Port O' Gold

by Louis J. Stellman

  "It seems as though the Seven Plagues of Egypt were being repeated,"remarked Frank to his uncle as they lunched together. They had come tobe rather good companions, with the memory of Bertha between them. ForFrank, within the past twelve months, had passed through muchilluminating experience.

  Robert Windham, too, was a changed man. He cared less for money. Frankknew that he had declined big fees to defend some of the "higher ups"against impending charges of the graft prosecution. Windham smiled as heanswered Frank's comment about the Seven Plagues.

  "We'll come out of it with flying colors, my boy. A city is a greatcomposite heart that keeps beating, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, butthe healthy blood rules in the main; it conquers all passingdistempers."

  * * * * *

  Market street was queer and unnatural without its rushing trolley cars.All sorts of horse-drawn vehicles rattled up and down, carryingpassengers to and from the ferry. Many of the strikers were acting asJehus of improvised stages. Autotrucks, too, were impressed intoservice. They rumbled along, criss-crossed with "circus seats,"always crowded.

  Frank made his way northward and east through the ruins. Here and therelittle shops had opened; eating houses for the army of rehabilitation.They seemed to Frank symbols of renewed life in the blackened waste,like tender, green shoots in a flame-ravaged forest. Sightseers werebeginning to swarm through the burned district, seeking relics.

  A large touring car honked raucously almost in Frank's ear as he wascrossing Sutter street, and he sprinted out of its lordly course,turning just in time to see the occupant of the back seat, a large man,rather handsome, in a hard, iron-willed way. He sat stiffly erect,unbending and aloof, with a kind of arrogance which just escaped beingsplendid. This was Patrick Calhoun, president of the United Railroads,who had sworn to break the Carmen's Union. It was said that Calhoun hadsworn, though less loudly, to break the graft prosecution as well.

  * * * * *

  On Montgomery street several financial institutions were doing businessin reclaimed ruins. One of these was the California Safe Deposit andTrust Company, which had made spectacular history of late. It was saidthat spiritualism entered into its affairs. Frank had been working onthe story, which promised a sensation.

  As he neared the corner of California and Montgomery streets, where thecrumbled bank walls had been transformed into a temporary habitation, hesaw a crowd evidently pressing toward it. The bank doors were closed,though it was not yet three o'clock. Now and then people broke from thethrong and wandered disconsolately away. One of these, a gray-hairedwoman, came in Frank's direction. He asked her what was wrong.

  "They're busted ... and they've got me money," she wailed.

  Hastily Frank verified her statement. Then he hurried to the office,found his notes and for an hour wrote steadily, absorbedly a spectaculartale of superstition, extravagance and financial chaos. As he turned inhis copy the editor handed him a slip of paper on which was written:"Call Aleta Boice at once." He sought a telephone, but there was noresponse. He tried again, but vainly. A third attempt, however, andAleta's voice, half frantic, answered his.

  "He's killed himself," she cried. "Oh, Frank, I don't know what to do."

  "He? Who?" Frank asked startled.

  "Frank, you know! The man who wanted me to--"

  "Do you mean the Supervisor?"

  "Yes.... They say it was an accident. But I know better. He lost hismoney in the safe deposit failure.... Oh, Frank, please come tome, quick."

  CHAPTER LXXXVI

  A NEW CITY GOVERNMENT

  Frank found Aleta, dry-eyed, frantic, pacing up and down her littlesitting room which always looked so quaintly attractive with its jumbleof paintings and bric-a-brac, its distinctive furniture anddraperies--all symbolic of the helter-skelter artistry which was a partof Aleta's nature. She took Frank's hand and clung to it.

  "I'm so glad you've come," she whispered. "I'm so glad you've come."

  It was a little time ere she could tell him of the tragedy. The man hadbeen run over, quickly killed. Witnesses had seen him stagger, falldirectly in the path of an advancing car. A doctor called it apoplexy.

  "But I know better," sobbed Aleta, for the tears had come by now. "Henever was sick in his life. He thought he'd lost me when the money went... his money in the California Safe Deposit Company."

  Frank took a seat beside her on the couch, whose flaming, joyous colorsseemed a mockery just then. "Aleta," he said, "I wish I could help you.I wish I knew how, but I don't."

  She lifted her tear-stained eyes to his with a curious bitterness. "No... you don't. But thank you. Just your coming's helped me, Frank. I'mbetter. Go--and let me think things over." She tried to smile, but thetears came.

  "Life's a hideous puzzle. Perhaps if I'd gone with him, all would havecome right.... I'd have made him happy."

  "But what about yourself?"

  Again that bitter, enigmatic look came to her eyes. "I guess ... thatdoesn't matter, Frank."

  He left her, a queer ache in his heart. Was she right about the man'scommitting suicide. Poor devil! He had stolen for a woman. Others hadfilched his plunder. Then God had taken his misguided life.

  But had He? Was God a murderer? A passive conniver at theft? No, thatwere blasphemy! Yet, if He _permitted_ such things--? No, that couldn'tbe, either. It was all an abominable enigma, as Aleta said. Unless--thethought came startlingly--it were all a dream, a nightmare. Thus Kant,the great philosopher, believed. Obsessed by the idea, he paused beforea book-store. Its show window prominently displayed Francisco Stanley'slatest novel.

  Frank missed the mellow wisdom of his father's counsel seriously. Heentered the shop, found a volume of Kant and scanned it for some momentstill he read:

  "This world's life is only an appearance, a sensuous image of the purespiritual life, and the whole of Sense is only a picture swimming beforeour present knowing faculty like a dream and having no realityin itself."

  Acting upon a strange impulse, he bought the book, marked the passageand ordered it sent to Aleta.

  A week after Ruef's confession the trial of Mayor Schmitz began. Itdragged through the usual delays which clever lawyers can exact by legaltechnicality. Judge Dunne, sitting in the auditorium of the Bush Streetsynagogue, between the six-tinned ceremonial candlesticks and in frontof the Mosiac tablets of Hebraic law, dispensed modern justice.

  Meanwhile the Committee of Seven sprang suddenly into being. A morningpaper announced that Schmitz had handed the reins of the city over to aseptette of prominent citizens. Governor Gillette lauded this action.But Rudolph Spreckels disowned the Committee. Langdon and Heney weresuspicious of its purpose. So the Committee of Seven resigned.

  At this juncture the Schmitz trial ended in conviction of the Mayorwhich was tantamount to his removal from office. It left a vacancywhich, nominally, the Supervisors had the power to fill. But they wereunder Langdon's orders. Actually, therefore, the District Attorney foundhimself confronted by the task of naming a new mayor.

  Unexpectedly the man was found in Edward Robeson Taylor, doctor ofmedicine and law, poet and Greek scholar. The selection was hailed withrelief. Frank hastened to the Taylor home, a trim, white dwelling onCalifornia street near Webster. He found a genial, curly-haired oldgentleman sitting in a room about whose walls were thousands of books.He was reading Epictetus.

  Stanley found the new mayor likeable and friendly. He seemed a man ofsimple thought. Frank wondered how he would endure the roiling passionsof this city's politics. Dr. Taylor seemed undaunted by theprospect, though.

  Without delay he was elected by the Supervisors. Then began the farcicalprocedure of their resignations. One by one the new chief named goodcitizens as their successors.

  But the real fight was now beginning. Halsey's testimony had notincriminated Glass beyond a peradventure. There remained a shade ofdoubt that he had authorized the outlay of a certain fund for thepurposes of bribery. The jury disagreed. The Prosecut
ion's first battleagainst the "higher-ups" had brought no victory.

  Ruef was failing Heney as a witness for the people. After months ofbargaining the special prosecutor withdrew his tacit offer of immunity.Heney's patience with the wily little Boss, who knew no end of legalsubterfuge, was suddenly exhausted. Frank heard that Ruef was to betried on one of the three hundred odd indictments found against him.Schmitz had been sentenced to five years in San Quentin. Hehad appealed.

  * * * * *

  Several times Frank tried to reach Aleta on the telephone. But she didnot respond to calls, a fact which he attributed to disorganizedservice. But presently there came a letter from Camp Curry in theYosemite Valley.

  "I am here among the everlasting pines and cliffs," she wrote, "thinkingit all out. I thank you for the book, which has helped me. If only wemight waken from our 'dream'! But here one is nearer to God. It is veryquiet and the birds sing always in the golden sunshine.

  "I shall come back saner, happier, to face the world.... Perhaps I canforget myself in service, I think I shall try settlement work.

  "Meanwhile I am trying not to think of what has happened ... what cannever happen. I am reading and painting. Yesterday a dog came up andlicked my hand. I cried a little after that, I don't know why."

  In his room that evening, Frank re-read the letter. It brought a lump tohis throat.

  CHAPTER LXXXVII

  NORAH FINDS OUT

  Very soon after the appointment of Mayor Taylor, the second trial ofLouis Glass ended in his conviction. He was remanded to the county jailawaiting an appeal. The trial of an official of the United Railwaysbegan. Meanwhile the politicians rallied for election.

  Schmitz had been elected at the end of 1905. His term, which Dr. Taylorwas completing, would be terminated with the closing of the presentyear. And now the Graft Prosecution was to learn by public vote how manyof the people stood behind it.

  Union Labor, ousted and discredited by venal representatives, was notofficially in favor of the Taylor-Langdon slate. P.H. McCarthy, laborleader and head of the Building Trades Council, was Labor's nomineefor Mayor.

  Frank met McCarthy now and then. He posed as "a plain, blunt man," butback of the forthright handgrip, the bluff directness of manner, Frankscented a massive and wily self-interest. He respected the man for hispower, his crude but undeniable executive talents.

  The two opponents for the Mayoralty were keenly contrasted. Taylor wasquiet, suavely cultured, widely read but rather passive. Some said helacked initiative.

  Frank MacGowan was Langdon's foeman in the struggle for the districtattorneyship. Little could be said for or against him. A lawyer of goodreputation who had made his way upward by merit and push, he had donenothing big. He was charged with no wrong.

  The "dark horse" was Daniel Ryan.

  Ryan was a young Irishman, that fine type of political leader whoapproximates what has sometimes been called a practical idealist. He hadset out to reform the Republican Party and achieved a certain measure ofsuccess, for he had beaten the Herrin or Railroad forces at theRepublican Convention. Ryan was avowedly pro-prosecution. It wasbelieved that he would deliver his party's nomination to Taylorand Langdon.

  But he astonished San Francisco voters by becoming a candidate formayor.

  * * * * *

  Aleta had returned from Camp Curry. There was a certain quiet in hereyes, a greater self-control, a better facing of Life's problems. Theyspoke of Kant and his philosophy. "The Nightmare is less turbulent,"she said.

  One evening at her apartment Frank met a young woman named France, afragile, fine-haired, dreamy sort of girl, and he was not surprised tolearn that she wrote poetry.

  "Norah's been working as a telephone operator," explained Aleta. "She'swritten a story about it--the working girl's wrongs.... Oh, not theordinary wail-and-whine," she added hastily. "It's real meat. I've readit. The Saturday Magazine's considering it."

  Miss France smiled deprecatingly. "I have high hopes," she said. "I needthe money."

  "It will give you prestige, too," Frank told her, but she shook herhead.

  "Norah hasn't signed her name to it," Aleta disapproved. "Just because afriend, a well known writer in Carmel, has fixed it up for hera little."

  "It doesn't seem like mine," the girl remarked. Aleta rose. "This iselection night," she said; "let's go down and watch the returns."

  They did this, standing on the fringe of a crowd that thronged about thenewspaper offices, watching, eager, but patient, the figures which wereflashed on a screen.

  The crowd was less demonstrative than is usual on such occasions. Afeeling of anxiety prevailed, a consciousness of vital issues endangeredand put to the test. Toward midnight the crowd grew thicker. But it wasmore joyous now. Taylor and Langdon were leading. It became evident thatthey must win.

  Suddenly the restless stillness of the throng was broken by spontaneouscheering. It was impressive, overwhelming, like a great burst ofrelieved emotion.

  Norah France caught Frank's arm as the celebrants eddied round them. Thepress was disbanding with an almost violent haste. "Where's Aleta?"asked the girl.

  Frank searched amid the human eddies, but in vain. "She got separatedfrom us somehow," he said rather helplessly. They searched farther,without result. Aleta doubtless had gone home.

  "I wonder if you'd take me somewhere ... for a cup of coffee," said MissFrance. The hand upon his arm grew heavy. "I'm a little faint."

  "Surely." He suggested a popular cafe, but she shook her head. "Justsome quiet little place ... a 'chop house.' That's what the switch-girlscall them."

  So they entered a pair of swinging doors inscribed "Ladies" on one sideand "Gents" on the other. Miss France laughingly insisted that they passeach on the proper side of this divided portal. She was a creature ofswift moods; one moment feverishly gay, the next brooding, with apenchant for satire. He wondered how she endured the hard work of atelephone switch-operator. But one felt that whatever she willed shewould do. Eagerly she sipped her steaming coffee from a heavy crockerycup, nibbling at a bit of French bread. Then she said to him so suddenlythat he almost sprang out of his chair.

  "Do you know that Aleta Boice loves you?"

  He looked at her annoyed and disturbed by the question.

  "No, I don't," he answered slowly. "Nor do I understand just whatyou're driving at, Miss France."

  "If you'll forgive me," her eyes were upon him, "I am driving atmasculine obtuseness ... and Aleta's happiness."

  "Then you're wasting your time," he spoke sharply. "Aleta lovesanother.... She's told me so."

  "Did she tell you his name?"

  "No, some prig of a professor, probably.... Thinks he's 'not her kind.'"

  "Yes ... let's have another cup of coffee. Yes, Aleta told me that."

  Frank signalled to the waiter. "She's anybody's kind," he said,forcibly.

  "But not yours, Mr. Stanley."

  "Mine? Why not?"

  "Because you don't love her." Norah's tone was sad, half bitter. "Willyou forgive me? I'm sorry I provoked you.... But I had to know....Aleta's such a dear. She's been so good to me."

  The Christmas holidays brought handsome stock displays to all thestores. San Francisco was still flush with insurance money but there wasa pinch of poverty in certain quarters. The Refugee Camps had beencleared, public parks and squares restored to their normal state.

  Langdon and Heney worked on. Another jury brought a verdict of "notguilty" at the second trial of a trolley-bribe defendant. Some of thenewspapers had changed by almost imperceptible degrees, were veeringtoward the cause of the defense.

  Then, like a thunderbolt, in January, 1908, came news that the AppellateCourt had set aside the conviction of Ruef and Schmitz. Technical errorswere assigned as the cause of this decision. The people gasped. But someof the newspapers defended the Appellate Judges' decree.

  CHAPTER LXXXVIII

  THE SHOOTING OF HENEY

  Heney
and Langdon, who had had, perhaps, some inkling of an adversedecision, went grimly on. Enemies of Prosecution, backed by an enormousfund, were setting innumerable obstacles in their way. Witnessesdisappeared or changed their testimony. Jurors showed evidence of havingbeen tampered with. Through a subsidized press an active propaganda ofInnuendo and Slander was begun.

  Calhoun's trial still loomed vaguely in the distance. Heney, overworkedand harassed in a multitude of ways--keyed to a battle with ruffians,gun-men and shysters as well as the ablest exponents of law, developed anervousness of manner, a bitterness of mind which sometimes led himto extremes.

  "He isn't sleeping well," his faithful bodyguard confided to Frank oneafternoon when they met on Van Ness avenue. "He comes down in themorning trying to smile but I know he feels as though he'd like to bitemy head off. I can see it in his eyes. He needs a rest."

  "Mr. Calhoun evidently thinks so, too," retorted Stanley. "The HonorablePat is trying to retire him."

  "He'll never succeed," said the other explosively. "Frank Heney's notthat kind. He'll fight on till he drops.... But I hate to see thoseboughten lawyers ragging him in court."

  Langdon, more phlegmatic of temperament, stood the gaff with lessapparent friction. Hiram Johnson gave aid now and then which was alwaysof value. There was a dauntless quality about the man, a ruggeddouble-fisted force which made him feared by his opponents.

  Frank Stanley looked in at the second Ruef trial. He found it akaleidoscope of dramatic and tragic events. Heney, who had been thetarget for a volley of insinuations from Ruef's attorneys, was nervousand distraught. Several times he had been goaded into altercation; hadstruck back with a bitterness that showed his mounting anger. Stanleynoted that he was "on edge," and rather looked for "fireworks," as thereporters called these verbal duels of the Prosecution trials. But hewas astonished to see Heney turn upon an unoffending juryman in suddenfury. The man had a fat, good-natured Teuton face with small eyes and aheavy manner. His name was Morris Haas. He had asked to be excused butthe judge had not granted his plea.