Port O' Gold Part 28

By way of answer Hammond drew a book of printed forms toward him.

Calmly, leisurely, he wrote several lines; tore a long, narrow strip from the book and handed it to Sherman.

"Here's my check for $40,000 on the United States Treasurer. He will cash it in gold. Never mind, don't thank me, this is purely business. I know what's up, young man. I can't see your people go under. Good day!"

Ten o'clock on the following morning. Hundreds of people lined up before the doors of San Francis...o...b..nks. Men of all cla.s.ses; top-hatted merchants rubbed elbows with red-s.h.i.+rted miners, Irish laborers smoking clay pipes, Mexican vaqueros, roustabouts from the docks, gamblers, bartenders, lawyers, doctors, politicians. Here and there one saw women with children in their arms or holding them by the hand. They pressed shoulder to shoulder. Those at the head had their noses almost against the gla.s.s. Inside of the counting houses men with pale, harried faces stood behind their grilled iron wickets, wondering how long the pile of silver and gold within their reach would stay that clamorous human tide.

Doors swung back and it swept in, a great wave, almost overturning the janitors.

The cas.h.i.+er and a.s.sistant manager of Lucas & Co. watched nervously, the former now and then running his fingers through his spa.r.s.e hair; the a.s.sistant manager at intervals retired to a back room where he consulted a decanter and a tall gla.s.s. Frequently he summoned the bookkeeper.

"How's the money lasting?" he would inquire almost in a whisper, and the other answered, "Still holding out."

But now the a.s.sistant manager saw that the cash on hand was almost exhausted. He was afraid to ask the bookkeeper any more questions.

"Where the devil's Sherman?" he snapped at the cas.h.i.+er. That official started. "Why--er--how should I know?... He was hunting Major Snyder this morning. He had a check from Hammond, the collector of the port."

"d.a.m.nation!" cried the a.s.sistant manager. "Sherman ought to be here. He ought to talk to these people. They think he's skipped."

He broke off hurriedly as the a.s.sistant teller came up trembling. "We'll have to close in ten minutes," he said. "There's less than $500 left."

His mouth twitched. "I don't know what we'll do, sir, when the time comes ... and G.o.d only knows what they'll do."

"Good G.o.d! what's that?"

Some new commotion was apparent at the entrance of the bank. The a.s.sistant teller grasped his pistol. The line of waiting men and women turned, for the moment forgetting their quest. William Sherman, attended by two armed constables, entered the door. Between them the trio carried two large canvas bags, each bearing the imprint of the United States Treasury.

Sherman halted just inside the door.

"Forty thousand in gold, boys," he cried, "and plenty more where it came from. Turner, Lucas & Co. honors every draft."

His face pressed eagerly against the lattice of the paying teller's cage stood a little Frenchman. His hat had fallen from his pomaded hair; his waxed moustache bristled.

"Do you mean you have ze monnaie? All ze monnaie zat we wish?" he asked gesticulating excitedly with his hands.

"Sure," returned the teller. Sherman and his aids were carrying the two sacks into the back of the cage, depositing them on a marble shelf.

"See!" The teller turned one over and a tinkling flood of s.h.i.+ning golden disks poured forth.

"Ah, bon! bon!" shrieked the little Frenchman, dancing up and down upon his high-heeled boots. "If you have ze monnaie, zen I do not want heem."

He broke out of the line, happily humming a chanson. Half a dozen people laughed.

"That's what I say," shouted other voices. "We don't want our money if it's safe."

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

KING STARTS THE BULLETIN

After several months of business convalescence, San Francisco found itself recovered from the financial chaos of February. Many well-known men and inst.i.tutions had not stood the ordeal; some went down the pathway of dishonor to an irretrievable inconsequence and dest.i.tution; others profited by their misfortunes and still others, with the dauntless spirit of the time, turned halted energies or aspirations to fresh account. Among them was James King of William.

The name of his father, William King, was, by an odd necessity, perpetuated with his own. There were many James Kings and to avert confusion of ident.i.ties the paternal cognomen was added.

In the Bank Exchange saloon, where the city's powers in commerce, journalism and finance were wont to congregate, King met, on a rainy autumn afternoon, R.D. Sinton and Jim Nesbitt. They hailed him jovially.

Seated in the corner of an anteroom they drank to one another's health and listened to the raindrops pattering against a window.

"Well, how is the auction business, Bob?" asked King.

"Not so bad," the junior partner of Selover and Sinton answered. "Better probably than the newspaper or banking line.... Here's poor Jim, the keenest paragrapher in San Francisco, out of work since the _Chronicle's_ gone to the wall. And here you are, cleaned out by Adams & Company's careless or dishonest work--I don't know which."

"Let's not discuss it," King said broodingly. "You know they wouldn't let me supervise the distribution of the money. And you know what my demand for an accounting brought ..."

"Abuse and slander from that boughten sheet, the Alta--yes," retorted Sinton. "Well, you have the consolation of knowing that no honest man believes it."

King was silent for a moment. Then his clenched hand fell upon the table. "By the Eternal!" he exclaimed, with a sudden upthrust of the chin. "This town must have a decent paper. Do you know that there are seven murderers in our jail? No one will convict them and no editor has the courage to expose our rotten politics." He glanced quickly from one to the other. "Are you with me, boys? Will you help me to start a journal that will run our crooked officials and their hired plug-uglies out of town?... Sinton, last week you asked my advice about a good investment ... Nesbitt, you're looking for a berth. Well, here's an answer to you both. Let's start a paper--call it, say, the Evening Bulletin."

Nesbitt's eyes glowed. "By the Lord Harry! it's an inspiration, King,"

he said and beckoned to a waiter to refill their gla.s.ses. "I know enough about our State and city politics to make a lot of well-known citizens hunt cover--"

Sinton smiled at the journalist's ardor. "D'ye mean it, James?" he asked. "Every word," replied the banker. "But I can't help much financially," he added. "My creditors got everything."

"You mean the King's treasury is empty," said Sinton, laughing at his pun. "Well, well, we might make it go, boys. I'm not a millionaire, but never mind. How much would it take?"

Nesbitt answered with swift eagerness. "I know a print shop we can buy for a song; it's on Merchant street near Montgomery. Small but comfortable, and just the thing. $500 down would start us."

Sinton pulled at his chin a moment. "Go ahead then," he urged. "I'll loan you the money."

King's hand shot out to grasp the auctioneer's. "There ought to be 10,000 decent citizens in San Francisco who'll give us their support.

Let's go and see the owner of that print-shop now."

On the afternoon of October 5th, 1885, a tiny four-page paper made its first appearance on the streets of San Francisco.

The first page, with its queer jumble of news and advertis.e.m.e.nts, had a novel and attractive appearance quite apart from the usual standards of typographical make-up. People laughed at King's naive editorial apology for entering an overcrowded and none-too-prosperous field; they nodded approvingly over his promise to tell the truth with fearless impartiality.

William Coleman was among the first day's visitors.

"Good luck to you, James King of William," he held forth a friendly hand. The editor, turning, rose and grasped it with sincere cordiality.

They stood regarding each other silently. It seemed almost as though a prescience of what was to come lay in that curious communion of heart and mind.

"Going after the crooks, I understand," said Coleman finally.

"Big and little," King retorted. "That's all the paper's for. I don't expect to make money."

"How about the Southerners, the Chivalry party? They'll challenge you to duels daily."

"d.a.m.n the 'Chivs'." King answered. "I shall ignore their challenges.

This duelling habit is absurd. It's grandstand politics; opera bouffe.

They even advertise their meetings and the boatmen run excursions to some point where two idiots shoot wildly at each other for some fancied slight. No, Coleman, I'm not that particular kind of a fool."