He put a hand kindly on the crestfallen young man's shoulder.... "Goback tomorrow and see if he'll make you secretary to the Mayor. Then getall the 'extras' you can. Label each and bring it to me. I'll see thatyou're not misunderstood." He rose. "But I fear Buckley will withdrawhis offer ... if so, we'll print the story of his Platt's Hallgambling house."
CHAPTER LXXII
FATE TAKES A HAND
Francisco found that Pickering's prophecy had been a true one. On asubsequent visit to the Bush street saloon he found the Blind Bossunapproachable. After waiting almost an hour and seeing several men whohad come after him, led to the rear room for a conference, word wasbrought him by the little, keen-eyed man that the position of Mayor'ssecretary was already filled. He was exceedingly polite, expressing "Mr.Buckley's deep regret," about the matter. But there was in his eye afurtive mockery, in his tight-lipped mouth a covert sneer.
Francisco went directly to the office of The Bulletin, relating hisexperience to the veteran editor. "I supposed as much," said Pickering.He tapped speculatively on the desk with his pencil. "What's more, Ithink there's little to be done at present. Printing the story ofPlatt's Hall will only be construed as a bit of political recrimination.San Francisco rather fancies gambling palaces."
"Jack!" he called to a reporter. "See if you can locate Jerry Lynch." Heturned to Stanley. "There's the fellow for you: Senator Jeremiah Lynch.Know him? Good. You get evidence on Buckley. Consult with Lynchconcerning politics. He'll tell you ways to checkmate Chris you wouldn'tdream of...."
Pickering smiled and picked up a sheet of manuscript. Francisco took thehint. From that day he camped on Buckley's trail. Bit by bit he gatheredproofs, some documentary, some testimonial. No single item was of greatimportance. But, as a whole, Robert had assured him, it was weaving anet in which the blind boss might one day find himself entrapped.Perhaps he felt its meshes now and then. For overtures were made toStanley. He was offered the position of secretary to Mayor Pond, but hedeclined it. Word reached him of other opportunities; tips on the stockmarket, the races; he ignored them and went on.
* * * * *
One night his house was broken into and his desk ransacked mostthoroughly. Twice he was set upon at night, his pockets rifled. Threatscame to him of personal violence. Finally the blind boss sent for him.
"Is there anything you want--that I can give you?" Buckley minced nowords.
Stanley shook his head. Then, remembering Buckley's blindness, he said"No."
Buckley took a few short paces up and down the room, then added: "I'lltalk plain to you, my friend--because you're smart; too smart to be acatspaw for an editor and a politician who hate me. Let me tell youthis, you'll do no good by keeping on." He spun about suddenly,threateningly, "You've a wife, haven't you?"
"We'll not discuss that, Mr. Buckley," said Francisco stiffly.
"Nevertheless it's true ... and children?"
"N-not yet," said Francisco in spite of himself.
"Oh, I see. Well, that's to be considered.... It's not what you'd call atime for taking chances, brother."
"What d'ye mean?" Francisco was a trifle startled.
"Nothing; nothing!" said the blind boss unctuously. "Think it over....And remember, I'm your friend. If there's anything you wish, come to mefor it. Otherwise--"
Stanley looked at him inquiringly, but did not speak. Nor did Buckleyclose his sentence. It was left suspended like the Damoclesian blade.Francisco went straight home and found Jeanne busied with her needle andsome tiny garments, which of late had occupied her days. He was rathersilent while they dined, a bit uneasy.
* * * * *
Francisco usually went down town for lunch. There was a smart clubcalled the Bohemian, where one met artists, actors, writers. Among themwere young Keith, the landscape painter, who gave promise of a vogue;Charley Stoddard, big and bearded; they called him an etcher with words;and there were Prentice Mulford, the mystic; David Belasco of theColumbia Theater. Francisco got into his street clothes, kissed Jeanneand went out. It was a bright, scintillant day. He strode alongwhistling.
At the club he greeted gaily those who sat about the room. Instead ofanswering, they ceased their talk and stared at him. Presently Stoddardadvanced, looking very uncomfortable.
"Let's go over there and have a drink," he indicated a secluded corner."I want a chat with you."
"Oh, all right," said Francisco. He followed Stoddard, still softlywhistling the tune which had, somehow, caught his fancy. They sat down,Charley Stoddard looking preternaturally grave.
"Well, my boy," Francisco spoke, "what's troubling you?"
"Oh--ah--" said the other, "heard from your folks lately, Francisco?"
"Yes, they're homeward bound. Ought to be off Newfoundland by now."
The drinks came. Stanley raised his glass, drank, smiling. Stoddardfollowed, but he did not smile. "Can you bear a shock, old chap?" Heblurted. "I--they--dammit man--the ship's been wrecked."
Francisco set his glass down quickly. He was white. "The--TheRaratonga?"
Stoddard nodded. There was silence. Then, "Was any-body--drowned?"
Stanley did not need an answer. It was written large in Stoddard'sgrief-wrung face. He got up, made his way unsteadily to the door. A pagecame running after with his hat and stick and he took them absently.Nearby was a newspaper office, crowds about it, bulletins announcing theRaratonga's total destruction with all on board.
Francisco began to walk rapidly, without a definite sense of direction.He found relief in that. The trade-wind was sharp in his face and hepulled his soft hat down over his eyes. Presently he found himself in anunfamiliar locality--the water-front--amid a bustling rough-spokencurrent of humanity that eddied forward and back. There were manysailors. From the doors of innumerable saloons came the blare oforchestrions; now and then a drunken song.
Entering one of the swinging doors, Francisco called for whisky. He feltsuddenly a need for stimulant. The men at the long counter looked at himcuriously. He was not of their kind. A little sharp-eyed man who wasplaying solitaire at a table farther back, looked up interested. Hepulled excitedly at his chin, rose and signed to a white-coatedservitor. They had their heads together.
It was almost noon the following day when Chief Mate Chatters of thewhaleship Greenland, en route for Behring Sea, went into the forecastleto appraise some members of a crew hastily and informally shipped."Shanghaiing," it was called. But one had to have men. One paid thewaterfront "crimps" a certain sum and asked no questions.
"Who the devil's this?" He indicated a man sprawled in one of the bunks,who, despite a stubble of beard and ill-fitting sea clothes, wasunmistakably a gentleman.
"Don't know--rum sort for a sailor. Got knocked on the head in ascrimmage. Cawnt remember nothing but his name, Francisco."
CHAPTER LXXIII
THE RETURN
In the fall of 1898 a man of middle years walked slowly down the stairswhich plunged a traveler from the new Ferry building's upper floor intothe maelstrom of Market street's beginning. Cable cars were whirling onturn-tables, newsboys shouted afternoon editions; hack drivers, flowervendors, train announcers added their babel of strident-toned outcriesto the clanging of gongs, the clatter of wheels and hoofs uponcobblestone streets. Ferry sirens screamed; an engine of the Belt LineRailroad chugged fiercely as it pulled a train of freight cars towardthe southern docks.
The stranger paused, apparently bewildered by this turmoil.
He was a stalwart, rather handsome man, bearded and bronzed as ifthrough long exposure. And in his walk there was a suggestion of thatrolling gait which smacks of maritime pursuits. He proceeded aimlesslyup Market street, gazing round him, still with that odd, half-doubtingand half-troubled manner. In front of the Palace Hotel he paused, seemedabout to enter, but went on. He halted once again at Third street,surveying a tall brick building with a clock tower.
"What place is that?" he queried of a bystander.
&n
bsp; "That? Why, the Chronicle building."
The stranger was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a curious,detached tone, "I thought it was at Bush and Kearney."
"Oh, not for eight years," said the other. "Did you live here,formerly?"
"I? No." He spoke evasively and hurried on. "I wonder what made me saythat?" he mumbled to himself.
Down Kearney street he walked. Now and then his eyes lit as if with somehalf-formed memory and he made queer, futile gestures with his hands.Before a stairway leading to an upper floor, he stopped, and, with thedreamy, passive air of a somnambulist, ascended, entering throughswinging doors a large, pleasant room, tapestried, ornamented withpaintings and statuary. Half a dozen men lounging in large leathernchairs glanced up and away with polite unrecognition. The stranger wasmade aware of a boy in a much-buttoned uniform holding a silver tray.
"Who do you wish to see, sir?"
"Oh--ah--" spoke the stranger, "this is the Bohemian Club, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. Shall I call the house manager, sir?"
At the other's nod he vanished to return with a spectacled man wholooked inquiring.
"I beg your pardon--for intruding," said the bearded man slowly. "But--Icouldn't help it.... I was once a member here."
"Indeed?" said the spectacled man, tentatively cordial, still inquiring."And you're name--"
From the bearded lips there came a gutteral sound--as if speech hadfailed him. He gazed at the spectacled personage helplessly. "I--don'tknow." Sudden weakness seemed to seize him. Still with the helplessexpression in his eyes, he retreated, found a chair and sank into it. Hepassed a hand feverishly before his eyes.
The spectacled man acted promptly.
"Garrison, you're one of the ancients round this club," he addressed asmiling, gray-haired man of plump and jovial mien. "Come and talk to theMysterious Stranger.... Says he was a member ten or fifteen yearsago.... Can't recollect who he is."
"What do you wish me to do?" asked Garrison.
"Pretend to recognize him. Talk to him about the Eighties.... Get himoriented. It's plainly a case of amnesia."
He watched Garrison approach the bearded man with outstretched hand; sawthe other take it, half reluctantly. The two retired to an alcove, had adrink and soon were deep in conversation. The stranger seemed to unfoldat this touch of friendliness. They heard him laugh. Another drink wasordered. After half an hour Garrison returned. He seemed excited. "Holdhim there till I return," he urged. "I'm going to a newspaper office tolook at some files."
Fifteen minutes later he was back. "Come," he said, "I've got a cab ...want you to meet a friend of mine." He took the still-dazed stranger'sarm. They went out, entered a carriage and were driven off. As theypassed the City Hall the stranger said, as though astonished. "Why--it'sfinished, isn't it?"
"Yes, at last," Garrison smiled. "Even Buckley couldn't hold it backforever."
"Buckley ... he's the one who promised me a job, Is Pond the Mayor now?"
"No," returned the other. "Phelan." As he spoke the carriage stoppedbefore a rather ornate dwelling, somewhat out of place amid surroundingoffices and shops. The stranger started violently as they approached it.Again the gutteral sound came from his lips.
The door opened and a woman appeared; a woman tall, sad-faced andeager-eyed. Beside her was a lad as tall as she. They stared at thebearded stranger, the boy wide-eyed and curious; the woman with apiercing, concentrated hope that fears defeat.
The man took a stumbling step forward. "Jeanne!" He halted half abashed.But the woman sobbing, ran to him and put her arms about his neck. Foran instant he stood, stiffly awkward, his face very red. Then somethingsnapped the shackles of his prisoned memory. A cry burst from him,inarticulately joyous. His arms went round her.
* * * * *
It required weeks for Stanley to recover all his memories. It was a newworld; Jeanne the one connecting link between the present and that stillhalf-shadowy past from which he had been cast by some unceremonial jestof Fate into a strange existence. From the witless, nameless unit of awhaler's crew he had at last arisen to a fresh identity. Frank Starbird,they christened him, he knew not why. And when they found that he hadclerical attainments, the captain, who was really a decent fellow, hadbefriended him; found him a berth in a store at Sitka.... Since then hehad roamed up and down the world, mostly as purser of ships, foreverhaunted by the memory of some previous identity he could not fathom. Hehad been to Russia, India, Europe's seaports, landing finally atBaltimore. Thence some mastering impulse took him Westward. And here hewas again, Francisco Stanley.
It was difficult to realize that fifteen years had flown. Jeanne seemedso little older. But the tall young son was startling evidence of Time'spassage. Stanley used to sit gazing at him silently during those firstfew days, as though trying to drink in the stupendous fact of hisexistence. Old friends called to hear his adventures; he was given adinner at the club where he learned, with some surprise, that he was notunfamous as an author. Jeanne had finished his book and found apublisher. Between the advertisement of his mysterious disappearance andits real merits, the volume had a vogue.
Robert had married Maizie after her mother's death. They lived in theWindham house in Old South Park, for Benito and Alice had never returnedfrom the East. Po Lun and Hang Far had gone to China.
Slowly life resumed its formed status for Francisco.
CHAPTER LXXIV
THE "REFORMER"
Francisco loved to wander round the town, explore its nooks and cornersand make himself, for the time being, a part of his surroundings. Asmattering of European languages aided him in this. He rubbed elbowswith coatless workmen in French, Swiss, Spanish and Italian "pensions,"sitting at long tables and breaking black bread into red wine. He drankblack coffee and ate cloying sweetmeats in Greek or Turkish cafes;hobnobbed with Sicilian fishermen, helping them to dry their nets andsometimes accompanying them in their feluccas into rough seas beyond theHeads. Now and then he invaded Chinatown and ate in their undergroundrestaurants, disdaining the "chop suey" and sweets invariably served totourists for the more palatable and engaging viands he had learned tolike and name in Shanghai and Canton. Fortunately, he could afford toindulge his bent, for the value of his inheritance had increasedextraordinarily in the past decade. Stanley's income was more thansufficient to insure a life of leisure.
* * * * *
At Market and Fourth streets stood a large and rather nondescript graystructure built by Flood, the Comstock millionaire. It had served forvaried purposes, but now it housed the Palais Royal, an immense saloonand gambling rendezvous. In the massive, barn-like room, tile-flooredand picture-ornamented, were close to a hundred tables where men of alldescriptions drank, played cards and talked. Farther to the rear wereprivate compartments, from which came the incessant click ofpoker chips.
Francisco and Robert sometimes lunched at the Palais Royal. The formerliked its color and the vital energy he always found there. Robert "satin" now and then at poker. He had a little of his father's love forChance, but a restraining sanity left him little the loser in the longrun. Robert had three children, the eldest a girl of twelve. Petite anddainty Maizie had become a plump and bustling mother-hen.
It was in the Palais Royal that Francisco met Abraham Ruef, a dapper andengaging gentleman of excellent address, greatly interested in politics.He was a graduate of the State University, where he had specialized inpolitical economy.
Francisco liked him, and they often sat for long discussions of thelocal situation after lunching at the Palais Royal. Ruef, in a smallway, was a rival of Colonel Dan Burns, the Republican boss. Burns, theysaid, was jealous of Ruef's reform activites.
"If one could get the laboring class together," Ruef told Stanley, "onecould wield a mighty power. Some day, perhaps, I shall do it. Thelaborer is a giant, unconscious of his strength. He submits to Capital'soppression, unwitting of his own capacity to rule. For years we've hadnothing but strikes
, which have only strengthened employers."
"Yes, they're always broken," said Francisco.
"The strike is futile. Organization--political unity; that's the thing."
"A labor party, eh?" Francisco spoke, a trifle dubiously.
"Yes, but not the usual kind. It must be done right." His eyes shone."Ah, I can see it all so plainly. If I could make it clear to others--"
"Why don't you try?" asked Stanley.
But Ruef shook his head. "I lack the 'presence.' Do you know what Imean? No matter how smart I may be, they see in me only a small man. Sothey think I have small ideas. That is human nature. And they say,'He's a Jew.' Which is another drawback."
He was silent a moment. "I have thought it all out.... I must borrow the'presence.'"
"What do you mean?" Francisco was startled.
"We shall see," Ruef responded. "Perhaps I shall find me a man--big,strong, impressive--with a mind easily led.... Then I shall train him tobe a leader. I shall furnish the brain."
"What a curious thought!" said Francisco. Ruef, smiling, shook his head."It is not new at all," he said. "If you read political history you willsoon discover that."
* * * * *
Francisco worked at his novel. Word came of Alice Windham's death inMassachusetts. Robert urged his father to return to San Francisco, butBenito sought forgetfulness in European travel.
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