Port O' Gold

by Louis J. Stellman

  Now he seemed to cower in exaggerated fright before the Prosecutor'spointed finger. A little hush ensued. A tense dramatic pause. Then Heneybranded Haas before the court-room as a former convict.

  The man broke down utterly. Many years before he had served a short termin prison. After his release he had married, raised a family, "lived arespectable life," as he pleaded in hysterical extenuation. He kept agrocery store.

  Haas stumbled from the court-room and Frank followed him. He could nothelp but feel a certain pity for the poor wretch, wailing brokenly thathe was "ruined." He could never face his friends again. His customerswould leave him. Frank learned the details of his ancient crime; he alsoascertained that Haas had lived rightly since. The incident rankled. Hewrote a guarded story of the affair. But he did not mention one episodeof Haas' exposure. As the man staggered out Frank had heard anotherwhisper sympathetically, "I would kill the man who did that to me."

  Justice often has its cruel, relentless aspects. Haas, with his weak,heavy face, stayed in Stanley's memory. An ordinary man might have triedagain and won. But Haas was drunken with self-pity and the melancholy ofhis race. He would brood and suffer. Frank felt sorry for the man, and,somehow, vaguely apprehensive.

  Ruef's trial ended in a disagreement of the jury. It was a serious blow.Most of the San Francisco papers heaped abuse upon the Prosecution, itsattorneys and its judges.

  Matters dragged along until the 13th of November. Gallagher was on thewitness stand. He testified with the listlessness of many repetitions tothe sordid facts of San Francisco's betrayal by venal public servants.It was all more or less perfunctory. Everyone had heard the tale fromone to half a dozen times.

  Heney was at the attorneys' table talking animatedly with an assistant.The jury had left the room and Gallagher stepped down from the stand tohave a word with the prosecutor. A few feet away was Heney's bodyguardlolling, plainly bored by the testimony. There was the usual buzz oftalk which marks a lull in court proceedings.

  Into this scene came with covert tread a wild, dramatic figure. No onenoted his approach. Morris Haas, glittering of eye, dishevelled, madwith loss of sleep and brooding, had crept into the court-room unheeded.He approached the attorneys' table stealthily.

  All at once Frank saw him standing within a foot of Heney. Somethingglittered in his outstretched hand. Frank shouted, but his warning lostitself in a wild cry of revengeful accusation. There was a sharp report;smoke rose. An acrid smell of exploded powder hung upon the air. Heney,with a cry, fell backward. Blood spurted from his neck.

  * * * * *

  Once more the city was afire with men's passions. Haas was rushed to thecounty jail and Heney to a hospital, where it was found, amid greatpopular rejoicing, that the wound was not a fatal one. Had it beenotherwise no human power could have protected Haas from lynching.

  A great mass meeting was held. Langdon, Phelan, Mayor Taylor pleaded fororder. "Let us see to it," said the last, "that no matter who elsebreaks the law, we shall uphold it." This became the keynote of themeeting. Rudolph Spreckels, who arrived late, was greeted withtumultuous cheering.

  Frank and Aleta were impressed by the spontaneity of the huge popularturnout. "It means," said the girl, as they made their exit, "that SanFrancisco is again aroused to its danger. What a great, good natured,easy-going body of men and women this town is! We feed on novelty andare easily wearied. That's why so many have back-slid who were strongfor the Prosecution at first."

  "Yes, you're right," answered Frank. "We alternate between spasms ofVirtue and comfortable inertias of Don't-care-a-Damn! That's SanFrancisco!"

  "The Good Gray City," he added after a little silence. "We love it inspite of its faults and upheavals, don't we, Aleta?"

  "Perhaps because of them." She squeezed his arm. For a time they walkedon without speaking. "How is your settlement work progressing?" he askedat length.

  But she did not answer, for a shrieking newsie thrust a paper in herhand. "Buy an extra, lady," he importuned her. "All about MorrisHaas' suicide!"

  She tossed him a coin and he rushed off, shrilling his tragicrevelation. Huge black headlines announced that Heney's assailant hadshot himself to death in his cell.

  CHAPTER LXXXIX

  DEFEAT OF THE PROSECUTION

  While Heney lay upon the operating table of a San Francisco hospital,three prominent attorneys volunteered to take his place. They were HiramJohnson, Matt I. Sullivan and J.J. Dwyer. Ruef's trial went on withrenewed vigor three days after the attempted killing, though thedefendant's attorneys exhausted every expedient for delay. It was a caseso thorough and complete that nothing could save the prisoner. He wasfound guilty of bribing a Supervisor in the overhead trolley transactionand sentenced to serve fourteen years in San Quentin penitentiary.

  Frank was in the court-room when Ruef's sentence was imposed. The LittleBoss seemed oddly aged and nerveless; the old look of power was gonefrom his eyes. Frank recalled Ruef's plan of a political Utopia. The manhad started with a golden dream, a genius for organization which mighthave achieved great things. But his lower self had conquered. He hadsold his dream for gold. And retribution was upon him.

  Frank thought of Patrick Calhoun, large, blustering, arrogant with thepride of an old Southern family; the power of limitless wealth betweenhim and punishment; a masterful figure who had broken a labor union andwho scoffed at Law. And Eugene Schmitz, once happy as a fiddler. Schmitzwas trying to face it out in the community. Frank could not tell if thatwas courage or a sort of impudence.

  During the holidays Frank visited his parents in San Diego. Hisgranduncle, Benito Windham, had died abroad. And his mother was ailing.Frank and his father discussed the Prosecution.

  "It has had its day," the elder Stanley said. "Your public is listless,sick of the whole rotten mess. They've lost the moral perspective. Allthey want is to have it over."

  "I guess I feel the same way." Frank's eyes were downcast.

  * * * * *

  Sometimes Frank met Norah France at Aleta's apartment, but she carefullyavoided further mention of the topic they had talked of on electionnight. Frank liked her poetry. With a spirit less morbid she would havemade a name for herself he thought.

  Aleta was doing more and more settlement work. She had been playingsecond lead at the theater and had had a New York offer. Frank could notunderstand why she refused it. But Norah did, though she kept the secretfrom Frank.

  "Do you know how many talesmen have been called in the Calhoun trial?"Aleta asked, looking up from the newspaper. "There were nearly 1500 inthe Ruef case. They called that a record." She laughed.

  "Of course Pat Calhoun would wish to outdo Abe Ruef," said Frank."That's only to be expected. He's had close to 2500, I reckon."

  "Not quite," Aleta referred to the printed sheet. "Your paper says 2370veniremen were called into court. That's what money can do. If he'd beensome poor devil charged with stealing a bottle of milk from thedoorstep, how long would it take to convict him?"

  "It's a rotten world," the other girl spoke with a sudden gust ofbitterness. "A world without honor or justice."

  "Or a nightmare," said Frank, with a glance at Aleta.

  "Well, if it is, I'm going to wake up soon--in one way or another," saidNorah. "I will promise you that." To Frank the words seemed ominous. Heleft soon afterward.

  The Calhoun trial dragged interminably. Heney, not entirely recoveredfrom his wound, but back in court, faced a battery of the country'shighest priced attorneys. There were A.A. and Stanley Moore, AlexanderKing, who was Calhoun's law partner in the South; Lewis F. Byington, aformer district attorney; J.J. Barrett, Earl Rogers, a sensationallysuccessful criminal defender from Los Angeles, and Garret McEnerney.Heney had but one assistant, John O'Gara, a deputy in Langdon's office.

  For five long months the Prosecution fought such odds. Heney lost histemper frequently in court. He was on the verge of a nerve prostration.Anti-prosecution papers hinted that his facu
lties were failing. Langdonmore or less withdrew from the fight. He was tired of it; had declinedto be a candidate for the district attorneyship in the Fall. Heney wasthe Prosecution's only hope. He consented to run; which added to hislegal labors the additional tasks of preparing for a campaign.

  It was not to be wondered at that Heney failed to convict Calhoun. Thejury disagreed after many ballots. A new trial was set. But before ajury was empanelled the November ballot gave the Prosecution its "coupde grace."

  P.H. McCarthy was elected Mayor. Charles Fickert defeated Heney for thedistrict attorneyship. An anti-Prosecution government took office.

  "Big Jim" Gallagher, the Prosecution's leading witness, disappeared.

  Fickert sought dismissal of the Calhoun case and finally obtained it.

  * * * * *

  San Francisco heaved a sigh of relief and turned its attention towardanother problem. Its people planned a great world exposition tocelebrate the opening of the Panama Canal.

  With the close of the Graft trials, San Francisco put its shoulders inconcerted effort to the wheel. There were rivals now. San Diego claimeda prior plan. New Orleans was importuning Congress to support it in anExposition. The Southern city sent its lobbying delegation to theCapitol. San Francisco seemed about to lose.

  But the city was aroused to one of its outbursts of pioneer energy. ThePanama-Pacific International Exposition Company was organized. A meetingwas called at the Merchants' Exchange. There, in two hours, $4,000,000was subscribed by local merchants.

  CHAPTER XC

  THE MEASURE OF REDEMPTION

  Frank journeyed East with a party of "Exposition Boosters" after thememorable meeting in the Merchants' Exchange. The import of thatafternoon's work had been flashed around the world. It swung the tide ofpublic sentiment from New Orleans toward the Western Coast. Congressheard the clink of Power in those millions. President Taft discerned aspirit of efficiency that would guarantee success. He did not desireanother Jamestown fiasco. He had an open admiration for the city whichin four years could rebuild itself from ashes, suffer staunchly throughdisrupting ordeals of political upheaval and unite its forces in amighty plan to entertain the World.

  Frank went to the White House for an interview. He clasped the large,firm hand which had guided so many troubled ships of state for theRoosevelt regime, looked into the twinkling eyes that hid so keen aforce behind their kindness. Stanley soon discovered that in this big,bluff President his city had a friend.

  "What shall I say to the people at home for you, Mr. President? Will yougive me a message?"

  The Chief Executive was thoughtful for an instant. Then he said, "Goback, my boy, and tell them this from me, 'SAN FRANCISCO KNOWS HOW!'"

  Frank left the White House, eager and enthusiastic; sought a telegraphoffice. On the following day Market street blazed with the slogan.

  In New York, where he went from Washington, Frank heard echoes of thatspeech. San Francisco's cause gained new and sudden favor. Frank foundthe Eastern press, which hitherto had favored New Orleans, was veeringalmost imperceptibly toward the Golden Gate.

  He met many San Franciscans in New York. John O'Hara Cosgrave wasediting Everybody's Magazine, "Bob" Davis was at the head of the Munseypublications, Edwin Markham wrote world-poetry on Staten Island, "in abig house filled with books and mosquitoes," as a friend described it."Bill" and Wallace Irwin were there, the former "batching" in a flat onWashington Square. All of them were glad to talk of San Francisco.

  Charley Aiken, editor of Sunset Magazine, was with the boosters. Stanleymet him in New York. He had a plan for buying the publication from itsrailroad sponsors; making it an independent organ of the literary West.Things were looking up for San Francisco.

  * * * * *

  Frank was glad to get back. He had enjoyed his visit to the East. But itwas mighty good to ride up Market street again. It looked quite as itdid before the fire. One would have found it difficult to believe thatthis new city with its towering, handsome architecture, had lain, a fewyears back, the shambles of the greatest conflagration historyhas known.

  On Christmas eve Frank and Aleta went down town to hear Tetrazzini singin the streets. The famous prima donna faced an audience which numberedupward of a hundred thousand. They thronged--a joyous celebrant, darkmass--on Market, Geary, Third and Kearny streets. Every window wasablaze, alive with silhouetted figures. Frank, who had engaged a windowin the Monadnock Block, could not get near the entrance. So he and Aletastood in the street.

  "It's nicer," she whispered happily, "to be here among the people.... Ifeel closer to them. As if I could sense the big Pulse of Life thatmakes us all brothers and sisters."

  Frank looked down at her understandingly, but did not speak. Tetrazzinihad begun her song. Its first notes floated faintly through the vast andunwalled auditorium. Then her voice grew clearer, surer.

  Never had those bustling, noisy streets known such a stillness asprevailed this night. The pure soprano which had thrilled a world ofhigh-priced audiences rang out in a wondrous clarion harmony. It movedmany people to tears. The response was overwhelming. Something in thatvast human pack went out to the singer like a tidal wave. Not thedeafening fusilade of hand-clapping nor the shouted "Bravos!" It wassomething deeper, subtler. Tetrazzini stepped forward. Tears streamedfrom her eyes. She blew impulsive kisses to the crowd.

  * * * * *

  The pageant of the months went on. A coal merchant by the name of Rolphhad displaced P.H. McCarthy as Mayor of San Francisco. He had installedwhat was termed "a business administration." San Francisco seemedpleased with the result. Power of government had returned to the "Northof Market Street."

  San Francisco had been selected by Congress as the site of theexposition. It was scheduled for 1915 and the Panama Canal approachedcompletion.

  Frank was living with his father at the Press Club. His mother was dead.He had given up newspaper work, except for an occasional editorial.Through his father's influence he had found publication for a novel. Hewas something of a public man now, despite his comparative youth.

  Occasionally he saw his Uncle Robert. Two of his cousins had married.The third, an engineer, had gone to Colorado. Robert Windham and hiswife were planning a year of travel.

  Sometimes Windham and his nephew talked of Bertha. It was a calmer, moredispassionate talk as time went on, for years blunt every pain. One daythe former said, with tentative defiance, "I suppose you'll thinkthere's something wrong about me, boy.... But I loved her mother deeply.Honestly--if one can call it that. If I'd had a certain kind of--well,immoral--courage, I'd have married her.... Just think how different allour lives would have been. But I hadn't the heart to hurt Maizie; tobreak with her ... nor the courage to give up my position in life. So weparted. I didn't know then--"

  "That you had a daughter?" questioned Frank. His uncle nodded. "Perhapsit would have made a difference ... perhaps not."

  * * * * *

  Aleta had a week's vacation. They were playing a comedy in which she hadno part. So she had gone to Carmel to visit her friend Norah France.

  Frank decided to look in on them. He had been oddly shaken by the talkwith his uncle. What tragedies men hid beneath the smooth exteriors ofsuccessful careers? He had always thought his uncle's home a happy one.Doubtless it was--happy enough. Love perhaps was not essential tosuccessful unions. Frank wondered why he had not asked Aleta Boice to behis wife. They were good comrades, had congenial tastes. They would bothbe better off; less lonely. A sudden, long-forgotten feeling stirredwithin his heart. He had missed Aleta in the past few days. Why not goto her now; lay the question before her? Perhaps love might come tothem both.

  CHAPTER XCI

  CONCLUSION

  For years thereafter Frank was haunted by the wraiths of vainconjecture--morbid questionings of what might have occurred if he hadcaught the train for Monterey that afternoon. For he was not to seekAle
ta at Carmel. An official of the Exposition Company met Frank on thestreet. They talked a shade too long. Frank missed the train by half aminute. He shrugged his shoulders petulantly, found his father at theclub. That evening they attended a comedy.

  He was not yet out of bed when the office telephoned him the nextmorning. "Didn't he know Norah France rather well?" the City Editorinquired. Frank admitted it sleepily.

  Had he a picture of her?

  Frank denied this. No. He didn't know where one might be obtained. HadNorah printed a poem or something? W-h-a-a-t!

  The voice at the telephone repeated its message. "Norah France was founddead in her room at Carmel this morning. Suicide probably. Empty vialand a letter.... The Carmel authorities haven't come through yet."

  Frank began to dress hurriedly. Again the telephone rang. Wire for him.Should they send it up? No, he would be down in a minute.

  The telegram was from Aleta. It read: "Am returning noon train. See youat my apartment six P.M."

  Stanley did not see his father in the dining room. He gulped a cup ofcoffee and went down to the office. He had planned an editorial fortoday. But his mind was full of Norah France just now.