Chapter LXXXVII: Norah Finds Out

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

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

Union Labor, ousted and discredited by venal representatives, was not officially in favor of the Taylor-Langdon slate. P.H. McCarthy, labor leader and head of the Building Trades Council, was Labor's nominee for Mayor.

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

The two opponents for the Mayoralty were keenly contrasted. Taylor was quiet, suavely cultured, widely read but rather passive. Some said he lacked initiative.

Frank MacGowan was Langdon's foeman in the struggle for the district attorneyship. Little could be said for or against him. A lawyer of good reputation who had made his way upward by merit and push, he had done nothing big. He was charged with no wrong.

The "dark horse" was Daniel Ryan.

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

But he astonished San Francisco voters by becoming a candidate for mayor.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly the restless stillness of the throng was broken by spontaneous cheering. It was impressive, overwhelming, like a great burst of relieved emotion.

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

Frank searched amid the human eddies, but in vain. "She got separated from 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 Miss France. The hand upon his arm grew heavy. "I'm a little faint."

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

So they entered a pair of swinging doors inscribed "Ladies" on one side and "Gents" on the other. Miss France laughingly insisted that they pass each on the proper side of this divided portal. She was a creature of swift moods; one moment feverishly gay, the next brooding, with a penchant for satire. He wondered how she endured the hard work of a telephone switch-operator. But one felt that whatever she willed she would do. Eagerly she sipped her steaming coffee from a heavy crockery cup, nibbling at a bit of French bread. Then she said to him so suddenly that 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 what you're driving at, Miss France."

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

"Then you're wasting your time," he spoke sharply. "Aleta loves another.... 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. "Will you 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 the stores. San Francisco was still flush with insurance money but there was a pinch of poverty in certain quarters. The Refugee Camps had been cleared, public parks and squares restored to their normal state.

Langdon and Heney worked on. Another jury brought a verdict of "not guilty" at the second trial of a trolley-bribe defendant. Some of the newspapers had changed by almost imperceptible degrees, were veering toward the cause of the defense.

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