Port O' Gold Part 53

workmen's eating houses and the like, with, of course, the notable exceptions of the Grand and Palace Hotels.

On the northern side were the gay haberdasheries, millinery stores, cafes and various business marts, where fas.h.i.+onable San Francisco shopped. Where men with top hats, walking sticks and lavender silk waistcoats ogled the feminine fas.h.i.+on parade.

As he pa.s.sed the Baldwin Hotel with its broadside of bow-windows, Robert became aware of some disturbance. A large dray drawn by four horses, plumed and flower garlanded, was wending a triumphal course up Market street. A man stood in the center of it waving his hat--a stocky fellow in soiled trousers and an old gray sweater. Shouts of welcome hailed him as the dray rolled on; most of them came from the opposite or southern side.

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

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

The swift California dusk was falling. The afternoon was gone. And Robert, realizing that it was past the dinner hour at his home, decided to find his evening meal at a restaurant. One of these, with a display of sh.e.l.l-fish grouped about a miniature fountain in its window, confronted him ere long and he entered a rococo interior of mirrored walls. What caught his fancy more than the ornate furnis.h.i.+ngs, however, was a very pretty girl sitting within a cas.h.i.+er's cage of iron grill-work.

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

The smile still lingered as a man came forward to adjust his score. A keen, dynamic-looking man of middle years and an imposing presence.

Robert watched him just a little envious of his a.s.sured manner as he threw down a gold-piece. While the fair cas.h.i.+er was making change he grinned at her. "How's my little girl tonight?" Reaching through the aperture, he chucked her suddenly beneath the chin. Tears of mortification sprang into her eyes. Impulsively Robert stepped forward, crowding the other aside none too gently.

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

"Puppy!" stormed the elder man and stalked out haughtily. The girl's eyes encountered Robert's, s.h.i.+ning, grateful for an instant. Then they fell. Her face grew grave. "You shouldn't have ... really.... That was Isaac J. Kalloch."

"Oh, the preacher that's running for Mayor," Robert's tone was abashed.

"But I don't care," he added, "I'm glad I did."

Once again the girl's eyes met his, shyly. "So am I," she whispered.

CHAPTER LXIX

A NEW GENERATION

Isaac S. Kalloch was the labor candidate for mayor. People said he was the greatest pulpit orator in San Francisco since Starr King. His Sunday sermons at the Metropolitan Temple were crowded; as a campaign orator he drew great throngs.

Robert's dislike for the man was mitigated by a queer involuntary grat.i.tude. Without that bit of paternal familiarity, which had goaded the young lawyer to impulsive protective champions.h.i.+p, he and Maizie Carter, the little golden-haired cas.h.i.+er, might have found the road to comrades.h.i.+p much longer.

For comrades they had become almost at once. At least so they fondly fancied. Robert's mother wondered why he missed so many meals from home.

The rococo restaurant gained a steady customer. And the host of cavaliers who lingered in the hope of seeing Maizie home each evening diminished to one. He was often invited into the vine-clad cottage at the top of Powell street hill. Sometimes he sat with Maizie on a haircloth sofa and looked at Mrs. Carter's autograph alb.u.m. It contained some great names that were now no longer written. James Lick, David Broderick, Colonel E.D. Baker and the still lamented Ralston, of whom Maizie's mother never tired of talking. He, it seems, was wont to give her tips on mining stocks. Acting on them, she had once ama.s.sed $10,000.

"But I lost it all after the poor, dear man pa.s.sed away," she would say, with a tear in her eye. "Once that fellow Mills--I hate his fishy eyes!--looked straight at me and said, 'See the poor old mud-hen'!"

She began to weep softly. Maizie sprang to comfort her, stroking the stringy gray hair with tender, youthful fingers. "Mother quit the market after that. She hasn't been near Pauper Alley for a year ... not since I've been working at the Mineral Cafe. And we've three hundred dollars in the bank."

"Ah, yes," said the mother, fondly. "Maizie's a brave girl and a thrifty one. We're comfortable--and independent, even though the rich grind down the poor." Her eyes lighted. "Wait till Kalloch is elected ... then we'll see better times, I'll warrant."

Robert was too courteous to express his doubts.

Later he discussed the situation with Francisco. His paper had printed an "expose" of Kalloch, who struck back with bitter personal denunciation of his editorial foes. "It's a nasty mess," Francisco said disgustedly.

"Broderick used to tell my father that politics had always been a rascal's paradise because decent men wouldn't run for office--nor vote half of the time.... I'm going to write an article about it for The Overland. And Pixley of the Argonaut has given me a chance to do some stories. I shall be an author pretty soon--like Harte and Clemens."

"Or a poet like this Cincinnatus Heinie Miller, whom one hears about.

Fancy such a name. I should think he'd change it."

"He has already," laughed Francisco. "Calls himself Joaquin--after Marietta, the bandit. Joaquin Miller--rather catchy, isn't it? And he's written some really fine lines. Showed me one the other day that's called 'Columbus.' It's majestic. I tell you that fellow will be famous one day."

"Pooh!" scoffed Robert; "he's a poseur--ought to be an actor, with his long hair and boots and sash.... How is the fair Jeanne?"

Francisco's face clouded. "I want her to leave newspaper work and try literature," he said, "but Jeanne's afraid to cut loose. She's earning her living ... and she's alone in the world. No one to fall back on, you know."

"But she'd make more money at real writing, wouldn't she?" asked Robert.

"Ever since Harte wrote that thing about 'The Luck of Roaring Camp,'

which the lady proofreader said was indecent, he's had offers from the Eastern magazines. John Carmony's paying him $5,000 a year to edit the Overland and $100 for each poem or story he writes."

"Ah, yes, but Bret Harte is a genius."

"Maybe Jeanne's another," Robert ventured.

Francisco laughed ruefully. "I've told her that ... but she says no....

'I'm just a woman,' she insists, 'and not a very bright one at that.'

She has all kinds of faith in me, but little in herself." He made an impatient gesture. "What can a fellow do?"

Robert looked at him a moment thoughtfully. "Why not--marry Jeanne?"

Dull red crept into Francisco's cheeks. Then he laughed.

"Well--er--probably she wouldn't have me."

"There's only one way to find out," his cousin persisted. "She's alone ... and you're soon going to be. When do your folks start on their 'second honeymoon,' as they call it?"

"Oh, that trip around the world--why, in a month or two. As soon as father closes out his business."

"You could have the house then--you and Jeanne."

"Say!" exclaimed Francisco suddenly, "you're such a Jim Dandy to manage love affairs! Why don't you get married yourself?"

It was Robert's turn to flush. "I'm quite willing," he said shortly.

"Won't she have you?" asked his cousin sympathetically.

"'Tisn't that ... it's her mother. Maizie won't leave her ... and she won't bring her into our home. Mrs. Carter's peculiar ... and Maizie says we're young. Young enough to be unselfish."

"She's a fine girl," returned Francisco. "Well, good bye." He held out a cordial hand.

"I--I'll think over what you said."

"Good luck, then," Robert answered as they gripped.

Adrian Stanley was closing up his affairs. As a contractor he had prospered; his reclaimed city lots had realized their purchase price a hundred fold and his judiciously conservative investments yielded golden fruit. Adrian was not a plunger. But in thirty years he had acc.u.mulated something of a fortune.... And now they were to travel, he and Inez, for a year or so.