Port O' Gold Part 54

He had provided, too, for Francisco. The latter, though he did not know it, would have $20,000 to his credit in the Bank of California. Adrian planned to hand his son the bank deposit book across the gang plank as the s.h.i.+p cast off. They were going first to the Sandwich Islands. Then on to China, India, the South Seas. Each evening, sometimes until midnight, they perused the ill.u.s.trated travel-folders, describing routes, hotels, trains, steams.h.i.+ps.

"You're like a couple of children," smiled Francisco on the evening before their departure. He was writing a novel, in addition to the other work for Carmony and Pixley. Sometimes it was hard work amid this unusual prattle by his usually sedate and silent parents. He tried to imagine the house without them; his life, without their familiar and cherished companions.h.i.+p.... It would be lonely. Probably he would rent the place, when his novel was finished ... take lodgings down town.

CHAPTER LXX

ROBERT AND MAIZIE

Francisco saw his parents to the steamer in a carriage packed with luggage--s.h.i.+ny new bags and grips which, he reflected, would one day return much buffeted and covered with foreign labels. He had seen such bags in local households. The owners were very proud of them. Shakenly he patted his mother's arm and told her how young she was looking, whereat, for some reason, she cried. Adrian coughed and turned to look out of the window. None of the trio spoke till they reached the dock.

There Mrs. Stanley gave him many directions looking to his health and safety. And his father puffed ferociously at a cigar. They had expected Jeanne to bid them good-bye, but she no doubt was delayed, as one so often was in newspaper work.

At last it was over. Francisco stood with the bank book in his hand, a lump in his throat, waving a handkerchief. The s.h.i.+p was departing rapidly. He could no longer distinguish his parents among the black specks at the stern of the vessel. Finally he turned, swallowing hard and put the bank book in his pocket. What a thoughtful chap his father was! How generous! And how almost girlish his mother had looked in her new, smart travel suit! Well, they would enjoy themselves for a year or two. Some day he would travel, too, and see the world. But first there was work to do. Work was good. And Life was filled with Opportunity. He thought of Jeanne.

Suddenly he determined to test Robert's advice. Now, if ever, was the time to challenge Providence. He had in his pocket Adrian's check for $20,000. The Stanley home was vacant. But more than all else, Jeanne was being courted by a new reporter on the Chronicle--a sort of poet with the das.h.i.+ng ways that women liked. He had taken Jeanne to dinner several times of late.

With a decisive movement Francisco entered a telephone booth. Five minutes later he emerged smiling. Jeanne had broken an engagement with the poet chap to dine with him.

Later that evening he tipped an astonished French waiter with a gold-piece. He and Jeanne walked under a full moon until midnight.

Two months after the Stanleys' departure Francisco and Jeanne were married and took up their abode in the Stanley home. Francisco worked diligently at his novel. Now and then they had Robert and Maizie to dinner. Both Jeanne and Francisco had a warm place in their hearts for little Maizie Carter. It was perfectly plain that she loved Robert; sometimes her eyes were plainly envious when they fell on Jeanne in her gingham ap.r.o.n, presiding over the details of her household with, a bride's new joy in domestic tasks. But Maizie was a knowing little woman, too wise to imperil her dream of Love's completeness with a disturbing element like her mother, growing daily more helpless, querulous, dependent.

And she had a fine pride, this little working girl. From Robert she would accept no aid, despite his growing income as the junior partner in his father's law firm. Benito's health had not of recent months been robust, and Robert found upon his shoulders more and more of the business of the office, which acted as trustee for several large estates. Robert now had his private carriage, but Maizie would not permit his calling thus, in state, for her at the Mineral Cafe.

"It would not look well," she said, half whimsically, yet with a touch of gravity, "to have a famous lawyer in his splendid coach call for a poor little Cinderella of a cas.h.i.+er." And so Robert came afoot each night to take her home. When it was fine they walked up the steep Powell street hill, gazing back at the scintillant lights of the town or down on the moonlit bay, with its black silhouetted islands, the spars of great s.h.i.+ps and the moving lights of tugboats or ferries.

If it were wet they rode up on the funny little cable cars, finding a place, whenever possible, on the forward end, which Maizie called the "observation platform." As they pa.s.sed the n.o.b Hill mansions of Hopkins, Stanford and Crocker, and the more modest adobe of the Fairs, Maizie sometimes fancied herself the chatelaine of such a castle, giving an almost imperceptible sigh as the car dipped over the crest of Powell street toward the meaner levels just below where she and her mother lived. Their little yard was always bright with flowers, and from the rear window one had a marvelous view of the water. She seldom failed to walk into the back room and feast her eyes on that marine panorama before she returned to listen to her mother's fretful maunderings over vanished fortunes.

Tonight as they sat with Jeanne and Francisco in front of the crackling fire, Maizie's hunger for a home of her own and the man she loved was so plain that Jeanne arose impulsively and put an arm about her guest. She said nothing, but Maizie understood. There was a lump in her throat. "I should not think such things," she told herself. "I am selfish ...

unfilial."

Robert was talking. She smiled at him bravely and listened. "Mother's planning to go East," she heard him say. "She's always wanted to, and as she grows older it's almost an obsession. So father's finally decided to go, too, and let me run the business ... I'll be an orphan soon, like you, Francisco."

"Oh," said Maizie. "Do you mean that you'll be all alone?"

Robert smiled, "Quite.... Po Lun and Hang Far plan a trip to China ...

want to see their parents before they die. The Chinese are great for honoring their forebears.... Sometimes I think," he added, whimsically, "that Maizie is partly Chinese."

The girl flushed. Jeanne made haste to change the subject. "How is your friend, Dennis Kearney?" she asked Francisco.

"Oh, he's left the agitator business ... he's a grain broker now. But Dennis started something. Capital is a little more willing to listen to labor. And Chinese immigration will be restricted, perhaps stopped altogether. The Geary Exclusion Act is before Congress now, and more or less certain to pa.s.s."

"He's a strange fellow," said Jeanne, reminiscently. "I wonder if he still hates everyone who disagrees with him. Loring Pickering was one of his pet enemies."

"Oh, Dennis is forgiving, like all Irishmen," said Robert. Impulsively he laid a hand on Maizie's.

"Maizie is part Irish, too," he added, meaningly. The girl smiled at him star-eyed. For she understood.

CHAPTER LXXI

THE BLIND BOSS

Francisco met the erstwhile agitator on the street one day. He had made his peace with many former foes, including Pickering."

"Politics is a rotten game, me b'y," he said, by way of explanation.

"And I've a family, two little girruls at home. I want thim to remimber their father as something besides a blatherskite phin they grow up. So I'm in a rispictible business again.... There's a new boss now, bad cess to him! Chris Buckley.

"Him your Chinese friends call 'The Blind White Devil?' Yes, I've heard of Chris."

"He keeps a saloon wid a gossoon name o' Fallon, on Bush street.... Go up and see him, Misther Stanley.... He's a fair-speakin' felly I'm told.... Ask him," Dennis whispered, nudging the writer's ribs with his elbow, "ask him how his gambling place in Platt's Hall is coming on?"

Several days later Francisco entered the unpretentious establishment of Christopher Buckley. He found it more like an office than a drinking place; people sat about, apparently waiting their turn for an interview with Buckley.

A small man, soft of tread and with a searching glance, asked Stanley's business and, learning that the young man was a writer for the press, blinked rapidly a few times; then he scuttled off, returning ere long with the information that Buckley would "see Mr. Stanley." Soon he found himself facing a pleasant-looking man of medium height, a moustache, wiry hair tinged with gray, a vailed expression of the eyes, which indicated some abnormality of vision, but did not reveal the almost total blindness with which early excesses had afflicted Christopher Buckley.

"Sit down, my friend," spoke the boss. His tone held a crisp cordiality, searching and professionally genial. "What d'ye want ... a story?"

"Yes," said Stanley.

"About the election?"

Stanley hesitated. "Tell me about the gambling concession at Platt's Hall," he said suddenly.

Buckley's manner changed. It became, if anything, more cordial.

"My boy," his tone was low, "you're wasting time as a reporter. Listen,"

he laid a hand upon Francisco's knee. "I've got a job for you.... The new Mayor will need a secretary ... three hundred a month. And extras!"

"What are they?" asked Francisco curiously.

"Lord! I don't have to explain that to a bright young man like you....

People coming to the Mayor for favors. They're appreciative ...

understand?"

"Well," Francisco seemed to hesitate, "let me think it over.... Can I let you know," he smiled, "tomorrow?"

Buckley nodded as Francisco rose. As soon as the latter's back was turned the little sharp-eyed man came trotting to his master's call.

"Follow him. Find out what's his game," he snapped. The little man sped swiftly after. Buckley made another signal. The top-hatted representative of railway interests approached.