The Gray Dawn Part 33

The slight, elegant little man smiled.

"I am one of the--what is it you called, them--b.u.ms of whom we talk. I try to do what is within my power, within my strength-lest I, too, become discouraged, lest I, too, fall again--and not get up."

"I have not seen you about anywhere," said Keith, puzzled by this speech.

"I do not go anywhere; I should be eaten. You do not understand me, and I am a poor host to talk in riddles. I am a philosopher, not a man of action; egotist, not an egoist; one who cannot swim in your strong waters. As I said, one of that same cla.s.s whom your bounty helped this evening."

"Good Lord, man!" cried Keith, looking about the little room. "You're not in want?"

Krafft laughed gently.

"In your sense, no. I have my meals. Enough of me. Go, and think of what I say."

Keith did so, and the result was the first organized charity in San Francisco. Since 1849 men had always been exceptionally generous in responding to appeals for money. Huge sums could easily be raised at any time. Hospitals and almshouses dated from the first. But having given, these pioneers invariably forgot. The erection of the buildings cost more than they should, and management being venal, conditions soon became disgraceful. Alms reached the professional pauper. The miner or immigrant, diseased, discouraged, out of luck, more often died--either actually or morally.

So much had this first interview caught his interest that Keith dropped in on his new acquaintance quite often. It soon became evident that Krafft lived in what might be called decent poverty. The one fine rig-out in which he made his public appearances was most carefully preserved. Indoors he always promptly a.s.sumed a dressing-gown, a skull cap with a gold ta.s.sel, and his great porcelain pipe. His meals he cooked for himself. Never did he leave his house until about three o'clock. Then, spick and span, exquisitely appointed, he sauntered forth swinging his malacca cane. After a promenade of several hours he returned again to his dressing-gown, his porcelain pipe, and his books.

Keith enjoyed hugely his detached, reflective, philosophical, spectator-of-life conversation. They talked on many subjects besides sociology. At his fourth visit Krafft made a suggestion.

"You shall come with me and see," said he.

He led the way to the water front under Telegraph Hill, the newest and the most squalid part of town. The shallow water was in slow process of being filled in by sand from the grading uptown and with all sorts of miscellaneous debris, Pending solidity, this sketchy real estate swarmed with squatters. There were lots sunken below the street level, filled with stagnant water, discarded garments, old boxes, ashes, and rubbish; houses huddled closely together with stale water beneath; there were muddy alleys; murderous cheap saloons; cheaper gambling joints; rickety, sagging tenements. The people corresponded to their habitations. All the low elements lurked here, the thugs, strong-arm men, the hold-ups, the heelers, the weaklings, the b.u.ms, the diseased.

In ordinary times they here dwelt in a twilight existence; but at periods of excitement--as when the city burned--they swarmed out like rats for plunder.

Krafft held his way steadily to the wharves. There he left the causeway and descended to the level of the beach. Beneath the pilings, and above the high-water mark, was a little hut. It was not over six feet square, constructed of all sorts of old pieces of boxes, sc.r.a.ps of tin, or remnants of canvas. Overhead rumbled continuously the heavy drays, shaking down, through the cracks the dust of the roadway. Against one outside wall of this crazy structure an old man sat, chair tilted in the sun. Even the chair was a curiosity, miraculously held together by wires. The man was very old, and very feeble, his knotted hands clasping a short, black clay pipe. Inside the hut Keith, saw a rough bunk on which lay jumbled a quilt and a piece of canvas.

"Well, John," greeted Krafft cheerfully, "I've brought a friend to see you."

The old man turned on Keith a twinkling blue eye.

"Glad to see you," he said briefly.

"Getting on?" pursued Krafft.

"Fine."

"Here's a new kind of tobacco I want you to try. I should value your opinion."

Keith's hand wandered toward his pocket, but stopped at a sharp look from Krafft. After a moment's chat they withdrew.

"What a pathetic old figure! What utter misery!" cried Keith.

"No!" said Krafft positively. "There you are wrong. Old John is in no need of us. He has his house and his bed, and he gets his food. How, I do not know, but he gets it. The spark is burning clear and steady. He has not lost his grip. He gets his living with confidence. Let him alone."

"But he must be very miserable--especially when it rains," persisted Keith.

Krafft shrugged his shoulders.

"As to that, I know not," he returned indifferently. "That does not matter to the soul. I will now show you another man."

They retraced their steps. On a corner of Montgomery Street Krafft stopped before a one-armed beggar, the stump exposed, a placard around his neck.

"Now here's another John," said Krafft. "What he wants is work, and somebody to see that he does it."

The one-armed beggar, who was fat, with a good-natured countenance, evidently considered this a joke. He grinned cheerfully.

"Don't have to, guvenor," said he.

"How much did you take in yesterday, John?" asked Krafft; then, catching the beggar's look of suspicion, he added, "This is a friend of mine; he's all right."

"Twenty-two dollars," replied the beggar proudly. "Pretty good day's wages!"

"I'm afraid the spark is about out with you, John," said Krafft thoughtfully. He walked on a few steps, then turned back. "John," he asked, "what is your contribution to society?"

The beggar stared, uncertain of this new chaff.

"The true theory of business, John, is that traffic which does not result In reciprocal advantages to buyer and seller is illegitimate, or at least abnormal."

They walked on, Keith laughing at the expression on the beggar's face.

"That was considerably over his head," he observed.

Nothing more was said for half a block.

"I wonder if it was over yours," then said Krafft, unexpectedly.

"Eh?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Keith, bewildered.

These walks with Krafft finally resulted in the inst.i.tution of a fund which Keith raised and put into Krafft's hands for intelligent use. The effects were so interesting that Keith, thoroughly fascinated, began to pester his friends for positions for some of his proteges. As he was well-liked and in earnest, these efforts were taken good-humouredly.

"Here comes Milt Keith," said John Webb to Bert Taylor. "Bet you a beaver hat he's got a highly educated college professor that he wants a job for."

"'A light job, not beyond his powers,'" quoted Taylor.

"Like cleaning genteel spittoons," supplemented Webb.

"The engine house is full of 'em polis.h.i.+ng bra.s.s," complained Taylor.

"Well, he's a young felly, and I like him," concluded Webb heartily.

Of course many of the experiments failed, but fewer than might have been antic.i.p.ated. Part of Krafft's task was to keep in touch with the men. His detached, philosophical method of encouragement and a.n.a.lysis of the situation seemed just the thing they needed.

x.x.xIV

These activities gave Keith just the required door out into a world other than his own. Were it not for something of the sort he might, like many modern corporation lawyers, have confined himself entirely to his own cla.s.s. And this, of course, would eventually have meant narrowness.