Once again the girl's eyes met his, shyly. "So am I," she whispered.
CHAPTER LXIX
A NEW GENERATION
Isaac S. Kalloch was the labor candidate for mayor. People said he wasthe greatest pulpit orator in San Francisco since Starr King. His Sundaysermons at the Metropolitan Temple were crowded; as a campaign orator hedrew great throngs.
Robert's dislike for the man was mitigated by a queer involuntarygratitude. Without that bit of paternal familiarity, which had goadedthe young lawyer to impulsive protective championship, he and MaizieCarter, the little golden-haired cashier, might have found the road tocomradeship much longer.
For comrades they had become almost at once. At least so they fondlyfancied. Robert's mother wondered why he missed so many meals from home.The rococo restaurant gained a steady customer. And the host ofcavaliers who lingered in the hope of seeing Maizie home each eveningdiminished to one. He was often invited into the vine-clad cottage atthe top of Powell street hill. Sometimes he sat with Maizie on ahaircloth sofa and looked at Mrs. Carter's autograph album. It containedsome great names that were now no longer written. James Lick, DavidBroderick, Colonel E.D. Baker and the still lamented Ralston, of whomMaizie's mother never tired of talking. He, it seems, was wont to giveher tips on mining stocks. Acting on them, she had once amassed $10,000.
"But I lost it all after the poor, dear man passed away," she would say,with a tear in her eye. "Once that fellow Mills--I hate his fishyeyes!--looked straight at me and said, 'See the poor old mud-hen'!"
She began to weep softly. Maizie sprang to comfort her, stroking thestringy gray hair with tender, youthful fingers. "Mother quit the marketafter that. She hasn't been near Pauper Alley for a year ... not sinceI've been working at the Mineral Cafe. And we've three hundred dollarsin the bank."
"Ah, yes," said the mother, fondly. "Maizie's a brave girl and a thriftyone. We're comfortable--and independent, even though the rich grind downthe poor." Her eyes lighted. "Wait till Kalloch is elected ... thenwe'll see better times, I'll warrant."
Robert was too courteous to express his doubts.
Later he discussed the situation with Francisco. His paper had printedan "expose" of Kalloch, who struck back with bitter personaldenunciation of his editorial foes. "It's a nasty mess," Francisco saiddisgustedly.
"Broderick used to tell my father that politics had always been arascal's paradise because decent men wouldn't run for office--nor votehalf of the time.... I'm going to write an article about it for TheOverland. And Pixley of the Argonaut has given me a chance to do somestories. I shall be an author pretty soon--like Harte and Clemens."
"Or a poet like this Cincinnatus Heinie Miller, whom one hears about.Fancy such a name. I should think he'd change it."
"He has already," laughed Francisco. "Calls himself Joaquin--afterMarietta, the bandit. Joaquin Miller--rather catchy, isn't it? And he'swritten some really fine lines. Showed me one the other day that'scalled 'Columbus.' It's majestic. I tell you that fellow will befamous one day."
"Pooh!" scoffed Robert; "he's a poseur--ought to be an actor, with hislong hair and boots and sash.... How is the fair Jeanne?"
Francisco's face clouded. "I want her to leave newspaper work and tryliterature," he said, "but Jeanne's afraid to cut loose. She's earningher living ... and she's alone in the world. No one to fall back on,you know."
"But she'd make more money at real writing, wouldn't she?" asked Robert."Ever since Harte wrote that thing about 'The Luck of Roaring Camp,'which the lady proofreader said was indecent, he's had offers from theEastern magazines. John Carmony's paying him $5,000 a year to edit theOverland and $100 for each poem or story he writes."
"Ah, yes, but Bret Harte is a genius."
"Maybe Jeanne's another," Robert ventured.
Francisco laughed ruefully. "I've told her that ... but she says no....'I'm just a woman,' she insists, 'and not a very bright one at that.'She has all kinds of faith in me, but little in herself." He made animpatient gesture. "What can a fellow do?"
Robert looked at him a moment thoughtfully. "Why not--marry Jeanne?"
Dull red crept into Francisco's cheeks. Then he laughed."Well--er--probably she wouldn't have me."
"There's only one way to find out," his cousin persisted. "She's alone... and you're soon going to be. When do your folks start on their'second honeymoon,' as they call it?"
"Oh, that trip around the world--why, in a month or two. As soon asfather closes out his business."
"You could have the house then--you and Jeanne."
"Say!" exclaimed Francisco suddenly, "you're such a Jim Dandy to managelove affairs! Why don't you get married yourself?"
It was Robert's turn to flush. "I'm quite willing," he said shortly.
"Won't she have you?" asked his cousin sympathetically.
"'Tisn't that ... it's her mother. Maizie won't leave her ... and shewon't bring her into our home. Mrs. Carter's peculiar ... and Maiziesays we're young. Young enough to be unselfish."
"She's a fine girl," returned Francisco. "Well, good bye." He held out acordial hand.
"I--I'll think over what you said."
"Good luck, then," Robert answered as they gripped.
* * * * *
Adrian Stanley was closing up his affairs. As a contractor he hadprospered; his reclaimed city lots had realized their purchase price ahundred fold and his judiciously conservative investments yielded goldenfruit. Adrian was not a plunger. But in thirty years he had accumulatedsomething of a fortune.... And now they were to travel, he and Inez, fora year or so.
He had provided, too, for Francisco. The latter, though he did not knowit, would have $20,000 to his credit in the Bank of California. Adrianplanned to hand his son the bank deposit book across the gang plank asthe ship cast off. They were going first to the Sandwich Islands. Thenon to China, India, the South Seas. Each evening, sometimes untilmidnight, they perused the illustrated travel-folders, describingroutes, hotels, trains, steamships.
"You're like a couple of children," smiled Francisco on the eveningbefore their departure. He was writing a novel, in addition to the otherwork for Carmony and Pixley. Sometimes it was hard work amid thisunusual prattle by his usually sedate and silent parents. He tried toimagine the house without them; his life, without their familiar andcherished companionship.... It would be lonely. Probably he would rentthe place, when his novel was finished ... take lodgings down town.
CHAPTER LXX
ROBERT AND MAIZIE
Francisco saw his parents to the steamer in a carriage packed withluggage--shiny new bags and grips which, he reflected, would one dayreturn much buffeted and covered with foreign labels. He had seen suchbags in local households. The owners were very proud of them. Shakenlyhe patted his mother's arm and told her how young she was looking,whereat, for some reason, she cried. Adrian coughed and turned to lookout of the window. None of the trio spoke till they reached the dock.
There Mrs. Stanley gave him many directions looking to his health andsafety. And his father puffed ferociously at a cigar. They had expectedJeanne to bid them good-bye, but she no doubt was delayed, as one sooften was in newspaper work.
At last it was over. Francisco stood with the bank book in his hand, alump in his throat, waving a handkerchief. The ship was departingrapidly. He could no longer distinguish his parents among the blackspecks at the stern of the vessel. Finally he turned, swallowing hardand put the bank book in his pocket. What a thoughtful chap his fatherwas! How generous! And how almost girlish his mother had looked in hernew, smart travel suit! Well, they would enjoy themselves for a year ortwo. Some day he would travel, too, and see the world. But first therewas work to do. Work was good. And Life was filled with Opportunity. Hethought of Jeanne.
Suddenly he determined to test Robert's advice. Now, if ever, was thetime to challenge Providence. He had in his pocket Adrian's check for$20,000. The Stanley home was vacant. But more than all else, Jeanne wasbeing courted by a ne
w reporter on the Chronicle--a sort of poet withthe dashing ways that women liked. He had taken Jeanne to dinner severaltimes of late.
With a decisive movement Francisco entered a telephone booth. Fiveminutes later he emerged smiling. Jeanne had broken an engagement withthe poet chap to dine with him.
Later that evening he tipped an astonished French waiter with agold-piece. He and Jeanne walked under a full moon until midnight.
* * * * *
Two months after the Stanleys' departure Francisco and Jeanne weremarried and took up their abode in the Stanley home. Francisco workeddiligently at his novel. Now and then they had Robert and Maizie todinner. Both Jeanne and Francisco had a warm place in their hearts forlittle Maizie Carter. It was perfectly plain that she loved Robert;sometimes her eyes were plainly envious when they fell on Jeanne in hergingham apron, presiding over the details of her household with, abride's new joy in domestic tasks. But Maizie was a knowing littlewoman, too wise to imperil her dream of Love's completeness with adisturbing element like her mother, growing daily more helpless,querulous, dependent.
And she had a fine pride, this little working girl. From Robert shewould accept no aid, despite his growing income as the junior partner inhis father's law firm. Benito's health had not of recent months beenrobust, and Robert found upon his shoulders more and more of thebusiness of the office, which acted as trustee for several largeestates. Robert now had his private carriage, but Maizie would notpermit his calling thus, in state, for her at the Mineral Cafe.
"It would not look well," she said, half whimsically, yet with a touchof gravity, "to have a famous lawyer in his splendid coach call for apoor little Cinderella of a cashier." And so Robert came afoot eachnight to take her home. When it was fine they walked up the steep Powellstreet hill, gazing back at the scintillant lights of the town or downon the moonlit bay, with its black silhouetted islands, the spars ofgreat ships and the moving lights of tugboats or ferries.
If it were wet they rode up on the funny little cable cars, finding aplace, whenever possible, on the forward end, which Maizie called the"observation platform." As they passed the Nob Hill mansions of Hopkins,Stanford and Crocker, and the more modest adobe of the Fairs, Maiziesometimes fancied herself the chatelaine of such a castle, giving analmost imperceptible sigh as the car dipped over the crest of Powellstreet toward the meaner levels just below where she and her motherlived. Their little yard was always bright with flowers, and from therear window one had a marvelous view of the water. She seldom failed towalk into the back room and feast her eyes on that marine panoramabefore she returned to listen to her mother's fretful maunderings overvanished fortunes.
Tonight as they sat with Jeanne and Francisco in front of the cracklingfire, Maizie's hunger for a home of her own and the man she loved was soplain that Jeanne arose impulsively and put an arm about her guest. Shesaid nothing, but Maizie understood. There was a lump in her throat. "Ishould not think such things," she told herself. "I am selfish ...unfilial."
Robert was talking. She smiled at him bravely and listened. "Mother'splanning to go East," she heard him say. "She's always wanted to, and asshe grows older it's almost an obsession. So father's finally decided togo, too, and let me run the business ... I'll be an orphan soon, likeyou, Francisco."
"Oh," said Maizie. "Do you mean that you'll be all alone?"
Robert smiled, "Quite.... Po Lun and Hang Far plan a trip to China ...want to see their parents before they die. The Chinese are great forhonoring their forebears.... Sometimes I think," he added, whimsically,"that Maizie is partly Chinese."
The girl flushed. Jeanne made haste to change the subject. "How is yourfriend, Dennis Kearney?" she asked Francisco.
"Oh, he's left the agitator business ... he's a grain broker now. ButDennis started something. Capital is a little more willing to listen tolabor. And Chinese immigration will be restricted, perhaps stoppedaltogether. The Geary Exclusion Act is before Congress now, and more orless certain to pass."
"He's a strange fellow," said Jeanne, reminiscently. "I wonder if hestill hates everyone who disagrees with him. Loring Pickering was one ofhis pet enemies."
"Oh, Dennis is forgiving, like all Irishmen," said Robert. Impulsivelyhe laid a hand on Maizie's.
"Maizie is part Irish, too," he added, meaningly. The girl smiled at himstar-eyed. For she understood.
CHAPTER LXXI
THE BLIND BOSS
Francisco met the erstwhile agitator on the street one day. He had madehis peace with many former foes, including Pickering."
"Politics is a rotten game, me b'y," he said, by way of explanation."And I've a family, two little girruls at home. I want thim to remimbertheir father as something besides a blatherskite phin they grow up. SoI'm in a rispictible business again.... There's a new boss now, bad cessto him! Chris Buckley.
"Him your Chinese friends call 'The Blind White Devil?' Yes, I've heardof Chris."
"He keeps a saloon wid a gossoon name o' Fallon, on Bush street.... Goup and see him, Misther Stanley.... He's a fair-speakin' felly I'mtold.... Ask him," Dennis whispered, nudging the writer's ribs with hiselbow, "ask him how his gambling place in Platt's Hall is coming on?"
* * * * *
Several days later Francisco entered the unpretentious establishment ofChristopher Buckley. He found it more like an office than a drinkingplace; people sat about, apparently waiting their turn for an interviewwith Buckley.
A small man, soft of tread and with a searching glance, asked Stanley'sbusiness and, learning that the young man was a writer for the press,blinked rapidly a few times; then he scuttled off, returning ere longwith the information that Buckley would "see Mr. Stanley." Soon he foundhimself facing a pleasant-looking man of medium height, a moustache,wiry hair tinged with gray, a vailed expression of the eyes, whichindicated some abnormality of vision, but did not reveal the almosttotal blindness with which early excesses had afflictedChristopher Buckley.
"Sit down, my friend," spoke the boss. His tone held a crisp cordiality,searching and professionally genial. "What d'ye want ... a story?"
"Yes," said Stanley.
"About the election?"
Stanley hesitated. "Tell me about the gambling concession at Platt'sHall," he said suddenly.
Buckley's manner changed. It became, if anything, more cordial.
"My boy," his tone was low, "you're wasting time as a reporter. Listen,"he laid a hand upon Francisco's knee. "I've got a job for you.... Thenew Mayor will need a secretary ... three hundred a month. And extras!"
"What are they?" asked Francisco curiously.
"Lord! I don't have to explain that to a bright young man like you....People coming to the Mayor for favors. They're appreciative ...understand?"
"Well," Francisco seemed to hesitate, "let me think it over.... Can Ilet you know," he smiled, "tomorrow?"
Buckley nodded as Francisco rose. As soon as the latter's back wasturned the little sharp-eyed man came trotting to his master's call."Follow him. Find out what's his game," he snapped. The little man spedswiftly after. Buckley made another signal. The top-hattedrepresentative of railway interests approached.
* * * * *
Francisco stopped at Robert's office on his way home. Windham had movedinto one of the new buildings, with an elevator, on Kearney street. Inhis private office was a telephone, one of those new instruments fortalking over a wire which still excited curiosity, though they werebeing rapidly installed by the Pacific Bell Company. Hotels,newspapers, the police and fire departments were equipped with them,but private subscribers were few, Francisco had noticed one of theinstruments in Buckley's saloon.
Robert had not returned from court, but was momentarily expected. Hisamanuensis ushered Francisco into the private office. He sat down andpicked up a newspaper, glancing idly over the news.
A bell tinkled somewhere close at hand. It must be the telephone. Rathergingerly, for he had never handl
ed one before, Francisco picked up thereceiver, put it to his ear. It was a man's voice insisting that aprobate case be settled. Francisco tried to make him understand thatRobert was out. But the voice went on. Apparently the transmittingapparatus was defective. Francisco could not interrupt the flowof words.
"See Buckley.... He has all the judges under his thumb. Pay him what heasks. We must have a settlement at once."
Francisco put back the receiver. So Buckley controlled the courts aswell. He would be difficult to expose. The little plan for gettingevidence with Robert's aid did not appear so simple now.
Francisco waited half an hour longer, fidgeting about the office. Thenhe decided that Robert had gone for the day and went out. At the cornerof Powell street he bumped rather unceremoniously into a tall figure,top-hatted, long-coated, carrying a stick.
"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "Oh--why it's Mr. Pickering."
"Where are you bound so--impetuously?"
"Home," smiled Stanley. "Jeanne and I are going to the show tonight." Hewas about to pass on when a thought struck him. "Got a minute to spare,Mr. Pickering?"
"Always to you, my boy," returned the editor of the Bulletin, with hisold-fashioned courtesy.
"My boy ... you're wasting your time as a reporter.Listen," he laid a hand upon Francisco's knee. "I've a job for you....The new Mayor will need a secretary."]
"Then, come into the Baldwin Cafe.... I want to tell you something."
In an unoccupied corner, over a couple of glasses, Francisco unfoldedhis plan. He was somewhat abashed by Pickering's expression. "Veryclever, Stanley ... but quite useless. It's been tried before. You'dbetter have taken the job, accumulated evidence; then turned it over tous. That would be the way to trap him ... but it's probably too late.Ten to one his sleuth has seen us together. Buckley's very--bright,you know."