Front matter (continued 3)

In the bustle of guests departing, Coleman took me by the arm and led me to a corner.

"Do you know where these guns are stored?" he asked.

I balanced my obligations to Clark against the obvious fact that the publicity given to the armament had relieved him from chance of suspicion, and replied:

"I understand that they were stored near the headquarters of the Council--Blasius' saloon--known to the police as the House of Blazes."

"I think they should belong to the police," said Coleman dryly. "I dare say Chief Ellis has heard of them, but I shall send word to him before I go to bed."

In a moment more Kendrick called me, and we bade good night to our host.

As we reached the Kendrick house the magnate roused himself from a brown study and said:

"The curmudgeon is a rather amusing cuss, Hampden, if you know how to take him. I advise you to cultivate his acquaintance."

"Do you mean--" I began.

"I mean," said Kendrick sharply, "that the closer you get to a man the more you find out about what he intends to do. If he wants to pay for the pleasure of your society it might be a pity to deny him the privilege."

CHAPTER XI

TROUBLES IN THE MARKET

Storm-signals were flying in the financial quarter of San Francisco. California and Sansome Streets were thronged with men whose faces, anxious, confident, hopeful or despairing, pictured a time of commercial stress. There was an unusual bustle about the orderly precincts of the banks, as clerks rushed in and out with the air of men who carried the fate of the day on their shoulders. Bearers of checks jostled one another in their eagerness to be first at the counters of the paying teller. The doors to the offices of bank presidents and cashiers, that on ordinary days opened but sedately to the occasional visitor, were now swinging constantly to admit their customers in search of unusual accommodation. And even at the savings banks there was a flutter of uneasiness; for at the opening hour a long line of timid-faced men and women had formed in front of the paying tellers' counters.

In the banking district this anxious activity was orderly and well-mannered. The center of disturbance was to be found about the rival stock exchanges on Pine and Montgomery Streets, where excited crowds blocked the sidewalks and roadways, curbstone brokers raised a deafening clamor with their offers to buy and sell, and groups of individual traders surged hither and thither in endless but changing combinations. The shouts followed one another in short and rapid volleys, like the popping of a pack of fire-crackers, and as each vocal explosion was the signal for the dissolution or rearrangement of a group of traders, the human herd was tossed about in waves, eddies and cross-currents, like the bay in a storm.

The granite pile on Pine Street that held the San Francisco Stock Exchange--the "Big Board" as it was known in the parlance of the street--was the origin of waves of disturbance that spread to the remotest confines of the crowds. The flight of a messenger down the granite steps would be followed by a roar of inarticulate sound, a wave of human motion spreading out in a circle of eddies, individual groups colliding, coalescing, separating into new combinations in a mad confusion of excited voices, till its impulse was lost on the confines of the crowd or whirled aside into the scores of bucket-shops that lined the adjacent streets. And similar waves of excitement spread in smaller volume from the rival and lesser exchanges on Montgomery and Leidesdorff Streets.

The developing strength of the agitators, and the rumors of the arming of the turbulent elements, had roused a spirit of uneasiness in the city that was not far from panic. As a consequence of their fears, men were rushing to protect their business interests, loans were called in, collections were pressed, lenders became wary, and weak holders of stocks were forced to sell. With these conditions overshadowing the market, professional traders in stocks became fierce and aggressive bears, and hammered at prices with every weapon that money and mendacity put at their hand.

Wharton Kendrick was early at his office, and I sought him for directions.

"Look after the other fellow," was his brusk command. "That is your part of the business. Let me know what Peter Bolton does. Send me reports every ten or fifteen minutes till the exchanges close. I'll be here all day."

Having satisfied myself that my messenger system was in good working order, I awaited the first move of the enemy. It came shortly after the opening of the stock exchanges. I received word that Peter Bolton had started for the "Big Board;" so I made my way thither to observe for myself what sort of activity he might be about.

As I was edging my way forward between the shouting, tossing eddies that divided the crowd, I felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned to find Parks beside me.

"A shameful sight!" he shouted in my ear. "Sad and shameful!" And he gave a vigorous shake to his head that put his shock of hair all a-quiver. "It's like a round-up of helpless cattle driven to the slaughter-house. It's worse than shameful. It's damnable!"

"More like the dairy, isn't it?" I asked. "They are like cows brought up to be milked, and afterward turned loose to accumulate a new supply."

This view of the market brought an angry flame of color into Parks' face.

"Worse than that--worse than that!" he cried indignantly. "It's like those African fellows that cut a steak out of their live cattle and then turn them out to grow another. Those men there," and he shook his fist at the granite front of the Stock Exchange, "and those men there," and he shook his fist at the El Dorado Bank as the nearest representative of speculative finance, "are vampires that grow by sucking the blood of the people."

"The people appear to be willing victims," I suggested, looking at the eager if apprehensive faces about us.

"By heavens, no!" cried Parks, in his high excited voice. "They are driven into the shambles by their poverty--by the inequalities and injustices in the distribution of wealth--as surely as if they had been driven by whips or bayonets." He glared about him as though he sought contradiction. "They are here in the hope of wresting from knavery and rapacity the share of the earth's products of which they have been despoiled."

"I suspect," was my scoffing reply, "that they are here in the hope of doing exactly what the owners of the El Dorado Bank have done--of taking all they can get and a little more."

"Sir," said Parks, "you lose sight of the mass in looking at the individual. The individual has been corrupted by a false system of society into striving for unjust gains. But the mass calls only for simple justice."

"Well, Parks," I returned, "I admire your optimism, though I can't say as much for your judgment."

"Admire it or not, sir, as you like," said Parks. "That will not alter facts. But this," he added, shaking his fist again at the frowning front of the Exchange, "is one of the iniquities that we shall sweep away."

"If we can judge by the patronage it is getting to-day it won't have to close very soon," was my comment.

"Sir," said Parks, "the day when it will be closed is nearer than you imagine. Our denunciations of the robbers of the stock exchanges excite more applause than anything except our denunciations of the Chinese."

"I should think it quite likely. Men like to hear hard words said of those who succeed where they themselves have failed. But the applause means nothing."

"It means," said Parks, "that we shall have the masses behind us when we give the word to abolish these iniquities."

"Abolish them? Pooh! It would take a despotism to do that."

"A despotism? No. A revolution. The revolution that will bring equality to the people is all that is needed."

"And you still think your revolution is coming?" I asked.

"Not the slightest doubt of it." And Parks gave a mysterious nod as though he could tell many things if he would, and then closed his mouth tightly as though tortures could not wring another word from him.

At this moment I caught sight of Peter Bolton intent on pressing a way to the entrance of the Exchange. His gaunt face was drawn into harsh, determined lines, his sharp chin was thrust forward, and his whole attitude was an expression of grim purpose. I lost sight of him in the struggle of making my way through the throng, and I had reached the door before I brought him under my eye again. He was pausing in the lobby to pass a word with an alert, bright-eyed man whom I knew as a broker, and I surmised that he was giving orders in regard to sales or purchases of stocks.

Inside the Board-room the clamor was more insistent and disturbing than on the street. The confined space compressed the waves of sound till they struck upon the ear with a force that benumbed my unaccustomed nerves. The cries, shouts, and yells of the brokers bidding for stocks or making their offerings came only as a confused roar.

Except for the noise, the scene on the floor of the Exchange resembled nothing so much as a magnified foot-ball scrimmage. The scores of excited brokers were rushing hither and thither within the railed pit, shouting, screaming, waving their arms, shaking their fists, forming groups about a half-dozen of their fellows, flinging one another aside to get to the center, struggling with all signs of personal combat, and then separating a moment later to form new groups. The dissolving combinations, the quick rushes, the kaleidoscopic changes among the circling men, were as confusing to the eye as the swelling dissonance of shouts was deafening to the ear.

The spectators of this tournament of riot made themselves a part of the brabble. They felt all the interest of those unarmed citizens who watched a battle which was to settle the fate of their goods and households. They were mostly speculators, winning or losing money with each burst of sound that rose from the bedlam dance in the pit. They filled the seats and crowded the aisles, and added their quota of outcries to the uproar, now shouting instructions to their brokers, now bargaining among themselves, and now voicing an exclamation of satisfaction or discomposure as the stocks changed prices at the call.

Peter Bolton dropped into a seat that had been reserved for him at the rail, and watched the scene with keen and wary eye. It was plain that he had been brought there by no idle curiosity. For the first time in the knowledge of the frequenters of the Exchange he took an open part in the trading, called brokers to him at every turn of the battle of the pit, and gave his directions with confident brevity.

The Exchange was not altogether a novelty to me, and after I had become accustomed to the confusion of sight and sound, I had no difficulty in discerning the progress of the struggle that was going on before me. It needed no broker to tell me that a hot financial battle was being fought in that confined arena. A novice in trade could have seen that there was a determined effort to break the market, met by an equally determined effort to uphold it. The attacking force had strong support. The alarms and anxieties caused by the signs of approaching trouble had brought into the market the stocks held by small margins, those of frightened investors, and those held by speculative merchants who found their credits suddenly shortened. The rumors of coming disorder had also brought to the bear side the professional traders who foresaw a probable fall in prices, and by sales for future delivery did their utmost to bring it about for their own profit.

But there were strong influences on the other side. And though each call of stock was followed by an avalanche of offers, I soon observed that every stock after a sharp decline was brought back to something near its former quotations. I surmised that the steadying hand of the syndicate was at work. It was not for nothing that Wharton Kendrick had held his midnight session with the financial barons of the city.

As the session wore away with fierce assault and resolute defense, with detonations of cries and shouts, with surges and clashes of conflicting factions of traders, I thought I saw an air of disappointment settling on the face of Peter Bolton. He spoke sharply to the brokers that from time to time he summoned about him. These conferences were followed by renewed activities and fresh outbreaks of sound among the gyrating, dissolving groups upon the floor; but after a flutter of changing prices the quotations returned to the level from which they started.

The session came to an end at last, and the throng of men poured out of the Exchange, bearing on their faces the record of success and failure, of excitement and fatigue, that had been scored by the morning's work. But so far as the official figures of the session showed it might have been a time of stagnation instead of fierce battle. The closing prices were not a point away from those that ruled at the close of the previous day.

"The El Dorado Bank has run against a snag this time," said one broker to his neighbor, as he wiped his perspiring face and adjusted his limp collar.

"The El Dorado Bank isn't the only one to feel a little sick over the morning's business," said his companion, with a toss of his thumb toward the bowed figure of Peter Bolton huddled in the seat by the rail and contemplating with vacant intentness the floor of the deserted pit. "Old Tightfist must have dropped a pile of money here to-day."

"He?" exclaimed his companion. "Not much he didn't. He always caught the turn at just the right minute. When the books are made up he's as likely to be ahead as behind."

"He has the devil's own luck," said the first broker.

"He found out what he was bucking against early in the game," said the other, "and after that he didn't need anybody to tell him when to get out."

As the throng passed out, Peter Bolton still sat in his seat by the rail. A grim air of reflection was on his face, the lines of stern determination still drew his chin forward and his lips back, and he studied the floor of the Exchange as though it were a blackboard on which his problem was being worked out. Then at last he slowly rose, and with a sour shake of his head walked toward the door, I turned my eyes on the clock in the hope of escaping his observation; but as he came by my seat he halted.

"So, young man," he said, with the compressed force of anger audible in his sarcastic drawl, "you think you have beat me, do you?--you and that smirking scoundrel you call Kendrick!" There was the concentrated essence of venom in his tone that testified to the depth of his hatred and chagrin.

His words were an admission that I was quick to understand. In a moment my mind flashed to the conclusion that the whole enginery of rumor and riot had been set in motion by this man to serve the purposes of his malignity. He had sought to pull down the commercial edifice of San Francisco in the hope of burying Wharton Kendrick in the ruins.

The design was the worthy offspring of the malevolent mind before me, but it was rather his insulting reference to my client than the wickedness of the thing he had attempted to do that stirred me with anger. A harsh answer was on my lips, but it was checked by the sudden recollection of Wharton Kendrick's advice to "cultivate Peter Bolton's acquaintance."

Accepting this recommendation as a command, I bowed with a smile as sarcastic as his own, and replied cheerfully:

"You do seem to have made a failure of it, Mr. Bolton."

A flash of anger came into the pale blue eyes, a shade of red flamed in the sallow cheeks, and Peter Bolton broke forth into passionate speech:

"Maybe you've beat me this time. Maybe you've had things your own way for once. But the fight isn't over yet. There's plenty of it coming, and I'll see that you get it. Let that scoundrel Kendrick look out for himself. He can hire whipper-snappers"--by this term I judged that Peter Bolton referred to me, and I was pleased to think that he credited his discomfiture in part to my humble efforts--"he can hire a line of whipper-snappers that would reach from here to the ferries, but he can't save himself. I'll drag him down. I'll strip him to the last rag. When I get through with him he won't have a dollar to his name. There won't be a foot of land or one brick on top of another that he can call his own." Peter Bolton spoke more rapidly than I had supposed was possible to him, and his face flamed with the wrath that had carried his tongue away.

"I'm sorry to hear it," I said politely. "I hope it won't happen before I collect my month's salary."

Bolton looked at me venomously from his deep-set eyes, and his thin lips curled with sarcastic lines.

"You've earned your salary this month," he said, with a return to his harsh drawl, "but it doesn't follow that you'll get it. You beat me this time, but it isn't the end."

"You did make rather a mess of it," I admitted. "You ought to have consulted somebody about it--an attorney, for instance."

I spoke idly, without special meaning; but at my words Bolton's face softened into a glance of sardonic humor.

"Oh," he said slowly, "I don't know but what you are right. Come around to my office in a day or two, and we'll talk about the fee." He jumped to the conclusion that I was ready to accept a bribe, and he continued: "It'll be anything in reason, young man, anything in reason."

CHAPTER XII

THE LOTTERY TICKET

In the midst of the lull that followed the failure of Peter Bolton's assault on the fortifications of commerce, I was surprised to find on my office desk one morning the following letter:

RESPECTFUL SIR:

to yours we this day instructed to remind you that your presence is more than agreeable. Having placed to your credit a money sum drawn according to ticket, should be your worshipful servant to have presented for payment.

As ever your faithful,

KWAN LUEY & Co.

This missive, written in a beautiful Spencerian hand, was for some minutes a puzzle. I read over its tangle-worded lines two or three times before it dawned upon me that it must concern the lottery ticket that I had purchased in Peter Bolton's office. The ticket had been handed to me with the promise that I should have "heap big money," and I drew from the letter's flowery but uncertain language the inference that the promise had been fulfilled. If confirmation had been necessary, the letter confirmed the testimony of my eyes when they had assured me that the seller of the ticket was Big Sam. It was impossible that any other Chinese would have known that I was the holder of the paper, or would have procured the sending of the derangement of words that had come over the name of Kwan Luey. As nothing more important called for my attention I indulged my curiosity by setting put at once for Kwan Luey's store.

Kwan Luey showed himself superior to any narrow prejudices in regard to the objects in which it was fitting for a merchant to trade. In one window he exhibited a fine collection of silks, ebony carvings, sandal-wood ornaments, and figured Chinese coats. In the other he had piled all manner of fine porcelain, ivory and lacquered ware. The counters in the front part of the store showed a similar division of salable goods. Farther back could be seen mats of rice, boxes of tea, bags of Chinese roots, and piles of mysterious and uncanny Chinese edibles. In his office clerks were counting Mexican dollars and packing them in stout boxes for shipping to China, the earnings of his countrymen. The closed rear rooms, I surmised, were devoted to the operation of the two or three lotteries he was reputed to control.

Kwan Luey himself stood just outside his office, a short, well-fed, well-dressed Chinaman, whose rounded, dark-brown face denoted a cheerful mind. I called him by name.

"What you wan'?" he asked suspiciously, prepared to deny his identity if my errand were not to his liking.

I introduced myself, and as my name brought no sign of enlightenment to his face, I presented his letter as a card of identification.

He gravely read it with all the pride of authorship kindling in his eye, and as gravely handed it back to me.

"How you like him, eh? Plitty good letteh, eh?"

I assured him that I could not have bettered it myself.

Kwan Luey gave a gratified smile.

"I lite him," he explained. "I go Mission school fo' yeah. I leahn lite, all same copy-book. I all same beat teacheh, eh?"

"You are a Christian Chinaman, then, Kwan Luey?"

"You Clistian?" he asked.

"I hope so."

He gave me a sly glance, and said:

"I Clistian Chinaman when Clistian man wan' buy goods."

"But not when Clistian man wants money?" I asked.

Kwan Luey smiled the bland smile of China, and made no direct reply.

"You wan' money, eh?" he said. "You heap lucky, eh?"

"Well, I don't know."

"You catch-em ticket?"

I produced the square of paper I had received from Big Sam.

"What does that say?" I asked.

Kwan Luey took the paper, and drew his eyelids together till there showed but two narrow slanting slits between them as he pretended to examine it.

"Him say--him say--I look-em book and see what him say." And with his bland smile still rendering his face innocent of meaning, he retired to his office. He reappeared a moment later.

"Him say you dlaw two hund' fitty dollah," was his announcement.

The comedy of the lottery ticket was being played out to the end. I was convinced that the paper was a direct order from Big Sam to pay me the money, but as I looked into the brown mask of Kwan Luey's face I recognized the folly of attempting to draw from him any word that he was unwilling to speak. But as he counted twelve twenty-dollar gold pieces and a ten into my hand I could not forbear saying:

"And what does Big Sam expect me to do with the money?"

I thought I detected a slight movement of Kwan Luey's eyes--a momentary contraction of the lids, as though a beam of light had flashed across them and was gone. It was the only sign of surprise I could detect.

"You sabby Big Sam?" he asked blandly.

"Yes, I sabby Big Sam."

"And you no sabby what to do with you' money? You no sabby dlink--all same Clistian? You no sabby hoss-lace? You no sabby pokah?" And at this enumeration of the white man's facilities for disposing of superfluous wealth he laughed with the ironic laugh of China.

I suggested that Big Sam might have intended another destination for the money.

"Oh," said Kwan Luey innocently, "you likee Big Sam tell you what do? I likee send letteh to Big Sam. You takee letteh, him tell you what do."

The letter was already in his hand, and he passed it to me as gravely as though the coincidence was but one of the common events of life.

"I see that you were prepared for me," I said, with a tinge of sarcasm in my voice, and wondered how Kwan Luey would have brought the errand about if I had not served his purpose by introducing Big Sam's name.

The Chinaman smiled placidly.

"I no sabby," he said. "Good-by. Some day you wan' some nice thing, you come Kwan Luey's stoah."

I drew the conclusion that Big Sam wished to see me, and had arranged that Kwan Luey was to find a pretext for sending me to his office. Why he should not himself have sent word of his wish, I could not guess, unless it was a part of his policy to avoid direct paths where indirection could be made to serve.

A few minutes later I walked into the store beneath Big Sam's residence and put foot on the dingy stair that led to his office. A short, stout Chinaman tried to halt me with a "What you wan'?" but I pushed him aside and passed up the steps. I knew my way through the semi-darkness of the passage, and stumbled upward without wish for guidance or thought of danger. I had not mounted half the ascent before I heard something of a commotion above me--the shutting of a door, a scurry of feet, and a rumbling sound as though a heavy table had been moved across the floor. I amused myself with the thought that I had caught Big Sam's household unprepared for visitors and imagined the flight of the feminine portion of his family at the sound of my approaching footfall.

I reached the landing. The hall was deserted, and, turning toward the building's front, I knocked at the one door that led from the passage. There was no answer, and I knocked again. As a third knock brought no response I turned the knob and opened the door for myself. To my surprise Big Sam's room of state had disappeared. In place of the large and handsome office, with its profusion of ornamentation and its oriental furniture, I found myself looking into a narrow passageway between blank walls. I looked about the hall with the thought that I must have mistaken the door. But there was no other entrance to be seen, and I looked again in perplexity at the passage, unwilling to believe the evidence of my eyes. As I turned to make sure of the transformation I heard a click as of a spring lock snapped, a smart push at my back sent me staggering forward, and the door banged behind me.

It took but a moment to recover myself and face about. But I was too late. The door had been securely locked. A few blows on the panels sufficed to assure me that it was of too solid construction to yield to anything less powerful than an ax; and though the frame rattled at my efforts, I saw that I was a prisoner, unless I could find some other way of egress. I spared the door the kicks and blows that were called for by my first impulse. If I had been fool enough to get into this trap, I had at least sense enough to recognize that I should not better myself by knocking the skin off my knuckles in the effort to attract attention. The persons whose ears I could reach did not need to be informed of my presence. They had attended to the little detail of putting me there, and might be assumed to be aware of the honor I was doing them without further demonstration of the fact.

I turned to look once more at my prison. It was hardly five feet wide, and might have been thirty feet long, and appeared to turn a sharp corner and lead toward the rear of the building. Evidently I was at the entrance of one of the labyrinths of Chinatown, famous in police reports.

Up to this moment I had felt no fear at my situation. It seemed indeed to be something of a practical joke at which I could afford to laugh. I had evidently wandered into the wrong building, been mistaken for a detective, or a tax collector, or some equally unpleasant person, and had been turned in here out of the way of doing mischief. I had but to reveal the object of my visit--provided I could find anybody to reveal it to--and I should be sent on my way with apologies. But some remembrance of the gruesome tales of the deeds that had been done in these labyrinths suggested that the sooner I found speech with some one, the better chance of safety I should have. I was about to venture down the passage in search of a guide when I was startled to hear a voice speaking in my ear in perfect English:

"If Mr. Hampden will have the patience to wait a moment, he will be welcome."

It was the voice of Big Sam, and I looked about me with the thought that I should find him at my side. But I was still the only tenant of the passage, and in perplexity I scanned the walls and ceiling. At a second glance my eye lighted upon a small bull's-eye of glass set in the wall. It doubtless served as an observatory from which suspicious characters might be examined, and some arrangement of speaking tubes gave communication by voice.

"Thank you," I said, as I made these observations. "I am in no hurry."

I had scarce spoken when a part of the wall swung back, and Big Sam stood in the opening.

CHAPTER XIII

THE WISDOM OF HIS ANCESTORS

Big Sam was dressed in a long dark robe figured with fantastic markings in gold thread, and, as he stood in the opening in the wall, had the appearance of an astrologer who took himself seriously. His face wore a grave smile, and he bowed, as though he were receiving me under the most conventional circumstances.

"Step this way, if you please, Mr. Hampden," he said with quiet dignity.

I hastened to quit the bare and narrow prison, and was astonished to find myself amid the oriental splendor of Big Sam's room of state.

"I ask your pardon for the somewhat unceremonious welcome you have had," said Big Sam, motioning me to a chair, and taking his seat behind the great carved desk.

"Don't mention it," I said. "I suppose it's your customary way of paying honor to distinguished guests."

Big Sam gave my pleasantry a dignified smile.

"We have to be prepared for more than one kind of visitor," he said. "Perhaps it is unnecessary to call your attention to the circumstance that you made no saving of time when you declined to give your name and business to the man who met you at the foot of the stairs. It is a mere detail, but on your next visit you will find a shorter way to this room by sending up your name."

"I shall take advantage of the permission, but I didn't suppose it necessary."

"These are troublous times," said Big Sam, "and I have more than one very good reason to take precautions."

"I might suppose so from the change you have made in the entrance to your rooms," I returned.

Big Sam gave me a quick glance.

"The change is more apparent than real," he said. Then, as if the subject were dismissed, he turned the conversation abruptly. "I believe you wished to see me."

The attempt to put me in the position of seeking him, instead of being the one sought, irritated me more than the rude reception I had met on my arrival.

"I came," I said sharply, "because I had reason to suppose that you had something to say to me."

"I?" said Big Sam in polite surprise.

"Yes. I have just received two hundred and fifty dollars on the order you gave me the other day, and, for one thing, I'd like to know what to do with it."

"On an order from me?" inquired Big Sam suavely.

There was only the blank "no-sabby" mask of China on his face.

"Yes," I replied shortly. "It you've forgotten our interview in Peter Bolton's office, maybe this will remind you." And I laid before him the sheet of paper I had received from Kwan Luey.

Big Sam glanced at it, and I thought I saw behind the veil of his eyes the shadow of a frown. But if it was there, it was gone in an instant, and he replied blandly:

"Ah, you have proved fortunate in the lottery, then."

"I was paid two hundred and fifty dollars," was my non-committal answer.

"I congratulate you on your good luck."

"Thank you," I said sarcastically. "And now I am awaiting my instructions."

"Why," said Big Sam slowly, "if you have any scruples about keeping it for yourself, you might apply it to the expenses of the girl you have taken in charge."

"That was what I was waiting for," I said. I did not share Big Sam's pleasure in reaching results by indirect roads, and spoke impatiently. "Is that all you had to say?"

"I believe," said Big Sam with ironic courtesy, "that I have some speech still due me. Unless I am much mistaken I have received no report of a certain girl since I delivered her into your hands. Possibly I am wrong in supposing that the circumstances give me any rights."

"I dare say I owe you an apology," I said, with swift repentance of my show of temper. "But I understood from what you said in Mr. Bolton's office that you were in no pressing haste to hear from her."

"Pardon me, if I have no recollection of a meeting in Mr. Bolton's office," said Big Sam dryly. "We shall get on faster if you will kindly assume that it did not take place."

The "no-sabby" mask covered his face, as impenetrable as the blank walls of the passageway itself.

"As you like," I said. "Then, here is my belated report." And I gave a brief account of the events that had followed the rescue of Moon Ying. At the mention of her wound, Big Sam looked grave, and when I had done he said:

"I had received information that something of the kind had happened, but your silence gave me chance to hope that my informant was mistaken."

"No doubt I ought to have reported to you at once. I can only offer apologies for my neglect."

Big Sam gravely bowed in pardon of my remissness.

"It is a very awkward affair," he said. "And it will prove much more awkward if she dies."

"She is now out of danger."

"I trust so. Her death would send the tongs at each other's throats."

"And at yours?"

"I should find it necessary to be absent from the city for some months," he said quietly.

"You might look on it in the light of a vacation," I suggested.

"Unfortunately it is of the last importance that I should be here through the coming months."

"I presume that I am not expected to understand why."

"If you have kept your eyes open, you may have some idea of the reason." He spoke with a tinge of sarcasm in his tone.

"Oh, a man can not always be sure of his eyes," I replied, with a reflection of his manner. "It is true, I know that violence is threatened against your people, and that Chinatown is likely to be burned down before the troubles are over. I know that, for reasons that seem good to himself, Peter Bolton is furnishing money to aid in the campaign of disorder. But what I do not know is the reason why Big Sam is engaged in secret dealings with Peter Bolton. On its face it looks to me like the case of a man joining in a plot to burn his own home."

Big Sam drew down the veils of inscrutability over his eyes as he looked steadily at me, and asked:

"What result do you expect from the agitation?"

"For the first thing, destruction of property and the killing of some of your countrymen."

"Oh," said Big Sam carelessly, "as for the property, it belongs mostly to your countrymen. We prefer to keep our belongings in movable form. And as for my countrymen, if any of them get killed, there are plenty more where they came from."

A shiver ran down my back at this cold-blooded way of looking at the matter, and with some element of repulsion in my thought, I replied sharply:

"But those countrymen may not be able to reach here. The final result of the troubles, in my judgment, will be the shutting of our gates to the Chinese immigrant."

"Even that might not be altogether a misfortune," said Big Sam calmly.

"Not to us, I believe," I said.

"And not to us," said Big Sam.

"I'm glad you take so kindly to the idea," I said.

"Oh, it's very simple," he explained, "a mere calculation of dollars and cents. Shut off the supply, you increase the value of those now here. If no more of my countrymen come, you will find none working for ten and fifteen dollars a month. In a few years the ten-dollar man will be getting twenty; the fifteen-dollar man will be getting thirty; the men who are working in the fields and on the railroads for seventy-five cents and a dollar a day will be getting a dollar and a half and two dollars."

"That's a new view of the matter--to me, at least," I confessed. "But even that calculation will be much amiss if the agitators get the upper hand. They call for expulsion--not merely exclusion. They say 'The Chinese Must Go,' and some of them mean it."

"I have no fear," said Big Sam calmly. "Their violence will overreach itself. I may say that I rely upon them more than on the justice of our cause to prevent hostile action against my people. The more violent their outbreak, the stronger the reaction, and the less the likelihood of harsh measures to restrict our right to come and go as we please. Come, Mr. Hampden, I will wager you a good cigar that we have a rising in San Francisco that will call out the United States troops, and that there will be no legislation against my people."

I looked into the bland and impassive face before me, and wondered if the considerations at which he had thus hinted could explain his alliance with Bolton. It was in keeping with the principles of oriental diplomacy that he should be planning to prevent exclusion by encouraging the agitators to violence, and be prepared to profit by either success or failure. Yet as I looked into the fathomless brown depths of his eyes, I refused to believe that he had revealed the full measure of his policy or the reasons for it.

"I will certainly risk a cigar on that," I returned gaily.

"Then you consider the exclusion of my people inevitable?"

"I do. It is necessary to the control of this coast by the white race, and I feel certain that it must come."

"I do not recognize the necessity of the white race controlling this coast," said Big Sam dryly.

"Probably not."

"Besides, you forget that there is a class of your own people who will be much injured by an exclusion policy," he said. "The steamship and railroad companies will lose much money. The man who employs a hundred laborers will find his expenses increased by fifty dollars or one hundred dollars a day. Do you think they are going to submit quietly? The exclusion policy will find its enemies among your own people."

"Then you will take no part in the struggle?" I inquired.

Big Sam gave his head a diplomatic shake.

"I am a guest in your country, and I understand the obligations that such a position implies." He spoke the words exactly as he would have said, "I shall protect my own interests," and, by an intangible suggestion, it was this meaning that they conveyed to me. Then he turned the current of conversation abruptly:

"I think," he said, "it is well to bring the girl back here where she can have the care of a doctor of her own race." He spoke with outward calmness, but there was a trace of inward perturbation in his manner.

I stared at him in astonishment.

"Surely," I cried, "you do not believe that your doctors are better than ours! You don't mean to say that an intelligent and educated man like you thinks that there is merit in powdered toads, and snake liver-pills! You don't believe for an instant that incantations to drive away devils can be of the slightest benefit to a girl with a bullet through her lungs!"

Big Sam looked away from me with something of shame and discomposure in his face. The yellow mask dropped away for a moment, and I could read in his countenance the struggle that was going on in his mind between the veneer of western education and the inborn basic faith in the system evolved by his fathers.

"If you had asked me a week ago, and purely as a matter of theory," he said slowly, "I should have replied that your doctors were far superior to ours--that the medical practice of our people was merely superstition reduced to an absurdity."

"Your good sense would have spoken," I said.

"But now," he continued, "it is not a matter of theory that I have to consider. It is a life and death problem. Immense interests--my future--perhaps the future of the Chinese in this country--are all at stake. And who am I, to throw aside the wisdom of my ancestors and call it folly? There are powers in the earth and in the air that you and I do not understand. There are forces that you and I do not know how to use. I have seen things that science--even your science--can not explain. May not the race know what the common man does not know? Does not the experience of three thousand years count for more than our ideas of what is reasonable? Our ideas! What are they but bubbles blown in air, now seen, now gone into nothingness? Here is a scrap of paper. I crumple it thus, and throw it out of the window. It is blown here and there--up the street, down the street, around the corner--and it comes at last to the rubbish pile and is burned. And because it has found nothing but pavements and buildings in its course it scoffs at the stories of green fields, mountains, forests, the powers of nature and the works of man that it has not seen. Is that not the attitude of civilized man, Mr. Hampden?"

"We must believe our experience, our observation and our intelligence; they are the only guides we have," I replied.

"The savage is much more reasonable," said Big Sam, with the air of one who argues with himself. "He makes allowance for the universe outside his little round of experience." He rose from his seat with a troubled face, as though to relieve his stress of thought by walking. Then, as if ashamed at the loss of his customary calm, he sat down once more.

I brought the conversation back to the concrete case of Moon Ying.

"I can assure you," I said, "that the girl is getting the best medical attention in the city, and is being nursed with the most tender care. You surely have no thought of depriving her of these advantages."

"These advantages? Yes, they may be advantages to your people. But are they so for mine?"

"Certainly; flesh and blood are flesh and blood the world over."

"Each race to its own," said Big Sam. "I can not take the risk of leaving her to die under the white doctor's treatment."

"She is much the more likely to die if you bring her to Chinatown," I argued.

Big Sam's face recovered its firm determination, and I saw that the superstition and ancestor-worshiping elements imbibed with his mother's milk had overwhelmed education and reason in the crisis at which he felt he had arrived.

"I must look to my own welfare," he said with decision. "A war among the tongs would be fatal to the interests of the Chinese. And if the girl dies--especially if she dies under the white doctor's care--it would be quite beyond my power to prevent an outbreak."

"I have no doubt your interests are important," I began, when he interrupted me.

"Important! they are everything. I must ask you to see that the girl is returned here this morning. I will send for two of our best Chinese doctors to care for her."

"I protest against your decision," I said.

"It is not your place to protest or assent," said. Big Sam, with an air of command.

"Nor to act against my judgment," I added.

"Oh, if you refuse to act, I must find another messenger," said Big Sam calmly. "Permit me to thank you for what you have done, and to say that when I can be of service I am yours to command." The dignity and courtesy with which he spoke were almost regal.

"Oh, I refuse nothing," I replied. "But you will have to reckon with another person than me. I shall take your request to Miss Kendrick; but, whatever I may think about it, the final decision will be in her hands."

Big Sam looked thoughtfully at me for more than a minute before he spoke.

"That was a phase of the problem I had not considered," he said slowly. "I had forgotten that yours is not the ruling sex in the white race." Big Sam's voice was innocent of sarcasm, and he appeared to be considering an impersonal problem.

"If you want to get your girl, I advise you to see Miss Kendrick yourself," I said.

Big Sam looked at me gravely.

"I should not venture to be so rude to Mr. Kendrick as to look upon the women of his household," he said with a trace of rebuke in his tone; yet I felt that this oriental excuse was but a pretense. "I am sure," he added, with a significant glance, "that I could not have a better advocate than the one I send."

Something in the tone rather than in the words sent the blood to my face, and in some confusion I rose.

"An advocate who speaks against his judgment is not likely to be of much value," I said.

"And you a lawyer!" he exclaimed. He rose and accompanied me to the door, then halted and stamped three times on the floor. "I had almost forgotten," he said with an enigmatic smile.

As he spoke there was again the rumbling as of a heavy table moved across the floor.

"Forgotten what?" was my natural inquiry.

He made no reply, and as the noise stopped he opened the door and ushered me into the hall. I had ceased to think of the peculiar mode in which I had entered the room, but now the remembrance flashed upon me, and I looked about in astonishment. I had passed directly from the office into the outer hall, and the door leading from the hall to the passage in which I had been imprisoned had disappeared.

For a moment I was at a loss to explain the transformation. Disappearing doors were something new in my experience. Then I struck my hand against the wall where the door had been, and my knuckles told me that behind the counterfeit appearance of plaster was a heavy sheet of painted iron. In a flash the explanation came to me. The whole wall could be moved like a sliding door, and with a minute's warning a raid on Big Sam's office would find no entrance.

I carried Big Sam's message to the Kendrick house without delay, and put Big Sam's case with an impartiality that surprised myself. But I was not disappointed in the result.

"Send her back!" cried Miss Kendrick in a great state of indignation. "What can the man be thinking about?"

"Indeed, it is impossible," said Miss Fillmore. "The girl is in no state to be moved, even if it were a question of moving her to a better place."

"And to move her to that dreadful, dirty Chinatown!" cried Miss Kendrick. "I'm astonished that you should think of such a thing."

"I didn't think of it," I urged. "I didn't even want to hear of it. But Big Sam has reverted to primeval barbarism, and when he said he would find somebody else if I wouldn't come, I consented to bring his message."

"Well," said Miss Kendrick, "I never heard of such a preposterous thing in all my life."

"Unfortunately, Big Sam doesn't see it in that light," I said.

Miss Kendrick sat down looking very determined and very indignant. Then she gave a decided nod and said:

"You can tell Big Sam, with my compliments, that if he thinks I am going to be an accomplice before the fact to a murder, he's very much mistaken in the person."

There was more talk to the same effect, when my judicial mind caught the idea of a compromise.

"I have it," I said. "Why not let Big Sam's Chinese doctor come up here and take an occasional look at Moon Ying, and allay the excitement in Chinatown by assuring them that she's all right?"

"Well, I admire your intelligence," said Miss Kendrick. "I suppose you'd have Doctor Roberts consulting with him, and alternate our medicines with shark's-liver pills and snake-skin powders. Would you set aside certain hours for him to sing Chinese incantations over her? Or how would you fix it?"

The judicial scheme of compromise lost some of its attractiveness, and I said so with the proper degree of humility.

"Well, you are forgiven," said Miss Kendrick. "Now I'll tell you that there's just one compromise we will make. Big Sam may come here once a week to see Moon Ying. He's the only Chinaman who can get past that door."

"I suggested something of the sort, and he took it as though I had proposed an impropriety. I believe that a Chinese gentleman isn't supposed to observe that another gentleman has a feminine side to his establishment."

"Then he can stay out," said Miss Kendrick with decision. "You can go right back and set his mind at rest. He can have Moon Ying when she gets well and he finds a man who is fit to be her husband. It's my private opinion that there isn't such a one in Chinatown. And he can't have her a minute sooner."

I delivered this ultimatum to Big Sam. He had recovered his composure, and showed neither surprise nor disappointment when I reported the result of his mission.

"Am I to understand that this message is from Mr. Kendrick or Miss Kendrick?" he inquired blandly.

"From Miss Kendrick."

"Ah! I presumed that such a matter would be decided by the head of the household." His tone was even, and I looked to his face for the flavor of sarcasm that seemed the proper dressing for the words. But the bland, inscrutable mask of China gave back only the expression of polite attention.

"Her decision would be final in such a matter," I replied with something of resentment.

"Then," said Big Sam in his suave tone, "I trust that she understands the responsibility she is taking."

"I explained the importance you set upon it."

"Oh, I did not refer to my interests," said Big Sam, waving them aside as though they were of no moment.

"Then I am afraid I don't understand you," I said in perturbation.

"It is very simple. If the girl dies I can no longer answer for the conduct of the tongs. And if she dies in Mr. Kendrick's house--"

Big Sam left the sentence unfinished, and I asked:

"Do you mean that as a threat of an attack on Mr. Kendrick or his niece?"

"Oh, I do not threaten. I merely suggest. There are very bad men in these tongs, and they will be very angry. You can not be surprised if they put something of the blame for the girl's death on those who have her in charge. And angry men will go far for revenge."

"This is a serious threat," I said, with more alarm than I cared to show.

"I do not intend it as such," said Big Sam calmly. "I merely state circumstances."

"I am obliged to you for the warning," I said, "but I can only say that the considerations you mention would not move Miss Kendrick. She is convinced that to send the girl here is to sacrifice her life. Miss Kendrick has a woman's courage--the courage that defends the helpless--and I know it would be useless to appeal to her fears."

"Then," said Big Sam, with the air of one dismissing the subject, "there is nothing more to be said. What will happen will happen."

And with royal courtesy he bowed me out.

CHAPTER XIV

BARGAINING

"I thought you would come," said the hard, dry voice of Peter Bolton, as he leaned back in his chair and surveyed me with a sardonic smile.

"Why, yes," I replied cheerfully. "Jim Morgan told me that you wanted to see me, and I took chances on his telling the truth." As Jim Morgan was the prize-fighter who was at the head of Bolton's bureau of private information and defense, I had reason to assume that he spoke by authority.

Peter Bolton looked at me suspiciously, and then gave grudging acknowledgment of Morgan's agency.

"I never write," he grumbled. "You never know whose hands a letter will fall into."

"A very prudent rule," I returned.

He shook his head slowly, drew down the corners of his mouth, and rubbed his hands.

"Well, I suppose by this time you are about ready to take up with my offer," he said with a look of shrewd cunning.

"Your offer? I really didn't know that you had made one," I answered.

His cold blue eyes looked searchingly into my face for a minute. Then he said:

"You'll find it best to take up with my terms. I don't know what salary you're getting from Kendrick, but you're going to lose it."

"I didn't expect to keep it for ever. Did Mr. Kendrick tell you he was going to discharge me?"

"Tell me?" began Peter Bolton with a sarcastic leer. "He didn't have to. I've got better information than he can give. Your man Kendrick is going broke within the next thirty days, and he won't have any use for that fine herd of clerks he has been keeping."

As Peter Bolton evidently expected me to comment on this prophecy, I murmured that I was sorry to hear it.

"You needn't be," said he with an attempt to be amiable. "I'll take care of you."

"You are very kind," I said. "But how do you know that Wharton Kendrick is going under?"

"How do I know?" he returned with something of passion under his drawling tone. "Why, I know your man Kendrick like a book. I've known him for forty years. I've watched his business. I've watched him. Oh, he can fool you fellows with his smirking face, and his open-handed way of throwing money about. But I know that it's borrowed money, and the man who makes a show on borrowed money comes to the end of it some day, doesn't he?" Bolton ended querulously, as though he was making complaint against Wharton Kendrick for not having gone into bankruptcy long before.

"Oh, I think you are mistaken," I said. "Mr. Kendrick is known to be very rich."

"Reported to be very rich, you mean," he said in his most sarcastic drawl.

"Oh, there's no doubt about it," I returned warmly. I hoped to provoke him into saying more than he intended.

Peter Bolton took up the challenge.

"Why, young man," he cried, his voice rising into a cracked treble, "he owes money he can't pay. There's five hundred thousand dollars of his notes in that safe there," and he pointed to the solid front of the burglar-defying case. "They fall due pretty soon--some of 'em are due now--and he can't meet 'em."

"Do you mean to say that he has borrowed money of you?" I asked in amazement.

"I didn't say that," he replied cautiously. "But there are the notes. They're signed by Wharton Kendrick, and they call for five hundred thousand. When they're presented he can't pay 'em, and I suppose I'll lose my money. I have bad luck about losing money." He shook his head ruefully, and drew down the corners of his mouth as sourly as though he saw the almshouse at the end of his road.

"Oh," I said hopefully, "you'll get it, I'm sure. Mr. Kendrick has a lot of property, and if he hasn't the money, he can borrow it."

This assurance was less pleasing than the prospect of loss that had soured his face but a minute before.

"I know what property he has, young man, a good, deal better than you do," he said sharply. "And there's more paper of his in the banks--I guess it's all of two hundred and fifty thousand, maybe more. Money's getting pretty tight now, pretty tight, and Kendrick's about at the end of his rope. When he goes down, you'll want a place to fall on." He looked at me ingratiatingly, and as I said nothing, he continued:

"Now, I want to see that you're taken care of. You shan't lose anything when the smash comes, if you just follow my instructions."

"It's very kind of you to take so much interest in me," I began with an echo of his own sarcasm, when he interrupted.

"Oh, I ain't such a hard man as some people say. I want to do you a good turn, and maybe you'll help me out. I'm a liberal employer to men who give me the right sort of service. Now you're trying to be a lawyer--"

I confessed that I hoped to do something in that line.

"And I've got a little legal business to attend to," he continued, "and I want to know what you'd consider a fair fee."

"Why," I said, "it depends, for one thing, on the work to be done, and for another on the amount of money we think the fellow has."

Peter Bolton looked at me in alarm.

"Oh, I have very little money, very little money," he said quickly.

"Except for such little items as five hundred thousand in Kendrick's notes, that you were just mentioning."

"Oh, them. Well, I'm expecting to lose that money, and a man who loses five hundred thousand feels pretty tight pinched."

"Now, as for the work to be done, if it were overlooking the Council of Nine and the anti-coolie agitation--"

"Anti-coolie agitation!" he exclaimed angrily. "I don't know anything about an anti-coolie agitation."

"Oh," said I apologetically, "I supposed you knew what Waldorf and Parks and Kearney were doing with the money you gave them. Didn't they tell you about it when they were here last night?"

"I don't know what you are talking about!" he cried angrily, but I read in his eyes anxiety and surprise at the accuracy of my information.

"Now if it were looking after them, I should want a larger fee than for looking after your plans with Big Sam."

A shade of gray passed over his face, and he held up one hand and gave me a malevolent look.

"Young Men talk a Good Deal of Nonsense," he said. "Now if you're through with your joke, we'll go back to talking Business." His sardonic voice showed that he was again thoroughly in command of himself, but I felt convinced that he was more eager than ever to secure my services. "Now what's your figure?"

"You haven't told me yet what you expect me to do."

He looked about cautiously, and then studied my face for a little before he replied.

"I'll tell you what it is," he said slowly. "You are in charge of Kendrick's campaign. I want you to stay in charge of it, but to run it according to My orders instead of according to His orders."

"How long do you think I could keep the job on those terms?" I asked. "You've known Mr. Kendrick forty or fifty years. You must have got the impression in that time that he isn't altogether a fool. How long do you think he would stand it? About long enough to kick me out of his office, wouldn't he?"

"He'll stand it long enough to suit My purpose," replied Peter Bolton, his sardonic smile tightening the corners of his mouth. "My orders will be His orders until the day comes that I am ready to put my hand on him." He reached out his long, bony fingers cautiously, and then brought his palm down on his desk with a thump as though he were catching a luckless fly. "When the time comes, an hour will be enough," he continued. "All I want you to do is to bring His orders to Me, before you carry them out. Then do as I tell you." His jaws closed with a snap, as though they were a trap, and Wharton Kendrick were between them.

"That sort of legal advice is worth a good deal of money," I said. "You can afford to pay well for it, for you'll make a big clean-up. I'll have to be paid well for it, for if it were to be found out, I could never do any more business in this town."

Peter Bolton gave me a shrewd look, as though he thought he was sure of me.

"I offered you Ten Thousand Dollars," he said, trying to make the sum sound very large, "but I won't stick at a thousand or two more. I'm not a close man with those I like--"

"It's worth a good deal more," I interrupted. He looked disappointed. Then he studied the desk, and appeared to be making up his mind to some great sacrifice.

"Well," he said slowly and grudgingly, "name your figure."

"I should think fifty thousand dollars was about right."

Peter Bolton gave a shudder, and pondered for a little. Then the shrewd look came again into his eyes, and he said:

"I'll be liberal, and give you more than it's worth. I'll pay you One Thousand Dollars a week for the next four weeks, and on the day that Wharton Kendrick makes his assignment, I'll give you Twenty-Five Thousand Dollars. I wouldn't do it for any one else, but I want to see that you don't lose anything."

I understood from this outburst of verbal generosity how much he overestimated my share in Wharton Kendrick's affairs.

"Well, I'll think it over and let you know," I said, rising to escape. The pressure of my indignation had reached the danger point, and I felt that if I sat there another minute my honest opinion would burst forth in words that would put an end to further hopes of getting any revelations out of him.

"You'd better take it now," he urged, with a shadow of disappointment on his face. "It's a good offer, and I might find some one else to take it up by to-morrow."

"Oh, I'll take the risk," I returned. "I have a monopoly on this business, and you know it, and I can take what time I please."

"Just as you like, young man, just as you like," he said in his sarcastic drawl. "But look out for your own interests. If you don't, I can tell you that Wharton Kendrick won't."

Before he could deliver another homily on the folly of honesty and the importance of pursuing the interests of Number One, I hastened out of the office, with the thought that I had penetrated far into the evil designs of Peter Bolton at the cost of a good deal of self-respect.

I soothed my indignant spirit with a walk that gave me time to assure myself that no spy was following me, and then bent my steps to Wharton Kendrick's offices to lay the case before my client. The accumulation of five hundred thousand dollars' worth of his notes in Peter Bolton's hands seemed to be a matter that might call for very serious consideration.

I found Wharton Kendrick in his private room in converse with General Wilson, and the discussion appeared to have become heated. General Wilson's face gleamed like a great carbuncle, and Wharton Kendrick's ruddy cheeks were ruddier than ever with signs of temper.

"You can't do it, Kendrick," General Wilson was saying, with a wave of the hand. "I've been over every foot of that land that isn't too soft to stand on, and I'll tell you that you can't put in any such works."

"I've had two first-class engineers go over it," replied Wharton Kendrick with equal positiveness, "and they say it can be done."

"Engineers--engineers! What are they worth?" snorted General Wilson scornfully. "I've got two eyes, and they are good enough engineers for me."

"You'll find 'em mighty expensive ones if you try to do business on their estimates," said Wharton Kendrick grimly. "Experts come high, but they are cheaper than your own guesswork. You can count it liberal of me to give you that information for nothing, for it cost me over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"It's no use talking, Kendrick," said General Wilson positively. "When I'm right I know it, and all creation can't move me. That land of yours is no good to us unless we can get Bolton's piece with it. The two have got to be improved together or not at all. I'll tell you right now that the company won't pay any such price for your piece unless it can get the other, and Bolton won't sell just because he knows we've got to have it to make it a success."

"What's that?" exclaimed Kendrick, looking grave. "Bolton won't sell?"

General Wilson repeated his statement with characteristic vehemence.

"Did Bolton tell you that?"

"He couldn't have made it plainer if he had said it right out in so many words. He raised his price at the rate of a hundred thousand dollars a minute as soon as he heard that we wanted your land."

"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--"

"Doesn't it strike you, Hampden, that, as a business man, I might be expected to know something about the notes outstanding against me? You're right about one thing: I didn't know they had fallen into Bolton's hands, and I'll have a score to settle with the men who sold 'em to him. But I've got every piece of my paper recorded up here," and he tapped his forehead, "and I'll be prepared to take care of it as it falls due."

"Well," I said ruefully, "I'm just one more victim of misplaced confidence in Peter Bolton."

"Oh, you needn't feel ashamed of that, my boy," said Kendrick kindly. "Your time wasn't wasted. It's worth while to know that those notes are in the hands of an enemy. But that's a mere detail. Now if he had told you how he expects to keep me from meeting them when due--"

Wharton Kendrick left his sentence suspended in the air, while he chewed his cigar for a minute or two.

"After all, Hampden," he continued, "I suspect he has pushed those notes forward to draw away attention from his real point of attack. He's figured on the possibility that you would bring me every word, and has found something to gain out of it, whether your final decision is to stand by me or to take up his offer. Now, about that offer? Are you prepared to accept his twenty-nine thousand for that trifling service he wants?"

"If I get it, I'll go halves with you when you're broke," I replied with an attempt at lightness that was far from a success. "But to tell you the truth, I don't like to discuss the thing, even in joke. It makes my gorge rise to hear a hint that I could take money for betraying you."

"That's Dick Hampden's son," he returned, his face softening into a smile. "I could hear your father speaking then. But if you think I am worrying about your loyalty, just set your mind at rest."

I thanked him for his certificate of confidence, and he continued:

"You don't have to tell me that Bolton isn't the most agreeable company, but I'll be much obliged if you'll cultivate his acquaintance a little further."

"Do you mean that you want me to pretend to accept his offer? I couldn't do that. I couldn't take his money."

"Do you think you would get it?"

"He offered a thousand dollars a week. I'd get that as long as the job lasted."

"Well, fix it up to suit yourself. But if you can find some way to keep him talking, you may get the one word that will join the different ends of his scheme together. Here we have his dealings with Big Sam and the Council of Nine, and his battery of notes ready to fire at me. A little more, and we may see his whole plan. Once I get that, I'll fix a scheme to scoop his pile out from under him so quick that he'll think an earthquake has struck him." And with this hint he excused me for the night.