Chapter IV: Part 4

"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."

*CHAPTER X*

*A COUNCIL OF WAR*

"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."

*CHAPTER XI*

*TROUBLES IN THE MARKET*

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."

*CHAPTER XII*

*THE LOTTERY TICKET*

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:

RESPECTFUL SIR:

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.

As ever your faithful,
KWAN LUEY & Co.

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.