"I have small use for that fellow," he remarked to Stanley, "even lessthan I had for Meiggs." The other had something impressive about him,something almost Napoleonic, in spite of his dishonesty. If business hadmaintained the upward trend of '51 and '52, Meiggs would have been amillionaire and people would have honored him--"
"You never trusted 'Honest Harry,' did you?" Stanley asked.
"No," said Sherman, "not for the amount he asked. I was the only bankerhere that didn't break his neck to give the fellow credit. I ratherliked him, though. But this fellow upstairs," he snapped his fingers,"some day I shall order him out of my building."
"Why?" asked Adrian curiously. "Because of his--"
"His alleged prison record?" Sherman finished. "No. For many a goodman's served his term." He shrugged. "I can't just tell you why I feellike that toward Jim Casey. He's no worse than the rest of his clan; thecity government's rotten straight through except for a few honest judgesand they're helpless before the quibbles and intricacies of law." Hetook the long black cigar from his mouth and regarded Adrian with hiscurious concentration--that force of purpose which was one day to listWilliam Tecumseh Sherman among the world's great generals. "There'sgoing to be the devil to pay, my young friend," he said, frowning,"between corruption, sectional feuds and business depression ..."
"What about the report that Page, Bacon & Company's St. Louis house hasfailed?" said Stanley in an undertone. Sherman eyed him sharply."Where'd you hear that?" he shot back. And then, ere Adrian couldanswer, he inquired, "Have you much on deposit there?"
"Ten thousand," replied the young contractor.
For a moment Sherman remained silent, twisting the long cigar aboutbetween grim lips. Then he put a hand abruptly on the other's shoulder."Take it out," he said, "today."
* * * * *
Somewhat later Sherman was summoned to a conference with Henry Haight,manager of the banking house in question, and young Page of theSacramento branch. He emerged with a clouded brow, puffing furiously athis cigar. As he passed through the bank, Sherman noted an unusual lineof men, interspersed with an occasional woman, waiting their turn forthe paying teller's service. The man was counting out gold and silverfeverishly. There was whispering among the file of waiters. To him thething had an ominous look.
He stopped for a moment at the bank of Adams & Company. There also thenumber of people withdrawing deposits was unusual; the receivingteller's window was neglected. James King of William, who, since theclosing of his own bank, had been Adams & Company's manager, cameforward and drew Sherman aside. "What do you think of the prospect?" heasked. "Few of us can stand a run. We're perfectly solvent, but if thisexcitement spreads it means ruin for the house--for every bank intown perhaps."
"Haight's drunk," said Sherman tersely. "Page is silly with fear. I wentover to help them ... but it's no use. They're gone."
King's bearded face was pale, but his eyes were steady. "I'm sorry," hesaid, "that makes it harder for us all." He smiled mirthlessly. "You'rebetter off than we ... with our country branches. If anything goes wronghere, our agents will be blamed. There may be bloodshed even." He heldout his hand and Sherman gripped it. "Good luck," the latter said,"we'll stand together, far as possible."
As Sherman left the second counting house, he noted how the line hadgrown before the paying teller's window. It extended now outside thedoor. At Palmer, Cook & Company's and Naglee's banks it was the same.The human queue, which issued from the doors of Page, Bacon & Company,now reached around the corner. It was growing turbulent. Women tried toforce themselves between the close-packed file and were repelled. One ofthese was Sherman's washwoman. She clutched his coat-tails as hehurried by.
"My God, sir!" she wailed, "they've my money; the savings of years. Andnow they say it's gone ... that Haight's gambled ... spent it onwomen ..."
Sherman tried to quiet her and was beset by others. "How's your bank?"people shouted at him. "How's Lucas-Turner?"
"Sound as a dollar," he told them; "come and get your money when youplease; it's there waiting for you."
But his heart was heavy with foreboding as he entered his own bank. Herethe line was somewhat shorter than at most of the others, but stillsufficiently long to cause dismay. Sherman passed behind the counter andconferred with his assistant.
"We close in half an hour--at three o'clock," he said. "That will giveus a breathing spell. Tomorrow comes the test. By then the town willknow of Page-Bacon's failure ..."
He beckoned to the head accountant, who came hurriedly, a quill penbobbing behind his ear, his tall figure bent from stooping over ledgers.
"How much will we require to withstand a day's run?" Sherman flung thequestion at him like a thunderbolt. And almost as though the impact ofsome verbal missile had deprived him of speech, the man stopped,stammering.
"I--I--I think, s-s-sir," he gulped and recovered himself with aneffort, "f-forty thousand will do it."
Swiftly Sherman turned toward the door. "Where are you going?" theassistant called.
"To get forty thousand dollars--if I have to turn highwayman," Shermanflung over his shoulder.
CHAPTER XXXVII
"GIVE US OUR SAVINGS!"
As he left the bank Sherman cast over in his mind with desperateswiftness the list of men to whom he could go for financial support.Turner, Lucas & Co. had loaned Captain Folsom $25,000 on his two lateventures, the Metropolitan Theatre and the Tehama House. Both, undernormal conditions, would have made their promoter rich. But nothing wasat par these days.
Sherman wondered uneasily whether Folsom could help. He was not a man tosave money, and the banker, who made it his business to know whatborrowers of the bank's money did, knew that Folsom liked gambling,frequented places where the stakes ran high. Of late he had met heavylosses. However, he was a big man, Sherman reasoned; he should havelarge resources. Both of them were former army officers. That shouldprove a bond between them. At Captain Folsom's house an old negroservant opened the door, his wrinkled black face anxious.
"Mars Joe, he ain't right well dis evenin'," he said, evasively, butwhen Sherman persisted he was ushered into a back room where sat theredoubtable captain, all the fierceness of his burnside whiskers, theausterity of his West Point manner, melted in the indignity of sneezesand wheezes.
Sherman looked at him in frank dismay.
"Heavens, man," he said, "I'm sorry to intrude on you in this condition... but my errand won't wait...."
"What do you want, Bill Sherman?" the sick man glowered.
"Money," Sherman answered crisply. "You know, perhaps, that Page, Bacon& Co. have failed. Everyone's afraid of his deposits. We've got to havecash tomorrow. How about your--?"
With a cry of irritation Folsom threw up his hands. "Money! GodAlmighty! Sherman, there's not a loose dollar in town. My agent, VanWinkle, has walked his legs off, talked himself hoarse.... He can't getanything. It's impossible."
"Then you can do nothing?"
For answer Folsom broke into a torrent of sneezes and coughs. The oldnegro came running. Sherman shook his head and left the room.
There remained Major Hammond, collector of the port, two of whose notesthe bank held.
He and Sherman were not over-friendly; yet Hammond must be asked.Sherman made his way to the customs house briskly, stated his businessto the doorkeeper and sat down in an anteroom to await Hammond'spleasure. There he cooled his heels for a considerable period before hewas summoned to an inner office.
"Well, Sherman," he asked, not ungraciously, "what can I do for you?"
"You can take up one of your notes with our bank," replied Sherman,without ado. "We need cash desperately."
"'Fraid of a run, eh?"
"Not afraid, no. But preparing for it."
The other nodded his approval. "Quite right! quite right!" he said withunexpected warmth.... "So you'd like me to cash one of my notes,Mr. Sherman?"
"Why, yes, sir, if it wouldn't inconvenience you," the banker answered,"it would
aid us greatly." He looked into the collector's keen,inquiring eyes, then added: "I may as well say quite frankly, Mr.Hammond, you're our last resort."
"Then why"--the other's smile was whimsical--"then why not both of mynotes?"
There sat the redoubtable captain, all the ... austerityof his West Point manner melted in the indignity of sneezes andwheezes.... "Money! God Almighty! Sherman, there's not a loose dollarin town."]
"Do you mean it?" Sherman asked breathlessly.
By way of answer Hammond drew a book of printed forms toward him.Calmly, leisurely, he wrote several lines; tore a long, narrow stripfrom the book and handed it to Sherman.
"Here's my check for $40,000 on the United States Treasurer. He willcash it in gold. Never mind, don't thank me, this is purely business. Iknow what's up, young man. I can't see your people go under. Good day!"
* * * * *
Ten o'clock on the following morning. Hundreds of people lined up beforethe doors of San Francisco banks. Men of all classes; top-hattedmerchants rubbed elbows with red-shirted miners, Irish laborers smokingclay pipes, Mexican vaqueros, roustabouts from the docks, gamblers,bartenders, lawyers, doctors, politicians. Here and there one saw womenwith children in their arms or holding them by the hand. They pressedshoulder to shoulder. Those at the head had their noses almost againstthe glass. Inside of the counting houses men with pale, harried facesstood behind their grilled iron wickets, wondering how long the pile ofsilver and gold within their reach would stay that clamorous human tide.Doors swung back and it swept in, a great wave, almost overturningthe janitors.
The cashier and assistant manager of Lucas & Co. watched nervously, theformer now and then running his fingers through his sparse hair; theassistant manager at intervals retired to a back room where he consulteda decanter and a tall glass. Frequently he summoned the bookkeeper."How's the money lasting?" he would inquire almost in a whisper, and theother answered, "Still holding out."
But now the assistant manager saw that the cash on hand was almostexhausted. He was afraid to ask the bookkeeper any more questions.
"Where the devil's Sherman?" he snapped at the cashier. That officialstarted. "Why--er--how should I know?... He was hunting Major Snyderthis morning. He had a check from Hammond, the collector of the port."
"Damnation!" cried the assistant manager. "Sherman ought to be here. Heought to talk to these people. They think he's skipped."
He broke off hurriedly as the assistant teller came up trembling. "We'llhave to close in ten minutes," he said. "There's less than $500 left."His mouth twitched. "I don't know what we'll do, sir, when the timecomes ... and God only knows what they'll do."
"Good God! what's that?"
Some new commotion was apparent at the entrance of the bank. Theassistant teller grasped his pistol. The line of waiting men and womenturned, for the moment forgetting their quest. William Sherman, attendedby two armed constables, entered the door. Between them the trio carriedtwo large canvas bags, each bearing the imprint of the UnitedStates Treasury.
Sherman halted just inside the door.
"Forty thousand in gold, boys," he cried, "and plenty more where it camefrom. Turner, Lucas & Co. honors every draft."
His face pressed eagerly against the lattice of the paying teller's cagestood a little Frenchman. His hat had fallen from his pomaded hair; hiswaxed moustache bristled.
"Do you mean you have ze monnaie? All ze monnaie zat we wish?" he askedgesticulating excitedly with his hands.
"Sure," returned the teller. Sherman and his aids were carrying the twosacks into the back of the cage, depositing them on a marble shelf."See!" The teller turned one over and a tinkling flood of shining goldendisks poured forth.
"Ah, bon! bon!" shrieked the little Frenchman, dancing up and down uponhis high-heeled boots. "If you have ze monnaie, zen I do not want heem."He broke out of the line, happily humming a chanson. Half a dozenpeople laughed.
"That's what I say," shouted other voices. "We don't want our money ifit's safe."
CHAPTER XXXVIII
KING STARTS THE BULLETIN
After several months of business convalescence, San Francisco founditself recovered from the financial chaos of February. Many well-knownmen and institutions had not stood the ordeal; some went down thepathway of dishonor to an irretrievable inconsequence and destitution;others profited by their misfortunes and still others, with thedauntless spirit of the time, turned halted energies or aspirations tofresh account. Among them was James King of William.
The name of his father, William King, was, by an odd necessity,perpetuated with his own. There were many James Kings and to avertconfusion of identities the paternal cognomen was added.
In the Bank Exchange saloon, where the city's powers in commerce,journalism and finance were wont to congregate, King met, on a rainyautumn afternoon, R.D. Sinton and Jim Nesbitt. They hailed him jovially.Seated in the corner of an anteroom they drank to one another's healthand listened to the raindrops pattering against a window.
"Well, how is the auction business, Bob?" asked King.
"Not so bad," the junior partner of Selover and Sinton answered. "Betterprobably than the newspaper or banking line.... Here's poor Jim, thekeenest paragrapher in San Francisco, out of work since the_Chronicle's_ gone to the wall. And here you are, cleaned out by Adams &Company's careless or dishonest work--I don't know which."
"Let's not discuss it," King said broodingly. "You know they wouldn'tlet me supervise the distribution of the money. And you know what mydemand for an accounting brought ..."
"Abuse and slander from that boughten sheet, the Alta--yes," retortedSinton. "Well, you have the consolation of knowing that no honest manbelieves it."
King was silent for a moment. Then his clenched hand fell upon thetable. "By the Eternal!" he exclaimed, with a sudden upthrust of thechin. "This town must have a decent paper. Do you know that there areseven murderers in our jail? No one will convict them and no editor hasthe courage to expose our rotten politics." He glanced quickly from oneto the other. "Are you with me, boys? Will you help me to start ajournal that will run our crooked officials and their hired plug-ugliesout of town?... Sinton, last week you asked my advice about a goodinvestment ... Nesbitt, you're looking for a berth. Well, here's ananswer to you both. Let's start a paper--call it, say, the EveningBulletin."
Nesbitt's eyes glowed. "By the Lord Harry! it's an inspiration, King,"he said and beckoned to a waiter to refill their glasses. "I know enoughabout our State and city politics to make a lot of well-known citizenshunt cover--"
Sinton smiled at the journalist's ardor. "D'ye mean it, James?" heasked. "Every word," replied the banker. "But I can't help muchfinancially," he added. "My creditors got everything."
"You mean the King's treasury is empty," said Sinton, laughing at hispun. "Well, well, we might make it go, boys. I'm not a millionaire, butnever mind. How much would it take?"
Nesbitt answered with swift eagerness. "I know a print shop we can buyfor a song; it's on Merchant street near Montgomery. Small butcomfortable, and just the thing. $500 down would start us."
Sinton pulled at his chin a moment. "Go ahead then," he urged. "I'llloan you the money."
King's hand shot out to grasp the auctioneer's. "There ought to be10,000 decent citizens in San Francisco who'll give us their support.Let's go and see the owner of that print-shop now."
* * * * *
On the afternoon of October 5th, 1885, a tiny four-page paper made itsfirst appearance on the streets of San Francisco.
The first page, with its queer jumble of news and advertisements, had anovel and attractive appearance quite apart from the usual standards oftypographical make-up. People laughed at King's naive editorial apologyfor entering an overcrowded and none-too-prosperous field; they noddedapprovingly over his promise to tell the truth with fearlessimpartiality.
William Coleman was among the first day's visitors.
"Good luck to yo
u, James King of William," he held forth a friendlyhand. The editor, turning, rose and grasped it with sincere cordiality.They stood regarding each other silently. It seemed almost as though aprescience of what was to come lay in that curious communion ofheart and mind.
"Going after the crooks, I understand," said Coleman finally.
"Big and little," King retorted. "That's all the paper's for. I don'texpect to make money."
"How about the Southerners, the Chivalry party? They'll challenge you toduels daily."
"Damn the 'Chivs'." King answered. "I shall ignore their challenges.This duelling habit is absurd. It's grandstand politics; opera bouffe.They even advertise their meetings and the boatmen run excursions tosome point where two idiots shoot wildly at each other for some fanciedslight. No, Coleman, I'm not that particular kind of a fool."
"Well, you'd better carry a derringer," the other warned. "There areBroderick's plug-uglies. They won't wait to send a challenge."
King gave him an odd look. "I have feeling that one cannot change hisdestiny," he said. "If I am to be killed--then so be it ... Kismet, asthe Orientals say. But meanwhile I'll fight corruption. I'll call men byname and shout their sins from the housetops. We'll wake up the town, ormy name isn't James King of William.... Won't we, James?" He clapped ahand on Nesbitt's shoulder. The other turned half irritably. "What? Oh,yes. To be sure," he answered and resumed his writing. CharlesGerberding, who held the title of publisher in the new enterprise,looked up from his ledger. "If this keeps up," he said, smiling andrubbing his hands, "we can enlarge the paper in a month or so." He shutthe volume with a slam and lighted a cigar.