Budge Kennedy was not so easily found. There were many Kennedys. About
two-thirds of Ireland had apparently migrated to San Francisco under
that name and had lodged in the directory. We went through the lists on
both sides of the bay, but found nothing; the old directories had mostly
been destroyed by fire or had been thrown away as worthless; but at last
we unearthed one. In it we found the name of Budge Kennedy.
He had two sons--Patrick and Henry. One of these, Henry, we ran down in
the Mission. He was a great, red-headed, broad-shouldered Irishman. He
was just eating supper when we called; there were splotches of white
plaster on his trousers.
I came right to the point: “Do you know anything about this?” I held out
the ring.
He took it in his fingers; his eyes popped. “What, that! Well, I guess
I do! Where'd you get it?” He called out to the kitchen: “Say, Mollie,
come here. Here's the old man's jool!” He looked at me a bit fearfully.
“You aren't wearing it?”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why? Well, I don't know exactly. I wouldn't wear it for a million
dollars. It ain't a jool; it's a piece of the divil. The old man gave
it to Dr. Holcomb--or sold it, I don't know which. He carried it in his
pocket once, and he came near dying.”
“Unlucky?” I asked.
“No, it ain't unlucky; it just rips your heart out. It would make you
hate your grandmother. Lonesome! Lonesome! I've often heard the old man
talking.”
“He sold it to Dr. Holcomb? Do you know why?”
“Well, yes. 'Twas that the old doc had some scientific work. Dad told
him about his jool. One day he took it over to Berkeley. It was some
kind of thing that the professor just wanted. He kept it. Dad made him
promise not to wear it.”
“I see. Did your father ever tell you where he got it?”
“Oh, yes. He often spoke about that. The old man wasn't a plasterer,
you know--just a labourer. He was digging a basement. It was a funny
basement--a sort of blind cellar. There was a stone wall right across
the middle, and then there was a door of wood to look like stone. You
can go down into the back cellar, but not into the front. If you don't
know about the door, you'll never find it. Dad often spoke about that.
He was working in the back cellar when he found this. 'Twas sticking in
some blue clay.”
“Where was this place? Do you remember?”
“Sure. 'Twas in Chatterton Place. Pat and I was kids then; we took the
old man's dinner.”
“Do you know the number?”
“It didn't have no number; but I know the place. 'Tis a two-story house,
and was built in 'ninety-one.”