Port O' Gold

  "FATHER!" cried the young man rapturously.

  * * * * *

  At the Mount Zion Hospital Po Lun fought with death on Tuesday. Thebullet was removed; but though this brought relief, there came anaftermath of fever and destroying weakness. Alice and her son were athis bedside, but Po Lun did not recognize them.

  Mrs. Windham turned a tear-stained face to the physician. "Can nothingbe done?" she pleaded. "He saved my boy.... Oh, doctor! You won'tlet him die."

  The young physician's sympathy showed plainly in his eyes. "I've doneeverything," he said. "He's sinking. If I knew a way to rouse him theremight be a chance."

  As he spoke Francisco Stanley entered, viewed the silent figure on thecot and shook his head. "Poor Po Lun. At any rate he's been a hero inthe papers. I've seen to that ..."

  "He was delirious all morning ... stretching out his arms and calling'Hang Far! Hang Far!' Do you know what it means?"

  "I do," Alice answered; "it's the girl from whom he was separated nearlytwenty years ago."

  "Why--that's funny," said Francisco. "Yesterday a woman by that name wascaptured by the mission-workers in a raid on Chinatown. I wonder....Could it be the same one?"

  "Not likely," the physician answered. "It's a common name, I think.Still--" he looked at Po Lun.

  "Run and get her," Alice urged. "It's a chance. Go quickly."

  Half an hour passed; an hour, while the watchers waited at the bedsideof Po Lun. Gradually his respiration waned. Several times the nursecalled the physician, thinking death had come. But a spark stilllingered, growing fainter with the minutes till a mist upon a mirror wasthe only sign that breath remained.

  Suddenly there was a rush of feet, a door flung open and Franciscoentered, half dragging a Chinese woman by the arm. She gazed withfrantic eyes from Alice to Robert till her glance took in the figure onthe bed. She stared at it curiously, incredulously. Then she gave alittle cry and flung herself toward Po Lun.

  What she said no one there present knew. What strange cabal she invokedis still a mystery. Be that as it may, eyes which had seemed closedforever, opened. Lips white, bloodless, breathed a scarce-heard whisper.

  "_Hang Far_!"

  "Come," said Alice. "Let us leave them together."

  Half an later, in an ante-room, the doctor told them: "He will live, Ithink. It's very like a miracle...."

  * * * * *

  At the foot of Brannan street lay the Pacific Mail docks, where theChinese laborers were landed. Many thousands of them had been broughtthere by the steamers from Canton. They had solved vexed problems ashouse servants, fruit pickers, tillers of the soil; they had done therough work in the building of many bridges, the stemming of turbulentstreams, the construction of highways. And while there was work for all,they had caused little trouble.

  Now half a thousand jobless workers, armed and reckless, marched towardthe docks. They bore torches, which illuminated fitfully their flushed,impassioned faces. Here and there one carried a transparency described,"The Chinese Must Go."

  Half a thousand jobless workers, armed and reckless,marched toward the docks. They bore torches.... "A hell-bent crew'"said Ellis.]

  Chief Ellis and a squad of mounted policemen watched them as theymarched down Second street, shouting threats and waving theirfirebrands. "They're a hell-bent crew," he said to William Coleman. "Isyour posse ready?"

  "Yes," he answered, "they've assembled near the dock. I've twentycompanies."

  "Good.... You'll need 'em all."

  As he spoke a tongue of flame leaped upward from the darkness. Anotherand another.

  "They've fired the lumber yards," the chief said. "I expected that.There is fire apparatus on the spot.... It's time to move."

  He spurred forward, rounding up his officers. Coleman rode silentlytoward the entrance of the docks. Very soon a bugle sounded. There werestaccato orders; then a tramp of feet.

  The Citizens' army moved in perfect unison toward the fires. Alreadyengines were at work. One blaze was extinguished. Then came sounds ofbattle. Cries, shots. Coleman and his men rushed forward.

  Stones and sticks flew through the air. Now and then a pistol barked.The mounted police descended with a clatter, clubbing their way into thethrong. But they did not penetrate far, so dense was the pack; it hemmedthem about, pulling officers from their horses. The fire engines hadbeen stopped. One of them was pushed into the bay.

  More fires leaped from incendiary torches. The rioters seemedtriumphant. Then Coleman's brigade fell upon them.

  Whack, whack, whack, fell the pick-handles upon the backs, shoulders,sometimes heads of rioters. It was like a systematic tattoo. Coleman'svoice was heard directing, here and there, cool and dispassionate. Acouple of locomotive headlights threw their glare upon the nowdisordered gangsters. Whack! Whack! Whack!

  Suddenly the rioters, bleating, panic-stricken, fled like frightenedsheep. They scattered in every direction leader*-less, completelyrouted. The fire engines resumed work. An ambulance came up and the workof attending the wounded began. The fight was over.

  CHAPTER LXVII

  DENNIS KEARNEY

  Weeks went by and brought no further outbreak. Chinatown which, for atime, was shuttered, fortified, almost deserted, once again resumed itsfeverish activities. In the theaters, funny men made jokes about thelabor trouble. In the East strikes had abated. All seemed safe andorderly again.

  But San Francisco had yet to deal with Dennis Kearney.

  Dennis, born in County Cork just thirty years before, filled adventurousroles since his eleventh year, mostly on the so-called "hell-ships"which beat up and down the mains of trade. In 1868 he first set foot inSan Francisco as an officer of the clipper "Shooting Star." Tiring ofthe sea he put his earnings in a draying enterprise. This, for half adozen years, had prospered.

  Suddenly he cast his business interests to the winds. Became a laboragitator.

  Francisco Stanley, who had sought him, questing for an interview sincemorning, cornered him at last in Bob Woodward's What Cheer House atSacramento and Leidesdorff streets. It was one of those odd institutionsfound only in this vividly bizarre metropolis of the West. For "twobits" you could get a bed and breakfast at the What Cheer House, bothclean and wholesome enough for the proudest. If you had not the coin, itmade little difference. One room was fitted out as a museum andcontained the many curious articles which had found their way intoWoodward's hands. Another room was the hotel library; the first freereading room in San Francisco.

  At the What Cheer House all kinds of people gathered. Stanley, as hepeeped into the library, noted a judge of the Superior Court poring overa volume of Dickens. He waved a salute to tousle-haired, eagle-beakedSam Clemens, whose Mark Twain articles were beginning to attractattention from the Eastern publishers. Near him, quietly sedate,absorbed in Macaulay, was Bret Harte. He had been a Wells-Fargomessenger, miner, clerk and steam-boat hand, so rumor said, and now hewas writing stories of the West. Stanley would have liked to stop andchat ... but Kearney must be found and interviewed before The Chroniclewent to press.

  Presently a loud, insistent voice attracted his attention. It waspenetrating, violent, denunciatory. Francisco knew that voice. He wentinto an outer room where perhaps a dozen rough-clad men were gatheredabout a figure of medium height, compactly built, with a broad head,shifting blue eyes and a dynamic, nervous manner.

  "Don't forget," he pounded fist on palm for emphasis, "on August 18 weorganize the party. Johnny Day will be the prisident. We'll make thimbloody plutocrats take notice." He paused, catching sight of Stanley.Instantly his frowning face became all smiles. "Ah, here's me youngfriend, the reporter," he said. "Come along Misther Stanley, and I'llgive yez a yarn for the paper. Lave me tell ye of the Workingmen's Tradeand Labor Union."

  He kept Francisco's pencil busy.

  "There ain't no strings on us. We're free from all politicalconnections. We're for oursilves. Get that."

  "Our password's 'The C
hinese Must Go.'"

  "How do you propose to accomplish this?" asked Stanley.

  "Aisy enough," returned the other with supreme confidence. "We'll havethe treaty wid Chiny changed. We'll sind back all the yellow divils ifthey interfere wid us Americans."

  Stanley could not repress a smile. Kearney himself had been naturalizedonly a year before.

  For an hour he unfolded principles, threatened men of wealth, poundedStanley's knee until it was sore and finally stalked off, highly pleasedwith himself.

  "He's amusing enough," said Francisco to his father that evening. "Butwe mustn't underrate him as you said. The fellow has force. He knows theway to stir up human passion and he'll use his knowledge to the full.Also he knows equity and law. Some of his ideas are altruistic."

  "What is he going to do to the Central Pacific nabobs if they don'tdischarge their Chinese laborers?" asked Adrian.

  Young Stanley laughed. "He threatens to dynamite their castles on thehill."

  His father did not answer immediately. "It may not be as funny as youthink," he commented.

  * * * * *

  With the weeks Po Lun mended rapidly. Hang Far was at his bedside manyhours each day. Alice often found them chatting animatedly.

  "When I get plenty well, we mally," Po informed her. "Maybeso go back toChina. What you say, Missee Alice?"

  "I think you'd better stay with me," she countered. "As for Hang Far,we'll find room for her." She smiled dolefully. "I'm getting to be anold lady, Po Lun ... I need more help in the house."

  "You nebbeh get old, Missee Alice," said the sick man. "Twenty yea' Iknow you--always like li'l gi'l."

  "Nonsense, Po!" cried Alice. Nevertheless she was pleased. "Will you andHang Far stay with me?"

  "I t'ink so, Missee," Po replied. "By 'n' by we take one li'l tlip fo'honeymoon. But plitty soon come back."

  * * * * *

  The labor movement grew and Dennis with it--both in self-importance andin popularity. He went about the State making speeches, threatening the"shoddy aristocrats who want an emperor and a standing army to shootdown the people."

  Every Sunday he harangued a crowd of his adherents on a sand-lot nearthe city hall and owing to this fact his followers were dubbed "TheSand-Lot Party." One day Robert, after hearing them discourse, returnedhome shaken and angry.

  "The man's a maniac," he told his father; "he talked of nothing butlynching railroad magnates and destroying their property. He wants toblow up the Pacific Mail docks and burn the steamers ... to dropdynamite from balloons on Chinatown."

  Young Stanley joined them, smiling, and dropped into a chair. "Whew!" heexclaimed, "it's been a busy day down at the office. Have you heard thatDennis Kearney's been arrested?"

  CHAPTER LXVIII

  THE WOMAN REPORTER

  Francisco stayed for tea and chatted of events. Yes, Dennis Kearney wasin jail and making a great hullabaloo about it. He and five of hislieutenants had been arrested after an enthusiastic meeting on theBarbary Coast.

  "And what's the Workingmen's Trade and Labor Union doing?" Robert asked.

  "Oh, muttering and threatening as usual," Francisco laughed. "They'llnot do anything--with the memory of Coleman's 1500 pick-handles fresh intheir minds...."

  "Well, I'm glad those murderous ruffians are behind the bars," saidAlice. But Francisco took her up. "That's rather hard on them, AuntAlice," he retorted. "They're only a social reaction of the times ...when railroad millionaires have our Legislature by the throat and landbarons refuse to divide their great holdings and give the small farmer achance.... Kearney, aside from his rant of violence, which he doesn'tmean, is advocating much-needed reforms.... I was talking with HenryGeorge today...."

  "He's the new city gas and water inspector, isn't he?" asked Benito."They tell me he's writing a book."

  "Yes, 'Progress and Poverty.' George believes the single tax will cureall social wrongs. But Jean...." He hesitated, flushing.

  "Jean?" His aunt was quick to sense a mystery. "Who is Jean?"

  "Oh, she's the new woman reporter," said Francisco hastily. He rose,"Well, I'll be going now."

  His aunt looked after him in silent speculation. "So!" she spoke halfto herself. "Jean's the woman reporter." And for some occult reasonshe smiled.

  * * * * *

  Robert saw them together some days later, talking very earnestly as theywalked through "Pauper Alley." Such was the title bestowed uponLeidesdorff street between California and Pine streets, where the"mudhens"--those bedraggled, wretched women speculators who still waitedhungrily for scanty crumbs from Fortune's table--chatted withbroken-down and shabby men in endless reminiscent gabble of greatfortunes they had "almost won."

  "Miss Norwall's going to do some 'human interest sketches,' as they call'em," Francisco explained as he introduced his cousin. "Our editorbelieves in a 'literary touch' for the paper. Something rather new."

  Jean Norwall held out her hand. She was an attractive, bright-eyed girlin her early twenties, with a searching, friendly look, as though lifewere full of surprises which she was eager to probe. "So you areRobert," she remarked. "Francisco's talked a lot about you."

  "That was good of him," the young man answered. "He's talked a deal ofyou as well, Miss Norwall."

  "Oh, indeed!"' She reddened slightly. "Well, we must be getting on."

  Robert raised his hat and watched them disappear around the corner.There was a vaguely lonesome feeling somewhere in the region of hisheart. He went on past the entrance of the San Francisco Stock Exchangeand almost collided with a bent-over, shrewd-faced man, whose eagle-beakand penetrating eyes were a familiar sight along California street.

  He was E.J. (better known as "Lucky") Baldwin, who had started thePacific Stock Exchange.

  Baldwin had a great ranch in the South, where he bred blooded horses.He owned the Baldwin theater and the Baldwin Hotel, which rivaled thePalace. Women, racing and stocks were his hobbies. Benito had done somelegal work for Baldwin and Robert knew him casually. Rather to hissurprise Baldwin stopped, laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.

  "Hello, lad," he greeted; "want a tip on the stock market?"

  Tips from "Lucky" were worth their weight in gold. Robert wasastonished. "Why--yes, thank you, sir," he stammered.

  "Well, don't play it ... that's the best tip in the world." The operatorwalked off chuckling.

  * * * * *

  Robert continued his walk along Montgomery street to Market, where heturned westward. It was Saturday and his father's office, where he wasnow studying law, had been closed since noon. It had become acustom--almost an unwritten law--to promenade San Francisco's lordlythoroughfare on the last afternoon of the week, especially the northernside. For Market street was now a social barrier. South of it weresmaller, meaner shops, saloons, beer-swilling "cafe chantants,"workmen's eating houses and the like, with, of course, the notableexceptions of the Grand and Palace Hotels.

  On the northern side were the gay haberdasheries, millinery stores,cafes and various business marts, where fashionable San Franciscoshopped. Where men with top hats, walking sticks and lavender silkwaistcoats ogled the feminine fashion parade.

  As he passed the Baldwin Hotel with its broadside of bow-windows, Robertbecame aware of some disturbance. A large dray drawn by four horses,plumed and flower garlanded, was wending a triumphal course up Marketstreet. A man stood in the center of it waving his hat--a stocky fellowin soiled trousers and an old gray sweater. Shouts of welcome hailed himas the dray rolled on; most of them came from the opposite orsouthern side.

  "It's Dennis Kearney," said a man near Robert. "He and his gang werereleased from custody today.... Now we'll have more trouble."

  Robert followed the dray expectantly. But Kearney made no overtdemonstration. He seemed much subdued by his fortnight in jail.

  The swift California dusk was falling. The afternoon was gone. AndRobert, realizin
g that it was past the dinner hour at his home, decidedto find his evening meal at a restaurant. One of these, with a displayof shell-fish grouped about a miniature fountain in its window,confronted him ere long and he entered a rococo interior of mirroredwalls. What caught his fancy more than the ornate furnishings, however,was a very pretty girl sitting within a cashier's cage of irongrill-work.

  It happened that she was smiling as he glanced her way. She had goldenhair with a hint of red in it, a dainty oval face, like his mother's;eyes that were friendly and eager with youth. Robert smiled back at herinvoluntarily.

  The smile still lingered as a man came forward to adjust his score. Akeen, dynamic-looking man of middle years and an imposing presence.Robert watched him just a little envious of his assured manner as hethrew down a gold-piece. While the fair cashier was making change hegrinned at her. "How's my little girl tonight?" Reaching through theaperture, he chucked her suddenly beneath the chin. Tears ofmortification sprang into her eyes. Impulsively Robert stepped forward,crowding the other aside none too gently.

  "I beg your pardon," he was breathless, half astounded by his owntemerity. "But--can I be of any--ah--service?"

  "Puppy!" stormed the elder man and stalked out haughtily. The girl'seyes encountered Robert's, shining, grateful for an instant. Then theyfell. Her face grew grave. "You shouldn't have ... really.... That wasIsaac J. Kalloch."

  "Oh, the preacher that's running for Mayor," Robert's tone was abashed."But I don't care," he added, "I'm glad I did."