Part 11

"Ah, yes. I remember now that Hampden was telling me something of the sort." Wharton Kendrick shook his head over the information, and then turned to me. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Well," I said, hesitating in some embarrassment at General Wilson's presence, "I had an interview with a friend of yours this afternoon."

The intonation in my voice was enough to give a hint of the identity of the friend, and he nodded his head in comprehension.

"Well, come up to the house to-night, and give me the whole story. It'll keep till then, won't it? By the way, what was that hullaballoo around the place last night? It waked me up, but I was too lazy to turn out and take a hand in it."

"Perhaps you heard my men when they caught three fellows climbing over the back fence, along in the early hours this morning. I don't think of anything else that happened."

"Well, upon my soul," gasped General Wilson, "isn't that enough? Good heavens, young man, you speak as though it was something a gentleman might expect as a common attention from his neighbors!"

"It's a first experience," said Wharton Kendrick with a jovial laugh. "But why didn't you tell me about it? If I'm an attraction to burglars, I think I'm entitled to know it."

"I didn't intend to make a secret of it; but you weren't in when I called this morning. Besides, I haven't run the thing down to its source and origin."

General Wilson's red face flamed with wonder and he stared at me from under his bushy brows.

"Are you trying to tell us that they weren't burglars?" He fired the question at me very much as if it were a revolver, with the professional air of a lawyer who has caught a witness trying to deceive.

"To be truthful, I was trying not to tell you," I replied. "But if you put it to me direct, I should say they were not."

"Fire away," said Kendrick, as I paused. "There's nothing about it that Wilson shouldn't hear."

"Well," I continued, "two of them got away, but the boys held on to the third, and hauled me out of bed at three o'clock this morning to find out what was to be done with him. He protested that he was an innocent citizen on his way home from an over-convivial evening. But as he couldn't explain what he was doing in your back yard at that time of night, we took him down to the police station. Instead of finding him in the jailbird class, he turned out to be a small politician out of a job. Just now he figures as sergeant-at-arms of the Twelfth Ward Anti-Coolie Club."

"The Anti-Coolie Club?" said Wharton Kendrick, wrinkling his brows. "I don't see what an anti-coolie club could want to do to me. I'm pretty well qualified for membership myself."

General Wilson's face flamed redder than before, in the frame of his aggressive side-whiskers, and he smote the desk with his fist.

"Good Lord, Kendrick! You don't mean to tell me that you take any stock in such riotous nonsense as these anti-coolie fellows here are getting off! Why, I was listening to one of them last night, and he roared like a bull-calf about the Chinese taking the bread out of the hands of the workmen, and split his lungs telling that the heathen must be driven into the sea. Why, sir, he made my blood boil, and if I was made provost-marshal of this town for one day, I'd bundle him and his crew down to the docks, and have them sailing over sea before night came."

Wharton Kendrick gave a good-humored laugh.

"My dear Wilson, I don't take much stock in the loud-mouthed orators, but I say, with them, that if we are to have the choice of a white or a yellow civilization in California, my vote goes to the white."

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried General Wilson, thumping the desk once more. "Why, my dear sir, you challenge the fundamental principles of this government when you say we must shut out these men merely because their skins are yellow. Why, sir, it is to our advantage, not to our detriment, that they work for small wages. The lower their wages, the less money they take out of the country, and when they go home they leave behind them the great works they have accomplished. God has given you illimitable resources, and you are crying out for hands to develop them, and here you are, ready to shut out the most plentiful and cheapest supply of labor that exists on the face of the green earth. It's against business principles and it's against the principles of humanity, and you can never do it, sir--never."

"Oh, fudge, Wilson, you don't know anything about the problem, and yet you come here telling us old Californians what we ought to think about it. I'll admit anything you say in favor of the coolies. They're industrious and faithful and cheap; but they're more than that. The Chinese can drive us out of any line they want to take up. I've seen that done too many times to doubt it any longer."

"Well, if they can do it, why shouldn't they?" cried General Wilson. "Survival of the fittest--isn't that the law of nature? If the white race can't stand the competition, let it perish. But it won't perish. It'll manufacture things to sell to the Chinese, and trade will go on whether the white or the yellow man settles this coast."

"That may be all right for you fellows in the East; but even there you'll be hit. Just ask yourself which would be more profitable as customers, a million Chinese who spend ten cents a day on their supplies, or a million whites who spend a dollar?"

"Sophistry, sophistry, Kendrick!" puffed the general, apparently impressed by the illustration. "But why go after the Chinese alone? I was in Castle Garden a month ago, and the fellows they let through there are every whit as un-American as the Chinese. Why don't you holler about them?"

"Why," said Kendrick, "we're hollering about the pigs in our corn. You're the fellows to look out for the other side of the continent."

"Why don't we try to keep them out?" cried General Wilson. "Why, it's because we've got to have cheap labor for our mines and mills and railroads. We need it just as we need machinery, and we've got to take the disadvantages with the benefits, and no loud-mouthed agitator can deprive us of the right to get our workmen in the cheapest market. It's the law of trade, the fundamental principle at the bottom of political economy--the science on which the development of civilization must depend--"

General Wilson's oration was suddenly cut short by an outburst of sound from the street below, and with common instinct we hastened to the window to view the cause of the hubbub. On the pavement was a crowd of five or six hundred men, moving slowly up California Street, circling with cries of anger or derision about some indistinguishable center of attraction. The outer fringe of the crowd was constantly breaking into sprays of individuals who ran forward to secure a position in front, while those behind tried to leap on the shoulders of those before them, and the center was an effervescent mass of arms, heads and clubs.

The nucleus of disturbance, I was at last able to make out, was composed of two policemen dragging a hatless man between them.

"Oh," said Wharton Kendrick, "it's nothing worse than an attempt to lynch some fellow who's been caught at his crime. I suppose he's killed a woman, or something of the sort. But the police will get him to prison easily enough. There's never nerve enough in one of these crowds to take such a fellow and hang him."

"They ought to string 'em up on the spot," snapped General Wilson. Then repenting suddenly of this unprofessional exclamation, he added: "But the majesty of the law must be upheld. It is the shield of the innocent and the sword of the righteous."

"Um-m, yes, I suppose so," said Kendrick doubtingly. "But all this doesn't settle that matter of the tule tract. I'll see you to-night, Hampden. The general and I must talk business now."

*CHAPTER XV*

*A RIPPLE OF TROUBLE*

The brawling of many voices filled the air as I ran down the stairs, spurred by curiosity and by a vague, subconscious misgiving that the event was of more than impersonal interest. When I reached the entrance the circling crowd was halted in a mass of struggling men, and the hoarse roar that issued from it vibrated with the indefinable yet definite thrill of savage anger. Police whistles were blowing, men were running from all directions to get sight of the struggle, blows given and taken could be heard amid sounds of curses and exclamations of pain, and the centers of disturbance became pyramids of squirming, struggling mankind.

As I reached the street, Parks burst out of the crowd, his hat gone, his long hair tumbled in aggressive disorder, his face flushed, and his clothing bearing evidences of his violent passage through the mob. Behind him came Seabert, whom I knew for a member of the Council of Nine. Between them they dragged and pushed an old man, white-faced, frightened, who looked in helpless amazement on the turbulence about him. The old man's face stirred vague reminiscence of the familiar, but for the moment I could not trace these promptings of memory to their source.

"Here!" cried Parks, as they burst out of the struggling circle and flung their burden into the hands of a knot of men who stood by an express-wagon near at hand, "get him down to Number Two."

As the old man was sent staggering forward, helpless, trembling, perplexed, the men circled around him, lifted him in their arms, and in a moment had climbed into the wagon and were going on a gallop down California Street.

It had all been done in the time I had taken to pass from the door of the office building to the edge of the sidewalk. I pushed into the roadway and hailed Parks by name. He had snatched a hat from one of the men who climbed into the wagon, and was hastily removing the signs of conflict from his dress.

"What's the matter here?" I cried, when I saw that he recognized me.

"Matter!" he cried. "Matter enough! There has been an interference with the natural right of a man to present his grievance to his fellow-man. It has been properly resented."

"I don't understand you," I said. "Who was the old man you rescued from the mob?"

Parks looked at me in surprise. "Rescued from the mob!" he exclaimed. "Why, the mob--but wait a minute, and I'll tell you about it."

He turned as he spoke.

"Stop that fighting!" he shouted. And at his word a score of men lent their efforts to the task of separating the struggling, wrestling groups, raising the prostrate and quieting the violent.

The efforts of the peacemakers were signally assisted by the sudden appearance of a squad of police coming on the run around the corner from Montgomery Street. As the guardians of order were strong of limb, and were armed with heavy clubs, they had exemplary success in quieting the refractory, and satisfying those whose appetite for fighting was still unsated.

At the sight of the police, Parks took me by the arm and drew me quietly down the block and around the corner into Sansome Street.

"What was the trouble about, and who was the old man?" I asked.

"Why, that was Merwin," said Parks in a tone of surprise. "You ought to recollect him."

At the name I remembered the quiet, dreamy old man of my visit to the House of Blazes, and recalled the history of his life-wreck which was wrapped up in the volumes of legal lore that went under the title of Merwin versus Bolton.

"What had Merwin been doing to get the mob after him?" I asked.

"To get the mob after him!" exclaimed Parks in great indignation. "To get the police after him, you mean."

"The police!" I exclaimed in my turn. "Oh, he was the man under arrest, then?"

"It was an outrage of arbitrary power," said Parks, flushing angrily, "and the people have shown what they think of it. He has been taken out of the hands of those petty tyrants, and it will be a long time before he falls into them again."

"What was the charge?" I asked, at a loss to imagine what crime could have been committed by this inoffensive wreck of a man.

"He was arrested," said Parks indignantly, "for exercising the right of free speech."

"Free speech is rather an elastic term," I said. "What was he talking about?"

"The only thing he knows anything about," said Parks. "That's his case."

"Well, it is a subject that might call out rather strong language, but I don't see just how that could bring him afoul of the police."

"Sir," cried Parks, "it could happen only through the exercise of arbitrary power. The point of the thing is that the Supreme Court this afternoon handed down its sixth decision in his suit against Bolton. The judgment against Bolton is reversed, and the case sent back for a new trial."

"What a shame!" I said, remembering the justice of Merwin's claim, the ruin of his life, and his long fight against the wealth and malignity of Peter Bolton.

"It is outrageous!" exclaimed Parks vehemently; "as scandalous as the open sale of justice to the highest bidder. Those men should be dragged from the bench, and driven through the streets in a cart, with their price for rendering such a judgment placarded on their backs. The judges were bought and justice was sold."

"No, no," I protested. "The men on the bench may be wrong-headed, small-minded, pettifogging, but not corrupt--believe me, not corrupt."

Parks looked at me with a pitying shake of his head.

"You are welcome to your opinion," he said, "but it isn't mine. However, it doesn't matter. The court has driven another nail in the coffin of the present social order."

"But how did this decision get Merwin into the hands of the police? Did he go around to the courtrooms and tell the justices what he thought of them?"

"No, indeed!" said Parks indignantly, "though I shouldn't have blamed him if he had. He got up at our water-front meeting and, for the first time since I've known him, made a speech. It came hot from his tongue, too, telling the plain story of his case to his fellow-citizens. And what did the police do? Why, they arrested him for trying to incite a riot!"

Parks paused as though waiting for my opinion on this exercise of police power.

"Well," I admitted, "the plain story of the case of Merwin against Bolton might very well sound like an attempt to stir the mob to violence."

"It makes my blood boil, Hampden," cried Parks. "It's the stuff that revolutions are made of. The hirelings of Nob Hill know it, and that is why they trampled on the liberties of speech in the attempt to shut the mouth of the injured man."

"Go on with your story. What happened after he was arrested?"

"Why, I wasn't there, so I don't know exactly how it was. But when Merwin was dragged off the cart, one of the boys ran over to headquarters with the news. As soon as I heard what was being done, I hurried over here with such men as I could get together. We found a big crowd following the two policemen who were dragging Merwin between them, but the men didn't know how to do anything but holler and ba-a. So I passed around the word that Merwin was to be taken out of the hands of the police. The crowd was ready to follow if any one would take the lead; so when I gave the signal the police were tumbled over in just one minute by the clock, we hustled our man to the wagon, and now I've had Merwin taken to a safe place."

"My sympathies are with Merwin," I said, "but this rescue is a more serious matter than the arrest. It is resistance to the constituted authority of the law."

"The constituted authority of the law!" said Parks contemptuously. "That's not the last resistance that will be roused against its tyranny and injustice. The day is at hand, sir, when this constituted authority of the law, as you call it, will be overthrown and scattered as easily as it was overturned a few minutes ago in the persons of its petty tyrants. Then a new and better authority will rise, founded on the will of the people, responsive to the people's needs, and protecting the people's interests."

Parks had begun in a low tone of voice, as befitted one who had reasons for avoiding notice; but with his closing words he was once more the orator and prophet of the agitators, and I gave him a word of caution to save his breath for a less dangerous occasion. I saw nothing to be gained by arguing with him the folly of his plans of revolution. I could not hope to turn him from his purposes, and would only shut myself out from the chance of getting further information from him. Therefore I suppressed the remonstrance and advice that rose to my lips, and asked instead how the movement was progressing.

"Splendidly," replied Parks, with an enthusiastic shake of his head. "The cause of the people is advancing by leaps and bounds. Men are awakening to their rights, and responding to the efforts for their betterment. Our organization has gone into every district in the city. By to-morrow we shall be five thousand strong. Next week we extend our propaganda outside of San Francisco, and shall proceed to establish branches in every town in the state. To-night we invade the stronghold of aristocracy. At eight o'clock we hold a meeting on Nob Hill, at the corner of California and Mason Streets, to tell the nabobs what we think of them."

We had reached the corner of Market and Sansome Streets and had halted for a little, when a hot and breathless man overtook us, and tapped Parks on the shoulder. For an instant the enthusiast thought that he was under arrest, for he whirled about with a fierce and determined look. If the man had been a policeman he would have had a difficult prisoner to handle. But there was no hostile intent in his face, and a look of recognition relaxed the tense lines of determination about Parks' mouth and eyes as he caught sight of him.

"Egbert and Baumgartner are arrested," whispered the man in gasps; and he drew Parks aside.

There was a hurried conversation of which I caught but a word now and then, and I had time to wonder whether Parks would not presently share the fate of the two men he was now called upon to aid. It was not unlikely that a man of such conspicuous appearance had been recognized by the officers when Merwin had been snatched from their grasp. After a minute of whispered conversation, Parks turned to me, his face lighted with decision and excitement.

"I must leave you, Hampden," he said. "Let me see you at the meeting on Nob Hill to-night. The contest between plutocracy and the people may begin earlier than we have expected."

And with these significant words he set off briskly in the direction of the House of Blazes.

I digested Parks' hints with my dinner, and, getting no light from them, I took my way to Wharton Kendrick's house to deliver the postponed budget of information gained from my visit to Peter Bolton.

The sun had just set upon the long July day, and the bright afterglow still forbade the use of lamps. And in the misgiving that I should come upon my client before he had finished his dinner, I was about to continue my stroll past the house when I saw the door open and some one walk in. As the door remained hospitably ajar, I changed my intention and climbed the steps. Before I reached the landing I heard an inner door close, and a moment later the voice of Miss Kendrick asked:

"Well, what do you want?"

"You Miss Kenlick?" came the reply, with an unmistakable Chinese intonation.

"Yes, I am Miss Kendrick. What do you want of me?"

"You sabby China gell--nice li'l China gell?" The voice of the Chinaman was pitched in a fawning tone, offensive in the obsequiousness of its effort to win the confidence of the hearer.

At the words I was startled with the thought that Big Sam had come to survey for himself the situation of Moon Ying with a possible view to her recapture. I was in two minds about my duty in the matter. Had I obeyed my first impulse I should have walked in and expressed my opinion of the attempt in unceremonious terms. But second thought suggested that Miss Kendrick might prefer to manage the affair without interference. A sudden wish to hear her match her wits against the diplomacy of the Oriental proved irresistible, and I determined to await an apparent need for intervention. Her first words reassured me of her ability to handle the situation.

"No," she replied calmly, with just the suspicion of a tremble in her voice, "we don't want any Chinese girl."

"No--you sabby gell?" insisted the Chinese voice, with its fawning emphasis. "Nice li'l China gell?"

If this was Big Sam, I should be compelled to compliment him on a marvelous control of his vocalization; and in curiosity to see if his bodily disguise was as complete as that of his voice, I peeped about the edge of the door till I caught sight of the oriental figure. My first glimpse of the man assured me that he was not Big Sam. He was small and bent, and gave an inimitable appearance of age. Whatever his capacity for masquerade, Big Sam could not have reduced his bulky form to this figure. The man turned his head a little, and I saw a wizened face, embellished with a mustache of coarse white hair, and scant chin-whiskers that might have belonged to an anemic billy-goat.

Miss Kendrick's face was pale, but its firm expression was an index to her resolve to save Moon Ying from this creature at any cost.

"No," she repeated sharply, "we don't want a Chinese girl--or boy either. We never hire them. You go now." And with a gesture to the man-servant who stood beside her, she turned and was gone without a glance in my direction.

The man-servant, in eager obedience to Miss Kendrick's hint, took the Chinaman by the shoulders, and amid protesting exclamations of "Wha' fo'? Wha' fo'?" ran him out of the hall, and started him down the steps, his speeding word to the departing guest taking the form of: "Get out of here, John, and if you come back I'll kick you out."

Then suddenly catching sight of me, he recovered his breath and his dignity with a sudden effort.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Hampden," he gasped. "I didn't know you was here. Mr. Kendrick is just done dinner. He's gone to his smoking-room. He said if you came I was to show you right in." And with a glance to see that the Chinaman had reached the sidewalk, he shut the door and led the way to the master of the house.

I followed him mechanically, but my thoughts were far from the errand of Peter Bolton's schemes that had brought me hither. An insistent question ran through my mind in endless variations, but when reduced to words it took this form: "Where have I seen the face of the old Chinaman before?"

*CHAPTER XVI*

*LAYING DOWN THE LAW*

Wharton Kendrick sat at his ease in smoking-jacket and slippers, but his brow was wrinkled with thought. The cigar that he held between his teeth gave evidence of his discomposure of mind, for it was unlighted, and one end of it had been reduced to the semblance of a cud. I had just delivered to him a conscientious account of my interview with Peter Bolton, and now observed the perturbant reflections that it had stirred.

"Was that all you could get out of the old rascal?" he said after an interval of silence.

"Why, yes," I replied. "I thought it was a pretty good afternoon's work; and indeed I am surprised that he told me so much."

"Oh, thunder, Hampden, you're as easily taken in as the rest of 'em. Didn't I tell you that Peter Bolton is never in the place you're looking for him?"

"Why," I argued, somewhat piqued at this reception of my budget of information, "I thought he told a good deal about his plans--in fact, showed himself a garrulous old foozle instead of the shrewd fox you'd told me about."

"My dear boy," said Wharton Kendrick with a pitying smile, "I'm grateful for your zeal, but the only thing he exposed was his desire to get you to betray me, and I might have guessed that without his telling it."

"But that half-million of notes--"