after all."

"Yes," said Mercy, with a grave nod, "whomever
he injured, we know that it was himself he injured
most of all.  What will they do with Mr. Merwin?"

"They've turned him loose already.  The committing
magistrate called it justifiable homicide, which
is bad law, though there's some elemental justice
about it, and the crowd carried Merwin out of the
court on their shoulders.  The Grand Jury may take
it up, but Bolton was not a popular character.  At
any rate Merwin is free now."

"Well, he is a much injured man," said Laura,
"though I don't see that he has bettered himself.
And now what did you mean in your note about
having a very important communication from Big
Sam?  I have some curiosity left after all the excitement."

"It's highly interesting.  Moon Ying turns out to
be the long-lost daughter of a Somebody.  Also Big
Sam has a suitor for her hand."

"Who is he?  What is he?" came in a breath from
the two girls.

"A merchant, a Chinaman and a widower," I replied.
And then I gave them the information that
Big Sam had confided to me.

"Well," said Laura decisively, "that's very
interesting about Moon Ying's family, but I don't see
that it can do her much good.  And that widower
can come up here, and we'll look him over.  I can
tell you right now that he will have to pass a very
rigid examination, and he shan't have Moon Ying
unless she wants him."

"Hm-m!  I suspect he will have to acquire some
new ideas on the qualifications of an expectant
husband, and I'm afraid he's rather old to learn."

"Well, if the ideas are new to him, it's time he
learned 'em," said Laura, "and if he's too old to
learn, why, so much the worse for him.  He can go
back where he came from."

"Yes," said Mercy quietly, "if it is to be worse for
him or worse for her, why, he is the one who must
give way."

"I'm afraid you are in a fair way to upset the
whole scheme of Chinese domesticity," I said.

"Well, it's high time it was upset," returned
Laura.  "And if I'm not much mistaken, Moon
Ying has learned a thing or two since she has been
here that will upset it for at least one household.  So
Mr. No-Name Chinaman had better be preparing his
credentials and studying up to pass his examinations."  And
she thereupon gave such a list of qualifications
for a possible husband for Moon Ying that
I was disposed to condole with Big Sam's candidate
on his chances of election to the blessed state of
matrimony.

Mercy Fillmore expressed a somewhat less exalted
ideal of the suitor who would fill the measure of
Moon Ying's maiden fancies, though I was certain
that it was one that would astonish the celestial
widower.  And then in sudden concern, lest her
patients should be in need of her attention, she excused
herself, and Laura and I were left alone.

For a little time she was silent, gazing dreamily
at the floor, and I was content to watch her without
speech.  The storm and stress of the past few weeks
had given something more of womanliness to the
delicately cut features, and, to my eyes at least, there
was an added grace to the attitude and movements of
the small figure.  It seemed as though the woman in
her had suddenly bloomed into the strength that the
girl had only suggested.

At last a little smile dimpled the corners of her
mouth, and without raising her eyes she said:

"Don't you know it's rude to stare at one so?"

"I beg your pardon," I returned impenitently,
"but it's impossible to help it."

"Oh," she said, with a quick return to her matter-of-fact
tone, "that's ruder yet.  And now I want to
know how much longer you're going to keep this
pack of men around the house.  They're rather a
responsibility for a housekeeper, and it's something
like living in a public square."

"I'm going to cut the force in half to-morrow, but
the rest of them will stay till Moon Ying is out of
the place.  I'm taking no more risks."

"I suppose you are right," she said slowly.  Then
she looked up impulsively, and added: "How good
you have been to us!  I don't see how we should have
got through without you.  We are through, aren't
we?  I'm hoping you feel that you have our thanks,
at least."

I stepped to her side and took her hand.

"I've asked for much more than that," I began.
I intended to say a good deal more, but a diabolic
click in my throat interfered with my voice, and a
whirl of brain cells tangled my ideas into such
inextricable confusion that I was able only to gasp
out: "I want an answer to my question.  I want you,
and I'm going to have you."

She had risen to her feet, and I was panic-stricken
with the fear that she was going to run away.  Then,
while I was struggling to get my ideas and my vocal
organs into subordination that would make them
of use in this emergency, the hereditary instinct
coming from some ancestor with, more courage than
I--may Heaven bless him for coming into the
family!--inspired my arm, and I clasped her in close
embrace.  She struggled for a moment.  Then she
looked up at me, and, my ancestor's courage
inspiring me once more, I bent down and kissed her.

"Oh, it isn't fair," she whispered in protesting
accent; and I repeated the offense.  "How can I
answer?" she added.  "You know I can't."

"There's only one answer," I whispered in return,
"and you might as well give it now."

At this moment I heard a gasp, and Mercy Fillmore's
voice exclaimed in consternation:

"Oh, I beg pardon--I hadn't any idea--"

At the sound, Laura whirled about and was out
of my clasp, with a strength and quickness marvelous
and unexpected.

"You may come in, Mercy," she said with an enviable
self-possession, though her face bloomed into
a most admirable variety of rose-colors.  "You shall
be the first to congratulate us.  We--we didn't intend
to announce it yet--but we are engaged to be married."

Mercy gave her good wishes most prettily, and
though I suspected that she considered Mr. Baldwin
a more suitable match, she was kind enough not to
give any hint of it, and kissed Laura, and assured
me that I had won the greatest prize in the world.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`EPILOGUE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   EPILOGUE

.. vspace:: 2

Big Sam was as good as his word.  As soon as
Moon Ying was pronounced in a state to receive
callers, his Chinese merchant abated so much of his
dignity as to pay a stately visit to the Kendrick
house.  He fell several points below the standard of
eligibility set by Miss Kendrick and Miss Fillmore.
But Moon Ying asserted her individuality to the
extent of approving him with such earnestness as to
weep at unfavorable comments.  At this demonstration
of affinity, Mercy Fillmore promptly surrendered
her doubts.  Miss Kendrick went around with
her nose tip-tilted for a full day, but as Moon Ying
continued to weep, she finally said:

"Well, I suppose you couldn't expect to get
anything better out of Chinatown."

This form of approval was not resented, either by
the enamored merchant or the fair Moon Ying.  So
the marriage was celebrated in double form: First,
and with many protests, one of which went even to
the length of a temporary rupture of the marriage
negotiations, there was a lawful Christian ceremony
at the Kendrick house.  On this point the protectresses
were inexorable.  Therefore, before the Reverend
Doctor Western, appeared Lan Yune Yow,
portly, shiny, erect, dressed like a rainbow and
looking convinced that he was making a fool of himself;
and Moon Ying, radiant in silks, dazzling with pearls
and embroideries, and beaming with celestial happiness;
and in lawful form they were pronounced man
and wife.  Secondly, there was a wedding in Chinatown,
which was reported to be the most magnificent
celebration ever witnessed in the oriental quarter.
We were not favored with an invitation to this part
of the marriage ceremonies, but we were participants
in the wedding-feast, for there descended on the
Kendrick house such a shower of Chinese confections
and nuts and fruits that it seemed impossible
that any could be left for the bidden guests.

So Moon Ying went out of our lives, and carried
with her our lasting gratitude for the services she
had unconsciously rendered.

Mr. Baldwin affected not to see me the next time
we met, and then repenting of his churlishness gave
me his congratulations; but he never called again at
the Kendrick house, and presently consoled himself
by marrying the heiress of the Bellinger fortune.

Wharton Kendrick recovered strength slowly, but
at last resumed his place at the head of his business.
He enlivened his convalescence by telling me how
much better he could have managed certain details
of our campaign if he could have been in command;
but when he was wholly himself again he made more
handsome acknowledgments of his approval--both
verbal and financial--than I had a right to expect.
While he was still on his sick-bed, I asked him if he
would mind telling me the origin of the Bolton-Kendrick
feud, now that it was all over.

"I'm ashamed to tell it," he said.  "But if you will
have it, the whole thing started with a blackboard
caricature that I drew of Bolton when we were barefoot
boys together at the old school-house.  He
retaliated by drawing attention to a caricature I had
made of the teacher, and I can feel the tingle yet
from the licking I got.  It went on from one thing
to the other, like a fire spreading from a little match,
until even San Francisco wasn't big enough to hold
both of us.  Sounds foolish when you tell it, doesn't
it?  But it's been serious enough."

When the subject of an approaching wedding was
broached to Wharton Kendrick, I had an indistinct
impression that he thought his niece could have done
better.  But as the date drew near, I had no fault to
find with his growing enthusiasm, and indeed had
to enter into conspiracy with Laura to curb his
extravagance.  He gave away the bride with exemplary
dignity, made a speech that set the wedding-table in
a roar, and as we drove away, sent a farewell shoe
after me with such unerring aim that I spent the first
part of the honeymoon in an odor of arnica and
opodeldoc.  And even now a whiff of liniment carries
me back in fancy to that happy time.

Mercy Fillmore made a most charming bridesmaid
at our wedding, and General Wilson was so loud in
her praise, and so frank in telling what he would do
if he were thirty years younger, that she went
through the evening with an unwonted color in her
face.  But a few months later she was married--at
our house, and with many misgivings on our part--to
Parks.  But we were happily disappointed in our
fears.  Whether from the calming influence of
Mercy, or the black eye bestowed upon him by an
ungrateful constituency, Parks ceased to be a
militant reformer, and turned his energies to the prosaic
but more remunerative business of selling groceries.
He cut his hair, and though on occasion he delivers
addresses before numberless clubs, in which he
declares that the remedy for the evils of society is to
be found in socialism, he is careful to insist that this
panacea is to be applied in the distant future, and is
not adapted to present conditions.

It is a good many years since I married my wife,
and it is my candid opinion that she is prettier than
ever.  I can join the children in testifying that her
talent for managing a family is unsurpassed.
Perhaps there is a little more of it than is absolutely
necessary, but it is some time since I ceased to offer
that suggestion.  As for me--well, I've grown
stouter than in the hurrying days of old; but
Mrs. Hampden affects to believe that a portly form is
highly becoming in a man, and I shouldn't think of
being the one to contradict her.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`POSTSCRIPT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   POSTSCRIPT

.. vspace:: 2

The author offers his apologies to the Muse of
History for a few liberties that have been taken with
chronology in the tale.  Kearney's rise to prominence
followed instead of preceding the riots of 1877.
Otherwise, the history of the time, where touched
on, has been faithfully followed, and, I hope, the
spirit of the self-reliant men who organized a city
for its own defense has given some inspiration to
these pages.

The city of which the tale is told is gone.  Such
buildings of the era as had survived the march of
time and progress were swept away by the mightiest
conflagration of history, and all that is left of the
old San Francisco is a memory.  That the new city
that springs from its ashes may prove as picturesque
as the old, and be animated by the same spirit, is the
hope of the author of these pages.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

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.. vspace:: 3

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.. pgfooter::