Chapter VIII: Part 8

I had barely discerned so much when the sign disappeared, and a moment later the form of a Chinaman was framed in the doorway above the crowd, amid a gang of hoodlum captors. For an instant I could see the wild, terror-stricken face, its brown skin turned to a sickly yellow, its eyes rolling in the red glare of the torches with the instinct of the animal seeking despairingly some path of escape. Then at a blow from behind the Chinaman gave a scream and plunged headlong down the steps.

The end was shut out from my sight, but I was shaken by the qualms of deathly sickness at this wanton barbarity, as the maelstrom of struggling bodies closed in upon its victim, and his death-cries were drowned in the chorus of yells, jeers and animal ejaculations of rage with which the collective beast accompanied the murder of Ah Ging.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*BATTLE*

As I came within sight of the Kendrick house, breathless, shaken with scenes of brutality, and torn with apprehensions, I found that my fears were realized. A disorderly mob of two or three hundred men had gathered in front of the place, their groans and hoots filling the air, and the score or more of torches they carried throwing a smoky glare on the buildings.

The mob had not yet ventured to attack the place, and I was relieved to see that Andrews and his men still held the steps and guarded the walls; but the riotous elements were lashing the crowd into the courage to attack the little band that looked down upon them.

Suddenly, as I reached the confines of the crowd, a silence fell, and I started with surprise to see Wharton Kendrick walk down the steps to the level of the garden, and then advance to the iron fence that surmounted the retaining wall. From this point of vantage he surveyed the mob with a good-humored smile and waved his hand in cheerful greeting. I trembled with anxiety at his rashness, but something in his personal magnetism held them for him to speak.

"Well, boys," he cried in his full hearty voice, "what can I do for you? Have I been nominated for mayor, or is this just a serenade?"

A laugh here and there showed the good impression he had made on his audience, and a hasty voice from the leaders of the mob shouted:

"We want you to fire your Chinese!"

"The Chinese?" he said, affecting to misunderstand the cry. "You've come to the right shop if you want a good little talk on that question. As I told Senator Morton the other day, I'm the original Chinese exclusionist--not excepting Bill Nye and Truthful James. Ask the reporters to take a front seat."

I had never suspected Wharton Kendrick of oratorical ability, but he showed all the arts of the stump speaker, and with a few pat anecdotes stated his position, and appealed to the men to trust the settlement of the problem to the substantial men of the State.

The leaders of the mob were quick to see the danger to their schemes, and tried several interruptions, which Kendrick blandly ignored. At last one of them shouted as comment on his profession of faith:

"Then why don't you discharge your Chinese help?"

This thrust renewed the cries of anger from the mob, and a wolfish look came on the faces about me.

"Why," returned Kendrick with a jovial laugh, "for the same reason that the rabbit couldn't cut off his tail--because he didn't have one. I don't know any reason why I shouldn't hire a Chinese cook if I wanted one, as long as they are permitted to come into the country; but I don't want one. My servants are all white."

The reply raised a laugh, and a few enthusiastic rioters shouted "Hooray for Kendrick!"

"Shut up, you fools!" cried the leaders; and the voice that had called on Kendrick to discharge his Chinese shouted:

"It's a lie about there not being any Chinese in de house!"

"The honorable gentleman has forgotten to speak the truth," retorted Kendrick good-humoredly. "I keep no Chinese."

"Aw, what's de use talkin' like dat?" shouted the voice. "There's a Chinese girl in de house dis minute."

"Quite true," admitted Kendrick candidly. "The poor creature was wounded, and we took her in to save her from the highbinders. You surely wouldn't have us turn her out. She's not a servant. She's a guest."

The explanation was lost on half the crowd in the clamor that had been raised. One of the mob leaders shouted:

"Where there's a Chinese girl there's a dozen Chinese men,"--an opinion that renewed the jeers and catcalls.

"Aw, the place is full of coolies! Smoke 'em out!" cried another, waving a torch.

Even with this renewal of hostile sentiment, the leaders of the mob would scarce have been able to spur their followers to violence but for the arrival of a reinforcement of another hundred hoodlums, shouting, swearing, and laden with the spoil of looted wash-houses. They came straight for the Kendrick house, and I had no doubt that they were directed thither by the same mind that had sent the first company to the siege.

While the play between Kendrick and the mob had been going on, I had edged my way toward the steps by those alternate arts of diplomatic and aggressive pressure which enable one to make progress through a crowd. The arrival of the hoodlum reinforcement brought me assistance as unwelcome as it was unexpected.

Wharton Kendrick faced the new-comers with a confident smile, and appealed with a jest to "the gentlemen in a hurry" for a hearing. But the hoodlum arrivals had not fallen under the spell of his personality, and their courage and wrath had been inflamed by their success in their wash-house raids. With shouts of "Gangway! gangway! Smoke out the coolies!" they charged forward in a wedge that struck the standing crowd directly behind me. There was a shock of meeting bodies, a grunt that might have come from a giant in sudden distress, and the crowd crumpled together like the telescoping cars of a railroad collision; the men in the center were lifted off their feet, and the crowd was forced forward and scattered in disorder.

Standing directly in the line of shock, I was thrown forward with amazing force, scraped against the stone wall, and flung headlong on to the lower step of the flight that led to Wharton Kendrick's garden. At the same moment there was an outburst of wrathful yells, and a shower of stones rattled about me. I felt a smart crack from a falling stick on my shoulder as I scrambled to my feet, and looking upward I was just in time to see Kendrick struck by a flying missile, reel backward, fling up his arms with a whirling motion, and fall heavily on to the grass.

I faced about and whipped out my revolver, when:

"Stand back there!" came from above in a determined voice.

"Stand back there!" I repeated. And at the command and the show of revolvers, the advancing hoodlums swerved aside into the street with a sudden cooling of their ardor for battle.

"Is that you, Mr. Hampden?" came from above, and I recognized the voice of Andrews, the head watchman for the night.

"Yes," I replied. "Be ready to shoot if I give the word." And walking backward I climbed the steps till I stood on the landing and looked down on the mob. Then with an eye on the tossing, circling array of faces below, I knelt over Wharton Kendrick. He was limp and still. A long cut extended from his forehead well back into his hair, and the blood flowing from it had moistened his face and dyed his thinning locks.

I glanced at the mob, noted the signs that it was gathering courage for another attack, and was calculating on the risk of weakening our defense by ordering the men to carry Wharton Kendrick into the house, when I heard the door open behind me. There was a swift patter of footsteps on the walk, and Laura Kendrick flung herself on her knees beside me with a cry of grief and fear, and lifted her uncle's head in her arms.

"Oh," she cried with a choking voice, "have they killed him?"

"No," I replied, "he's alive. He will be all right in a little while." I hoped I was telling the truth. "We'll get him into the house, and have a doctor to look after him as soon as we can drive this mob away. Please go in now. You may be hurt yourself if you stay."

She had been wiping away the blood with her handkerchief, to the soft accompaniment of a crooning utterance, as though she were quieting a sick child.

"Indeed, I shall not go in till he does," she said. "Do you think I shall leave him out here to be killed by those dreadful creatures?"

"Please go," I said. "You can do nothing here, and the mob may begin firing at any minute."

At the apparition of the girlish figure the rioters had hushed something of their wrathful cries, but I felt none the less apprehensive of their next act.

As I spoke, with something of peremptoriness in my voice, Laura Kendrick started to her feet, but instead of returning to the house she walked hurriedly to the wall, and stood resolutely facing the crowd.

"Come back!" I cried with dismay, and restrained my impulse to rush before her with the thought that I should be much more likely to incite than to prevent an attack.

But instead of heeding my summons she began an indignant appeal to the men before her, trying to shame them at their errand. As her piquant voice rose on the air a terror gripped my throat at the thought of the response that her call might bring, but at her first words the crowd hushed to stillness, and I saw a man cuff a young hoodlum who uttered a catcall. The appeal of the slender figure facing the mob in the glare of the torches that had been brought to burn her house was a better protection for the moment than the revolvers of my men.

"Do you think it manly to strike at the sick or at women? Do you think it right to try to murder your friends? You have struck down a man who never had an unkind word for you--who has done more than all of you put together to keep the Chinese out of the country. Do you think that is the way to help your cause? I don't."

The mob preserved an admirable silence, and she turned to me and said in low, excited tones, "Carry him into the house while they are behaving themselves."

I had already given the order, and four of my men bore the stricken magnate up the steps and through the doors, while Laura spoke once more to the mob.

"I'm sure," she said, "you ought to see by this time that you've done enough harm to your cause for one day, and I hope you'll go quietly home before you do anything worse."

"Three cheers for the leddy!" came in strong Hibernian response, and the mover of the resolution led off with such a will that a hundred more voices joined in the tribute.

"Thank you," she replied, "and good night." And with a courtesy to the uninvited guests, she turned, crossed the garden, and mounted the steps with dainty grace. At the door she turned, gave another bow, and waved her hand in farewell, and then slipped through the open door as another cheer was raised.

I had followed her with the purpose of keeping between her and possible missiles and my misdirected solicitude was rewarded. As she put foot within the hall, she staggered and would have fallen had I not caught her. For an instant she clung to me with a convulsive gasp of fear. Then her grasp relaxed, her head sank back, and her full weight rested on my encircling arm. At the sight of her white face, and the crimson stains on her hands and dress that had come from her uncle's blood, I gave a cry of alarm, and lifted her limp form as carefully as one takes up a sleeping child.

For a minute of tumultuous joy and fear I held her in my arms, as I carried her to the room into which her uncle had been borne. But before I reached the door she opened her eyes languidly. Then with a startled look, full consciousness returned.

"Put me down," she said, and struggled to her feet. But so unsteadily did she stand that she was forced to reach out for support, and I put a sustaining arm about her.

"What is it?" she asked in a whisper. "Did I get knocked down? My head is going round and round."

"No, you are all right," I said soothingly. "There was a little too much excitement outside for you, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I was goose enough to faint, was I?" she said, disengaging herself with a swift movement. But once more in full command of herself, tears of apprehension gathered in her eyes, and she asked, "Where is uncle?"

And as I motioned to the door, she turned and ran into the room where Wharton Kendrick lay white and still upon a couch. Mercy Fillmore's deft hands were washing the wound, a servant was assisting, and the four men who had brought the wounded master into the house stood about in wait for orders. With a word I sent three to rejoin the line of defense, and directed the fourth to slip out the back way in quest of Doctor Roberts.

Laura Kendrick took her place quietly at Mercy Fillmore's side and with tense self-possession assisted at the dressing of the wound. And in the calmness and practised touch with which they played the part of surgeons I had demonstration of the skill they had acquired in the weeks of service which they had devoted to Moon Ying.

"I don't see why he doesn't come to himself," said Laura, when the bandage had been adjusted. "I wish we could get the doctor."

"I have sent a man after him," I said.

"Do you think he can get through that howling mob of savages? I'm afraid he will be killed; and if he isn't, the doctor can never get in."

"Oh, there's the back gate. I hope the doctor's not above taking it." I had hardly spoken when I was checked at seeing my messenger standing in the hall. Before I could exclaim at his sudden return, he had beckoned me out with a warning finger on his lips.

At his signal I left the room with an attempt to disguise my disturbance of mind under the pretense of idle restlessness.

"What's the matter?" I asked, as soon as I got the man away from the door.

"There's a gang over in the next yard," he said, "and I couldn't get through. I'm afraid they're getting ready to set fire to the house. I smelt kerosene when I climbed on the fence. One of 'em says something about 'smoking 'em out,' an' I guess they're fixing up some sort of fire-balls."

"Where are you going?" asked Miss Kendrick, coming to the door. "You are not meaning to venture out among those savages again?"

"I think it's time I told them to go home," I said. "They are making a good deal of noise out there."

"You must not do anything of the sort," she said, catching my arm. "I told them to go, and if they won't go for my telling, they won't go for yours."

I bent over her with more tremors than I had felt in the midst of the mob.

"I shouldn't go unless I thought it would help to protect you," I said.

"Well, if you must go," said Miss Laura, "please be careful and do not go out the front way. Take the side door, where there's nobody likely to see you." And leading the way down the passage between the library and the dining-room she slipped a bolt and opened the door enough to let us out. She held out her hand to me.

"You're not to get hurt," she murmured, as I paused.

"That settles it. I shall preserve a whole skin." And with a pressure of the hand, I hastened out the door.

The yells from the front came with renewed distinctness, but no sounds of attack were to be heard. The mob appeared to have resolved itself into a disorderly debating society. I hurried to the rear of the house with my messenger.

"Are any of our men back here?" I asked.

"One--Reardon is at the kitchen steps," replied the man.

Reardon proved to be awake and ready for any enterprise, and we advanced to the fence and reconnoitered. The dim light showed a band of fifteen or twenty men gathered a few yards away in the vacant lot behind the Kendrick place.

"Aren't they ready yet?" asked one impatient conspirator. "I could have fixed forty fire-balls in the time you've taken to fix those three."

"Why didn't you come and do it then?" was the resentful and belligerent answer. "I'll have them ready in a jiffy."

With a few whispered words of direction I stationed my men by the fence, a dozen yards apart, and took my place between them. Then climbing up I gave a blast on a police whistle, and cried:

"Now, boys, gather them in. Don't let one get away." And at the word I fired three or four shots at the group and my men followed my example.

The surprise was complete. At the fusillade there was a scattering of the gang, and with a sudden realization of the importance of their personal safety they took to their heels and ran into Franklin Street.

"That was a foine job, sor. We must have hit a power of thim," said Reardon, with an exemplary faith in our marksmanship.

"I hope so," I said. I had been roused to fury by the deliberate preparations to burn the house, and had shot to do mischief. "It looks as though we had got one fellow, anyhow," I added, as I discovered a dark heap on the ground, and heard a whimpering groan.

We jumped down from the fence, and an advance of a few steps confirmed my guess. A man lay writhing on the earth, giving utterance to suppressed sounds of pain. Reardon knelt over him.

"Why, it's Danny Regan!" he cried. "What th' divil are ye doin' here, Danny?"

"Go 'way, ye murderin' spalpeen!" replied the stricken Danny. "Me leg is bruk. 'Tis a bullet sthruck me knee."

"'Twas me that give it to yez, Danny," said Reardon with a chuckle. "I picked ye out, me lad--an' whin Pat Reardon takes aim he niver misses. If he don't hit wan thing he hits another--an' it's dollars to dimes the other thing's jist as good."

The wounded man replied to this boast with an outbreak of curses.

"Yer timper's been soured, Danny," said Reardon. "That comes of mixin' in bad company. ''Tis evil communications corrupts a good disposition,' says Father Ryan; an' if you'd listened to him you'd a-been home an' in bed now wid two sound legs instead of wan."

"Well, take me home, Pat," groaned the wounded conspirator; "though maybe you'd like to make a clane job of it by puttin' wan iv yer bullets t'rough me head."

"Faith, I wouldn't waste another wan on yez. Bullets cost money. If I did me dooty I'd settle yer case by mashin' yer head in wid a rock."

"We wouldn't get so far as that," I said. "We'll compromise by holding him prisoner of war. Up with him now."

Our inexpert handling brought whimpers and curses from the prisoner. And in a few minutes we had him bestowed as comfortably as possible in the little room that the watchmen had used as a lounging place.

"Now," said I to my messenger, "get over to Doctor Roberts' house as fast as you can. Tell him Mr. Kendrick is hurt, and bring him back with you. Hurry!"

The messenger had scarce disappeared when Reardon exclaimed:

"Whist! There comes some more of 'em."

Above the excited hubbub of the besieging crowd in front could be heard a swelling roar that became more distinct with each moment. The significance of the sound was unmistakable. Another reinforcement was approaching, and in fear lest the assailants who had been beaten off were returning to attack us from the rear we ran back to the fence. All was quiet in that direction, and the hostile sounds now came so plainly from the front that I doubled speed to the threatened quarter just as a scattering crackle of pistol-shots punctuated the inarticulate language of the mob, and a volley of stones hurtled against the house with the explosive tinkle of breaking windows.

I reached the front yard just as another volley took out every window that faced the street, and saw that a concerted rush was being made against the place. A body of men was being pushed up the steps between the flanking walls by the pressure of the mob behind, and immediately before me--at the side of the garden--two young men were mounting the wall on the shoulders of their companions, the vanguard of a flank attack that would capture the place if they once got a foothold. I fired a shot at one, who disappeared with a surprising suddenness, and then bethinking myself of the unwisdom of wasting bullets, I ran forward and brought down my revolver on the head of the other invader. He had just got his knee on the railing, but he went down the eight-foot drop with a yell of pain and a torrent of bad language. At the same moment the men who were defending the steps threw the assailing column into confusion by a fortunate volley, and the attack gave back. A score of answering shots came from the mob, and a bullet whistled so close to my ear that I clapped my hand to the spot with the thought that a piece had been taken off. The agreeable disappointment of finding that I was mistaken was overshadowed a moment later by the discovery that the wall at the farther side of the garden had been scaled by a dozen of the mob, and that others were clambering up in their path.

"Look out there on your right, Andrews!" I cried, hastening to join the company. "They are on the terrace."

Before I reached the steps the dozen had increased to a score, and it looked as though we were to be overwhelmed by numbers. For an instant it seemed that our best chance lay in retreating into the house in the hope that it would serve as a fortress until the police arrived. But as the house was only a wooden structure, and it was the expressed purpose of the mob to burn us out, I felt it was to be regarded as the last resort of resistance.

"Shoot them down!" I cried.

"Not much chance," said Andrews as I reached him. "We're down to our last cartridges."

This was a sickening bit of information, but it assured me that prompt action was of the last importance. I took one of my men by the shoulder and pushed him over toward the position I had just left.

"Here," I said, "see that nobody gets over that wall. You two," picking out a pair of the guards, "hold the stair. Come on, the rest of you. We must clear these fellows out. Double quick, now."

At this command the men sprang forward by my side, and we ran to the invaded quarter, firing off our remaining cartridges as we charged.

The mob was mostly of but poor stuff, after all. Half of those who had been bold enough to climb to the terrace halted at sight of our advance, and dropped over the wall to the sidewalk in panic. But we were, nevertheless, greatly outnumbered by those who stood their ground, and a scattering though harmless fusillade gave evidence that they were armed.

In a moment we were in the thick of it. Fists, clubs and revolvers were flying, and the thud of body blows could be heard under the cries and curses that formed the dramatic chorus to the struggle. We used our empty revolvers as clubs, and we appeared to do more execution with them handled thus than with all the bullets we had fired. A bullet has a way of wandering from its mark, but a pistol-barrel brought down with a vigorous arm on a man's head never fails in execution, and has a tendency to turn the most ardent warrior into the ways of peace. But in spite of good luck, discipline and desperation, we were far from having the battle all our own way. I had envied the ease with which my favorite heroes of romance bowled over half a dozen enemies with fist or sword, and I envied them still more when I found myself in a place to put their lessons into practice. I had not been in the conflict more than a minute when a knock on the head from a bony fist and a thump on the shoulder from a club sent me to the grass with a realization of how much better it is to give than to receive. But I was fortunate enough to be up again in a moment, and laying about me with a savage hope of repaying with usury the men who had sent me to the ground.

How the battle would have gone if we had been left to our unaided strength, I shall leave to less partial historians to say. But just as I had been thoroughly impressed with the fact that seven men have their work cut out for them when they are called on to attack a score, I heard a roar from the mob that finally separated into an articulate cry of--

"Here come the cops! Look out for the police! Knock their heads off!" And a company of the guardians of order could be seen charging down the avenue.

The pugilistic activities of the mob in the presence of the police, however, appeared to be purely vocal. So far as I was able to observe, the head-knocking business was wholly on the other side.

At the warning cry there was a sudden slackening of activity among the invaders of the terrace. Then they began to drop over the wall to rejoin the retreating main body, and in a minute, with a panic rush, they were all gone. And while I caught my breath once more I had the satisfaction of seeing the mob driven like sheep before a company of some twenty-five policemen, who were savagely rapping with their clubs at every head they could reach. The crowd was flying from a body of men that it could have swallowed up, smothered, annihilated, by sheer force of numbers, awed less by the physical force represented by the clubs than by the moral force of law that lay behind them.

I hailed the police captain as a brother and a preserver, and hastily explained the state of affairs.

"It's a bad night for us all," he said. "We're fighting 'em from North Beach to Tar Flat. They've killed a dozen Chinamen, an' I'll bet my straps there isn't a Chinese wash-house left with a window in the whole city."

"I'm afraid we aren't much better off here," I said, with a rueful look at the vacant sashes of Wharton Kendrick's windows.

"It's bad--it's bad," said the officer. "We got word they were coming here, and the chief sent us up to clear the avenue. Then we heard that they were settin' fire to Stanford's and Crocker's so we rushed over to Nob Hill. It was only a small crowd there, though, and after chasin' them out, we hurried up here."

"You were just in time," I said. "We were hard pressed."

"I'm sorry I can't leave you a few men," said the captain, "but we've got too much work ahead of us. I don't think they'll try it again. But we'll look around this way again in an hour or two."

*CHAPTER XXII*

*I BECOME A MAN OF BUSINESS*

I was a sorry sight when I entered the house once more, with one sleeve torn from my coat, a large and growing lump over my right eye, and my clothing an impressionist study in grass-stains and earth colors.

In the excitement of the moment I was not aware of the picturesque figure I made until I saw the horror-stricken look that swept over Laura Kendrick's face as she met me in the hall.

"Oh," she cried, "you did go and get yourself murdered, after all!"

"No, indeed. I had a day's work crowded into a few minutes, but we got them driven off, and I'm as sound as a dollar." I spoke with the exultation of victory; but with the reaction from the excitement and fatigue of the battle I felt the need of a place to sit down and pull myself together.

"Then you're very well disguised," she returned anxiously. "Are those dreadful wretches all gone? Come into our hospital here--right away--and we'll wash the blood off your face, and try to put you to rights."

"How is Mr. Kendrick?" I asked, as she led me toward the "hospital."

"He has opened his eyes and said a few words. Doctor Roberts is here, and has stitched up his head, and says he will be all right in a week or two if we take good care of him."

The room set aside for the hospital had a highly professional look. Wharton Kendrick lay on the same couch on which I had left him. Doctor Roberts was bending over him, carefully adjusting the bandage on his head. Near them I was surprised to see Danny Regan of the broken leg, attended by Mercy Fillmore, while at the other side of the room, propped up in an easy chair, was Moon Ying, looking on the scene with passive wonder.

"Sit here," ordered Miss Kendrick, wheeling a big chair to the table, and I was glad to obey. "Yes," she continued, noting my scrutiny of Danny Regan and Moon Ying. "The cook complained of the groans she heard from the men's room, so we found out what had happened and had the man brought here. And just before the rocks began to fly I had run up to see about Moon Ying, so I had her carried down. It was lucky I did, for we had hardly got out of the room when bang-cling! went every window in the front of the house. I thought she had best be on the ground floor in case of fire, and this room was as safe as any in the house. My! what a bump you did get. A riot is 'most as bad as falling downstairs, isn't it?"

With deft fingers she had wiped away the stains of battle, and now she wrung out a cloth in cold water, folded it into a compress, and bound it skilfully over my swollen forehead.

I leaned back luxuriously, and gazed with admiration on my nurse.

"It's quite worth while, after all," I said.

She colored, but looked steadily at me as she worked.

"Don't get too appreciative," she said.

"Impossible!" I interrupted.

"Because," she said, "I'm coming to believe that you're not so badly hurt as your poor head looks. The blood on your face isn't yours at all, but came from somebody else--"

"You ought to see the other fellow," I murmured softly.

"--and you've been getting sympathy under false pretenses, and I really think I ought to call Jane to look after you while I attend to uncle."

"I shall sink into the last stages of dissolution," I protested, "if you turn me over to an incompetent nurse."

"Incompetent! Why, Jane is twice as competent as I."

"It depends on the complaint. I'm sure she wouldn't understand mine at all."

Laura smiled indulgently as she adjusted the last knot on the bandage.

"There," she said, "you're quite picturesque, and you'll be all right in the morning. And I don't think you need anybody to look after you at all."

I was about to protest that my condition was most serious when she was called to Wharton Kendrick's couch, and I caught Moon Ying's eyes fixed on mine. I smiled and nodded, and she beckoned me, so I wheeled my chair to her side.

"What I tell-em you?" she said. "I no go 'way, bad man come, all same shoot, fight, tly bu'n house, eh?"

"This not for you, Moon Ying," I reassured her. "Bad man come, anyhow. Plenty of that kind outside of Chinatown."

Moon Ying shook her head and pointed to Danny Regan.

"Him Li'l John's explessman--I sabby him many time come Li'l John's place."

I looked at Danny Regan's low-browed countenance, and realized that an attack of the highbinders' mercenaries had been made under cover of the larger attack of Bolton's hirelings and the anti-Chinese mob.

"I think you're right, Moon Ying," I said. "But just you sabby this: bad men in front of house, they no come from Little John; they were after Mr. Kendrick. You can claim those fellows behind the house. But you see we are no worse off for having you here. 'Twas the other fellows who broke the windows."

I was just on the point of interrogating Danny Regan as to the inspiring cause of his raid when I heard Wharton Kendrick's voice rise in querulous tones:

"Here, I must get up," he said with evident effort. "Is the city on fire?"

"After a while," said the soothing voice of the doctor. "The city is all safe, and you'll have to wait till to-morrow before you get out."

"I must look after things to-night," said the patient, his voice rising complainingly. "I must look after things."

I got to my feet and walked softly to his couch. He was vainly trying to rise, and beating the air helplessly with his hands.

"I must get out--help me, somebody!" he cried in an appealing voice. He tried to lift himself, but his body refused to obey his will.

The doctor uttered a soothing protest.

Miss Kendrick added her voice to the authority of the doctor and at her quieting words Wharton Kendrick closed his eyes. Then on a sudden he opened them widely, and again attempted to raise his head.

"It's the business--it's the business!" he cried with the voice of one who had brought a forgotten thing from the depths of his memory. "It's all upset. I must see to it, or it will be too late."

She patted him again with gentle hand.

"There--there," she said, in the comforting mother-tone. "It will be all right. You can't do anything to-night. It's after ten o'clock."

He gave a groan.

"The markets will go to smash in the morning unless we get ready for them to-night. It's all up," he moaned. "It was all in my head, and it's all gone. There'll be a smash in the market to-morrow, and I can't help it." Then he broke into passionate sobbing, while Laura Kendrick knelt over him, wiped away his tears, and made above him those murmuring sounds with which the mother comforts the hurt child.

It was with something of the awe with which one meets the earthquake that I witnessed the collapse of the fortitude and self-control in Wharton Kendrick. The foundations of the earth seemed breaking up when I saw this type of self-reliant manhood whimpering and weeping like a whipped schoolboy.

Doctor Roberts had been attending to Danny Regan of the broken leg, but he now returned to his more demonstrative patient.

"Come, come," he said in his most cheerful professional tone. "This is no way to get well. If you want to be out to-morrow, you must be quiet." And he motioned us away.

"It's all going to smash--I can hear it going," sobbed Kendrick, "and I can't remember what to do." He lay looking anxiously from side to side and repeated over and over, "I can't remember what to do."

As Doctor Roberts motioned us away again, I took him aside.

"Is there any chance of his getting down to business to-morrow?"

"Not the slightest. And he must not be excited by talking of it."

"I think I can ease his mind somewhat," I said. An idea had been slowly forming in my brain, and now it sprang forth complete. I sat down by him and took his hand to help his wandering attention.

"I'll look out for the business," I said. "I'll see Mr. Coleman to-night. We'll get the syndicate together, and protect the markets to-morrow."

"That's it--the syndicate--that's it," he cried with a visible relief. "That's what I was trying to think of--the syndicate. Coleman will know; Partridge will know."

I called for paper, pens and ink, and wrote out in duplicate a formal authorization by which Wharton Kendrick gave Arthur Hampden, his attorney, the power to act for him in all his business affairs.

In the meantime I had despatched one of my men to summon a notary who lived down by Polk Street. The official was at home, up, and dressed, and he hurried to the Kendrick house, hot on the scent of the liberal fee that the name called up before his imagination. When he had come, I read aloud the power of attorney I had drawn.

"That's it, Hampden; you won't see me go down, will you?" said my client in a pleading voice. And with some difficulty he attached his signature, and Doctor Roberts and Mercy Fillmore signed as witnesses, while the notary affixed his official acknowledgment.

Armed with this evidence of power, I started for my hat, when Miss Kendrick stopped me.

"You aren't going out in that fix, are you?" she demanded. And at her gesture I remembered my torn and one-sleeved coat, and the chiaroscuro of soil and grass stains with which I had been decorated.

"I was thinking that I should be all right if I got a hat, but I'm afraid it will take more than that to fit me out," I said ruefully. "Come to think of it, my hat is out on the lawn with the other sleeve of my coat. There's quite a collection of second-hand clothing out there, but it's rather dark to find one's own."

"Men are so fussy about their hats," said Miss Laura, "but I'll have the collection brought in from the lawn, and maybe you can make yours do for to-night. As for the coat, I'll bring down one of uncle's that's too small for him, and you won't look so very ridiculous, after all."

My headgear, when recovered, bore evidence that it had been worn on a militant heel; but when I had brought the torn edges together, I flattered myself that in the darkness it would look almost as good as new. And although the coat hung loosely upon me, and the stains of battle refused to yield to the brush, I was consoled by the thought that these departures from the rules of polite dress would add corroborative details and a livelier interest to my tale of Wharton Kendrick's undoing.

"Now, leave that bandage alone," commanded Miss Laura, as I raised my hand to complete my toilet by removing that badge of battle. "You have to wear it. And you have no idea how becoming it looks."

I submitted ruefully to this edict of petticoat tyranny, and Miss Kendrick rewarded me by escorting me to the door. She gave me her hand, and there was a look in her eyes that was near to carrying me off my feet as she said with the suspicion of a tremble in her voice:

"I hope you don't think we are not appreciating what you have done--and are doing."

"It is nothing," I said, looking into the magnetic depths of her eyes, until she dropped her glance to the floor, and blushed divinely.

"It is nothing," I repeated. Then bending, I touched my lips to her hand, and with no other word ran down the steps in a tumult of elation.

The Coleman house was alight as I rang the bell, and William T. Coleman himself appeared close on the heels of the suspicious servant who took in my card. He was able to recall the circumstances of our introduction as he gave me a cordial greeting and shook me warmly by the hand.

"I was in hopes Kendrick would come himself," he said; "but as he hasn't, I am glad he sent you."

"Mr. Kendrick didn't come because he couldn't come. He was badly hurt in to-night's riot."

"Kendrick hurt? How badly?"

I described the extent of his injuries as well as I could, and Coleman's eyes took on a troubled look.

"I wanted to consult him about affairs. A number of our leading men have been here this evening, and General McComb has agreed to issue a call for a citizens' meeting at the Chamber of Commerce to-morrow afternoon. We must devise some way to assist the authorities, and I looked to Kendrick to take a leading part."

"It will be some days before he can be out. But he is very anxious about the state of business. He is afraid there will be a smash in the markets to-morrow."

William T. Coleman smiled, and the calm sense of power that shone in his eyes gave me renewed courage.

"Kendrick was always one of the men who think that nothing will be done if they don't attend to it themselves," he said with good-natured raillery.

"Well, it's usually true, isn't it? Most things don't get done."

"A very just observation, Mr. Hampden. Most things don't get done. The man who has the brains and will to accomplish things is the invaluable man. It's our main trouble in every branch of the world's work--to find the man with ideas and the force to carry them out. But we must show Kendrick that he isn't indispensable in this crisis. Did he explain to you the state of affairs?"

"No. He could only refer me to you for details. He gave me the authorization to represent him in the syndicate, and in his business generally. It was all he was able to do."

"Well, the syndicate brought together a capital of ten million--I suppose you know that."

"Yes, but I believe it was heavily drawn on in the raid of last month."

"We had to put out close to three million six hundred thousand of loans that day, but some of it has come back since."

"Then the syndicate must have between six and seven million at its disposal."

"Over seven, I think. Kendrick could give you the figures out of his head--that is, before his head was broken--but I'll have to get them from my memoranda."

"How long do you expect that to last in a storm?"

"It ought to see us through any crisis that can arise."

"But this is a more serious occasion than the other. See our riots, and the explosion of violence in the East. Will not these frighten our business men far more than the rumors that set off the hub-bub of last month?"

Coleman leaned back in his chair, his face expressing confident cheerfulness, and his eyes magnetic with power.

"Very true," he said. "But on the other hand, the flurry of last month shook out the weaklings. Stocks and bonds are shifted into strong hands. Doubtful accounts have been closed out. We are in much better shape than before the squall struck us."

"I'm glad to hear it," I said with some relief, though the thought of Peter Bolton's malign activities weighed on my mind, and I was tempted to confide in William T. Coleman. But as Wharton Kendrick had kept the matter to himself, I followed his example, and continued: "I believe the interests of Mr. Kendrick can best be served by sustaining the markets and preventing failures. But as to details, I should like your advice."

"Well, I will read you the memorandum made at our meeting of the other night of the men and firms who are likely to need help, and the amounts it would probably be safe to lend them." And Mr. Coleman brought a sheet of paper from his desk and interpreted the cabalistic signs that covered it. The freedom with which the names of banks, business houses and individuals had been handled would have created a sensation if the paper had been published. "And here is a list of the men who have had advances," he said, taking out another sheet and reading off names and figures.

I noted down the list for reference and study.

"Do you think," asked Coleman, "that Kendrick will be able to get down to-morrow?"

"No, the doctor said it would be impossible."

"That is very awkward. The syndicate's money is deposited in his name, and he is the man to sign our checks."

I saw the advantage of keeping this power in Wharton Kendrick's hands, and suggested:

"Possibly he can attend to that part of the business at the house. I can have a line of messengers to carry the checks back and forth."

Coleman wrinkled his brows, and gave his head a forceful shake.

"That won't do. The arrangement would lose us forty minutes on every transaction. You had better get Kendrick to make out a check for the whole amount in favor of Nelson, and Nelson will look out for the details."

I was far from satisfied that this was the best way out of the difficulty. It eliminated Wharton Kendrick as a factor in the operations of the syndicate, and I had a vague but controlling feeling that this would fit badly with his plans. But I could give no sound reason for dissent from the suggestion, and at last Coleman said:

"Go to Kendrick, and ask him for the check. I'll have Nelson and Partridge here by the time you get back, and we can talk the business over more fully."

The Kendrick house was bright with lights as I reached it, and I was more annoyed than pleased to find Mr. Baldwin busily assisting Miss Kendrick, and directing the servants in the work of clearing up the broken glass and securing the open windows with boards.

Mr. Baldwin recognized me in his most superior way, and assumed his most magnificent airs of proprietorship from the top of the ladder, as he waved a hammer as his baton of command.

"Ah, Hampden," he said with a cool nod, "this is a fine mess your friends have made of things."

"Gracious, me!" exclaimed Miss Kendrick. "Is that the way friends act? I've seen men play some pretty rough pranks in the name of friendship, but I'm sure I never knew them to go so far as they did with Mr. Hampden. It's a mercy he wasn't killed. You should have seen him when he came in from the fracas!"

Mr. Baldwin appeared to be put out of countenance by this railing acknowledgment of my share in the defense of the house, and I judged by his tone that he considered it a reflection on him for being absent in the crisis.

"I had been out of town," he said stiffly, apparently for my enlightenment, "and got in on the eight o'clock boat. Later I heard that your friends were on the war-path, and threatening to burn Nob Hill and Van Ness Avenue. Then I came up here to see if I could be of service, and found that it was all over--except the repairs." And with this attempt to set himself right, he resumed his air of importance.

"Well, it's very lucky you weren't here," said Miss Kendrick. "I don't doubt you would have got your head broken, and you'd never be able to stand up on that ladder if it was going around the way Mr. Hampden's is. Oh," she cried suddenly, "what have you done with that bandage I put over your bump?"

"It came off," I said weakly, bringing the damp and offending rag out of my pocket.

"I believe you took it off," she said with an air of reprimand.

"You can put it on again," I pleaded with meek submission.

"No--it can stay off," she said. "You're getting on entirely too well to be fussed over any more. And now if you'll go in and see uncle, I'll be obliged. He has been dozing, but he comes to with a start every few minutes and asks for you. I'm hoping you can quiet his mind, for his worry isn't at all good for him." And her voice quivered with a pathetic note of affectionate anxiety.

Wharton Kendrick lay on the couch with his eyes closed, but opened them vacantly as I came in. Mercy Fillmore sat by his side. He collected himself with an effort, and said:

"I've been wanting you, Hampden! What was it you were to see about? Some business, wasn't it?" His eyes wandered, as though he were seeking for some lost thread of memory.

I gave him a condensed account of my visit to William T. Coleman. He heard me listlessly until I came to the request to make out a check for the syndicate's balance in favor of Nelson. Then he started violently, and half raised himself.

"I'll see 'em damned first!" he cried. "How can I protect myself if the money is turned over to Nelson?" He looked about wildly, fiercely; then sank back and closed his eyes.

Mercy Fillmore shook her head at me, and her eyes expressed reproach.

"You are exciting him," she whispered. "Isn't this business something that can be put off?"

He heard her and answered:

"No, it can't be put off. There'll be a smash in the market in the morning, and I shan't be there to stop it!" He had begun with energy, but his voice trailed off into a querulous tone as he added: "What shall I do? What shall I do?" Then suddenly a look of resolution came into his face. "Bring me my check-book," he cried with feverish impatience. "There's one in that coat pocket. Be quick about it!"

The book was produced, and after looking at it helplessly for a little he handed it back to me. Then he seemed to collect his faculties and asked:

"What was the balance? Why can't I remember?"

I read the figures from the memorandum Mr. Coleman had given me.

"Seven million three hundred and twenty thousand," he repeated. "Well, make out a check to yourself for that amount. Now help me up while I sign it. What are you waiting for? Give me that pen."

I was somewhat dashed by the responsibility that was being thrust upon me, but I could think of no better course. So we propped him to a sitting posture, and he signed his name somewhat unsteadily to the check.

"Now take it, Hampden," he said. "You won't see me go down, will you? Look out for my interests. They're yours, Hampden. Stand by me this time, and I'll stand by you always." His voice trailed off into indistinctness as we laid him back on the pillow, and after a struggle to speak, his face flushed a startling red, he mumbled a few incoherent sounds, and was lost to his surroundings.

Mercy Fillmore uttered a cry at this sudden change.

"Oh, I wish Doctor Roberts was back!"

"Here is Doctor Roberts," said the quiet professional voice, as the physician entered the room and stepped to his patient's side. "No more business to-night," he continued sharply. "I am afraid there will be no more for many days. I must ask you to retire, Mr. Hampden; the atmosphere is too exciting for Mr. Kendrick."

I denied myself the pleasure of interrupting Mr. Baldwin's conversation, as I went out, and hastened to the Coleman house.

Partridge and Nelson had already arrived, and I found them earnestly discussing the situation with Mr. Coleman. They greeted me with condescension, inquired civilly of the condition of Wharton Kendrick, and warmly expressed their indignation against the mob.

"Was Kendrick able to sign the check to Nelson?" asked Coleman, coming abruptly to the matter of business.

I explained, as diplomatically as I was able, the arrangement my client had made.

"Well, then," said Nelson, "it is very easily settled. All you have to do is to indorse the check over to me." And he looked at me with the self-satisfied air of the business man whose word is law to his employees.

The calm assumption that I was to be eliminated from the proceedings without so much as saying "by your leave," roused my combative instincts, and it was only by drawing a firm rein on my temper that I was able to reply calmly:

"I do not think I am justified by my instructions to take such a step."

"What do you propose to do, then?" asked Partridge shortly.

The tone in which the question was put added fire to my resentment, and I replied with emphasis: