IV

A half hour later the two men, having deposited the women safely in the

Sherwoods' rooms at the Bella Union, and having been unceremoniously

dismissed by Mrs. Sherwood, strolled together to the veranda. They had

not, until now, had a chance to exchange six words.

The newcomer, who announced himself as Milton Keith from Baltimore,

proved to have a likable and engaging personality. He was bubbling with

interest and enthusiasm; and these qualities, provided they are backed

solidly, are always prepossessing. Sherwood, quietly studying him,

concluded that such was the case. His jaw and mouth were set in firm

lines; his eye, while dancing and mischievous, had depths of capability

and reserves of forcefulness. But Sherwood was, by inclination and by

the necessities of his profession, a close observer of men. Another,

less practised, might have seen here merely an eager, rather talkative,

apparently volatile, very friendly, quite unreserved young man of

twenty-five. Any one, analytical or otherwise, could not have avoided

feeling the attractive force of the youth's personality, the friendly

quality that is nine tenths individual magnetism and one tenth the cast

of mind that initially takes for granted the other man's friendliness.

At the moment Keith was boyishly avid for the sights of the new city.

In these modern days of long journeys, a place so remote as San

Francisco, in the most commonplace of circumstances, gathers to its

reputation something of the fabulous. How much more true then of a city

built from sand dunes in four years; five times swept by fire, yet

rising again and better before its ashes were extinct; the resort of

all the picturesque, unknown races of the earth--the Chinese, the

Chileño, the Mexican, the Spanish, the Islander, the Moor, the

Turk--not to speak of ordinary foreigners from Russia, England, France,

Belgium, Germany, Italy, and the out-of-the-way corners of Europe; the

haunt of the wild and striking individuals of all these races. "Sydney

ducks" from the criminal colonies; "shoulder strikers" direct from the

tough wards of New York; long, lean, fever-haunted crackers from the

Georgia mountains or the Louisiana canebrakes; Pike County desperadoes;

long-haired men from the trapping countries; hard-fisted, sardonic

state of Maine men fresh from their rivers; and Indian fighters from

the Western Reserve; grasping, shrewd commercial Yankees; fire-eating

Southern politicians; lawyers, doctors, merchants, chiefs, and thiefs,

the well-educated and the ignorant, the high-minded and the scalawags,

all dumped down together on a sand hill to work out their destinies; a

city whose precedents, whose morals, whose laws, were made or adapted

on the spot; where might in some form or another--revolver, money,

influence--made its only right; whose history ranged in three years the

gamut of human passion, strife, and development; whose background was

the fabled El Dorado whence the gold in unending floods poured through

its sluices. To the outside world tales of these things had come. They

did not lose in the journey. The vast loom of actual occurrences rose

above the horizon like mirages. Names and events borrowed a

half-legendary quality from distances, as elsewhere from time. Keith

had heard of Coleman, of Terry, of Broderick, Brannan, Gwin, Geary, as

he had heard of the worthies of ancient history; he had visualized the

fabled splendours of San Francisco's great gambling houses, of the

excitements of her fervid, fevered life, as he might have visualized

the magnificences of pagan Rome; he had listened to tales of her street

brawls, her vast projects, the buccaneering raids of her big men, her

Vigilance Committee of the year before, as he would have listened to

the stories of one of Napoleon's veterans. Now, by the simple process

of a voyage that had seemed literally interminable but now was past, he

had landed in the very midst of fable. It was like dying, he told

Sherwood eagerly, like going irretrievably to a new planet. All his old

world now seemed as remote, as insubstantial, as phantomlike, as this

had seemed.

"Even yet I can't believe it's all so," he cried, walking excitedly

back and forth, and waving an extinct cigar. "I've got to see it, touch

it! Why, I know it all in advance. That must be where the Jenny Lind

Theatre stood--before the fire--just opposite? I thought so! And the

bay used to come up to Montgomery Street, only a block down! You see, I

know it all! And when we came in, and I saw all those idle ships lying

at anchor, just as they have lain since their crews deserted them in

'49 to go to the mines--and I know why they haven't been used since,

why they will continue to lie there at anchor until they rot or sink--"

"Do you?" said Sherwood, who was vastly amused and greatly taken by

this fresh enthusiasm.

"Yes, the clipper ships!" Keith swept on. "The first cargoes in this

new market make the money--the fastest clippers--poor old hulks--but

you brought in the argonauts!"

So he ran on, venting his impatience, so plainly divided between his

sense of duty in staying near his wife and his great desire to slip the

leash, that Sherwood smiled to himself. Once again he mentioned Coleman

and the Vigilantes of '51.

"I suppose he's around here? I may see him?"

"Oh, yes," said Sherwood, "you'll see him. But if you would accept a

bit of advice, go slow. You must remember that such a movement makes

enemies, arouses opposition. A great many excellent people--whom you

will know--are a little doubtful about all that."

Keith mentioned other names.

"I know them all. They are among the most influential members of the

bar." He glanced at a large watch. "Just at this hour we might find

them at the Monumental engine house. What do you say?"

"I should like nothing better!" cried Keith.

"Your wife's illness is not likely to require immediate attendance?"

suggested Sherwood inquiringly.

"She's only seasick--horrible voyage--she's always under the weather on

shipboard--three weeks of it from Panama--Nan's as strong as a horse,"

replied Keith, with obvious impatience.

They walked across the Plaza to the Monumental fire engine house, a

square brick structure of two stories, with wide folding doors, and a

bell cupola apart. Keith paused to admire the engine. It was of the

type usual in those days, consisting of a waterbox with inlet and

outlet connections, a pump atop, and parallel pump rails on either

side, by the hand manipulation of which the water was thrown with force

from the box. The vehicle was drawn by means of a long rope, carried on

a drum. This could be slacked off at need to accommodate as high as a

hundred men or as few as would suffice to move her. So far this engine

differed in no manner from those Keith had seen in the East. But this

machine belonged to a volunteer company, one of many and all rivals. It

was gayly coloured. On the sides of its waterbox were scenic paintings

of some little merit. The woodwork was all mahogany. Its brass

ornamentation was heavy and brought to a high state of polish. From a

light rack along its centre dangled two beautifully chased speaking

trumpets, and a row of heavy red-leather helmets. Axes nestled in

sockets. A screaming gilt eagle, with wings outspread, hovered atop.

Alongside the engine stood the hook and ladder truck and the hose cart.

These smaller and less important vehicles were painted in the same

scheme of colour, were equally glittering and polished. Keith commented

on all this admiringly.

"Yes," said Sherwood, "you see, since the big fires, it has become a

good deal a matter of pride. There are eleven volunteer companies, and

they are great rivals in everything, political and social, as well as

in the line of regular business, so to speak. Mighty efficient. You'll

have to join a company, of course; and you better look around a little

before deciding. Each represents something different--some different

element. They are really as much clubs as fire companies."

They mounted to the upper story, where Keith found himself in a long

room, comfortably fitted with chairs, tables, books, and papers. A

double door showed a billiard table in action. Sherwood indicated a

closed door across the hall.

"Card rooms," said he briefly.

The air was blue with smoke and noisy with rather vociferative

conversation and laughter. Several groups of men were gathered in

little knots. A negro in white duck moved here and there carrying a

tray.

Sherwood promptly introduced Keith to many of these men, and he was as

promptly asked to name his drink. Keith caught few of the names, but he

liked the hearty, instant cordiality. Remarking on the beauty and order

of the machines, loud cries arose for "Taylor! Bert Taylor!" After a

moment's delay a short, stocky, very red-faced man, with rather a fussy

manner, came forward.

"Mr. Keith," said a tall, dark youth, with a pronounced Southern

accent, "I want foh to make you acquainted with Mr. Tayloh. Mr. Tayloh

is at once the patron saint of the Monumentals, but to a large extent

its 'angel' as well--I hope you understand the theatrical significance

of that term, suh. He is motheh, fatheh, guardeen, and dry nurse to

every stick, stone, and brick, every piece of wood, brass, or rubbah,

every inch of hose, and every man _and_ Irishman on these premises."

Taylor had turned an embarrassed brick red. "Mr. Keith," went on the

dark youth, explanatorily, "was just sayin' that though he had

inspected carefully many fire equipments, per'fessional and amateur, he

had nevah feasted his eyes on so complete an outfit as that of our

Monumentals."

Keith had not said all this, but possibly he had meant it. The

brick-red, stocky little man was so plainly embarrassed and anxious to

depart that Keith racked his brains for something to say. All he could

remember was the manufacturer's nameplate on the machine downstairs.

"I see you have selected the Hunaman engine, sir," said he. The little

man's eye brightened.

"It may be, sir, that you favour the piano-box type--of the sort made

by Smith or Van Ness?" he inquired politely.

"It is a point on which my opinion is still-suspended," replied Keith

with great gravity.

The little man moved nearer, and his shyness fell from him.

"Oh, but really there is no choice, none whatever!" he cried. "I'm

sure, sir, I can convince you in five minutes. I assure you we have

gone into the subject thoroughly--this Hunaman cost us over five

thousand dollars; and you may be certain we went very thoroughly into

the matter before making the investment----"

He went on talking in his self-effacing, deprecatory, but very earnest

fashion. The other men in the group, Keith felt, were watching with

covert amusement. Occasionally, he thought to catch half-concealed

grins at his predicament. In less than the five minutes the claims of

the piano box were utterly demolished. Followed a dissertation on

methods of fighting fire; and then a history of the Monumental

Company--its members, its officers, and its proud record. "And our

bell--did you know that?--is the bell used by the Vigilantes--" He

broke off suddenly in confusion, his embarrassment descending on him

again. A moment later he sidled away.

"But I found him very interesting!" protested Keith, in answer to

implied apologies.

"Bert is invaluable here; but he's a lunatic on fire apparatus. We

couldn't get along without him, but it's sometimes mighty difficult to

get on _with_ him," said some one.

Keith was making a good impression without consciously trying to do so.

His high spirits of youth and enthusiasm were in his favour; and as yet

he had no interests to come into conflict with those of any one

present. More drinks were ordered and fresh cigars lighted. From

Sherwood they now learned that Keith had but just landed, and intended

to settle as a permanent resident. As one man they uprose.

"And yo' wastin' of yo' time indoors!" mourned the dark Southerner.

"And so much to see!"

Enthusiastically they surrounded him and led him forth. Only a very

old, very small, very decadent village is devoid of what is modernly

called the "booster" spirit. In those early days of slow transportation

and isolated communities, local patriotism was much stronger than it is

now. And something about the air's wine of the Pacific slope has

always, and probably will always, make of every man an earnest

proselyte for whatever patch of soil he calls home. But add to these

general considerations the indubitable facts of harbour, hill, health,

opportunity, activity, and a genuine history, if of only three years,

one can no longer marvel that every man, each in his own way, saw

visions.

In the course of the next few hours Keith got confused and mixed

impressions of many things. The fortresslike warehouses; the plank

roads; the new Jenny Lind Theatre; the steam paddies eating steadily

into the sand hills at the edge of town; the Dramatic Museum; houses

perched on the crumbling edges of hills; houses sunk far below the

level of new streets, with tin cans and ducks floating around them; new

office buildings; places where new office buildings were going to be or

merely ought to be; land that in five years was going to be worth

fabulous sums; unlikely looking spots where historic things had stood

or had happened--all these were pointed out to him. He was called upon

to exercise the eye of faith; to reconstruct; to eliminate the

unfinished, the mean, the sordid; to overlook the inadequate; to build

the city as it was sure to be; and to concern himself with that and

that only. He admired Mount Tamalpais over the way. He was taken up a

high hill--a laborious journey--to gaze on the spot where he would have

been able to see Mount Diabolo, if only Mount Diabolo had been visible.

And every few blocks he was halted and made to shake hands with some

one who was always immediately characterized to him impressively, under

the breath--"Colonel Baker, sir, one of the most divinely endowed men

with the gift of eloquence, sir"; "Mr. Rowlee, sir, editor of one of

our leading journals"; "Judge Caldwell, sir at present one of the

ornaments of our bench"; "Mr. Ben Sansome, sir, a leadin' young man in

our young but vigorous social life"; and so on.

These introductions safely and ceremoniously accomplished, each

newcomer insisted on leading the way to the nearest bar.

"I insist, sir. It is just the hour for my afternoon toddy."

After some murmuring of expostulation, the invitation was invariably

accepted.

There was always a barroom immediately adjacent. Keith was struck by

the number and splendour of these places. Although San Francisco was

only three years removed from the tent stage, and although the

freightage from the centres of civilization was appalling, there was no

lack of luxury. Mahogany bars with brass rails, huge mirrors with gilt

frames, pyramids of delicate crystal, rich hangings, oil paintings of

doubtful merit but indisputable interest, heavy chandeliers of prism

glasses, most elaborate free lunches, and white-clad barkeepers--such

matters were common to all. In addition, certain of the more

pretentious boasted special attractions. Thus, one place supported its

ceiling on crystal pillars; another--and this was crowded--had dashing

young women to serve the drinks, though the mixing was done by men; a

third offered one of the new large musical boxes capable of playing

several very noisy tunes; a fourth had imported a marvellous piece of

mechanism: a piece of machinery run by clockwork, exhibiting the sea in

motion, a ship tossing on its bosom; on shore, a water mill in action,

a train of cars passing over a bridge, a deer chase with hounds,

huntsmen, and game, all in pursuit or flight, and the like. The

barkeepers were marvels of dexterity and of especial knowledge. At

command they would deftly and skilfully mix a great variety of

drinks--cocktails, sangarees, juleps, bounces, swizzles, and many

others. In mixing these drinks it was their especial pride to pass them

at arm's length from one tall glass to another, the fluid describing a

long curve through the air, but spilling never a drop.

In these places Keith pledged in turn each of his new acquaintances,

and was pledged by them. Never, he thought, had he met so jolly, so

interesting, so experienced a lot of men. They had not only lived

history, they had made it. They were so full of high spirits and the

spirit of play. His heart warmed to them mightily; and over and over he

told himself that he had made no mistake in his long voyage to new

fields of endeavour. On the other hand, he, too, made a good

impression. Naturally the numerous drinks had something to do with this

mutual esteem; but also it was a fact that his boyish, laughing,

half-reckless spirit had much in common with the spirit of the times.

Quite accidentally he discovered that the tall, dark Southern youth was

Calhoun Bennett. This then seemed to him a remarkable coincidence.

"Why, I have a letter of introduction to you!" he said.

Again and again he recurred to this point, insisting on telling

everybody how extraordinary the situation was.

"Here I've been talking to him for three hours," he exclaimed, "and

never knew who he was, and all the time I had a letter of introduction

to him!"

This and a warm irresponsible glow of comradeship were the sole

indications of the drinks he had had. Keith possessed a strong head.

Some of the others were not so fortunate. Little Rowlee was frankly

verging on drunkenness.

The afternoon wind was beginning to die, and the wisps of high fog that

had, since two o'clock, been flying before it, now paused and

forgathered to veil the sky. Dusk was falling.

"Look here," suggested Rowlee suddenly; "let's go to Allen's Branch and

have a good dinner, and then drift around to Belle's place and see if

there's any excitement to be had thereabouts."

"Belle--our local Aspasia, sah," breathed a very elaborate, pompous,

elderly Southerner, who had been introduced as Major Marmaduke Miles.

But this suggestion brought to Keith a sudden realization of the

lateness of the hour, the duration of his absence, and the fact that,

not only had he not yet settled his wife in rooms of her own, but had

left her on the hands of strangers. For the first time he noticed that

Sherwood was not of the party.

"When did Sherwood leave?" he cried.

"Oh, a right sma't time ago," said Bennett.

Keith started to his feet.

"I should like to join you," said he, "but it is impossible now."

A chorus of expostulation went up at this.

"But I haven't settled down yet!" persisted Keith. "I don't know even

whether my baggage is at the hotel."

They waived aside his objections; but finding him obdurate, perhaps a

little panicky over the situation, they gave over urging the point.

"But you must join us later in the evening," said they.

The idea grew.

"I tell you what," said Rowlee, with half-drunken gravity; "he's got to

come back. We can't afford to lose him this early. And he can't afford

to lose us. The best life of this glorious commonwealth is as yet a

sealed book to him. It is our sacred duty, gentlemen, to break those

seals. What does he know of our temples of Terpsichore? Our altars to

the gods of chance? Our bowers of the Cyprians?"

He would have gone on at length, but Keith, laughingly protesting,

trying to disengage himself from the detaining hands, broke in with a

promise to return. But little Rowlee was not satisfied.

"I think we should take no chances," he stated. "How would it be to

appoint a committee to 'company him and see that he gets back?"

Keith's head was clear enough to realize with dismay that this

brilliant idea was about to take. But Ben Sansome, seizing the

situation, locked his arm firmly in Keith's.

"I'll see personally that he gets back," said he.

V

"That was mighty good of you; you saved my life!" said Keith to him,

gratefully, as they walked up the street.

"You couldn't have that tribe of wild Indians descending on your wife,"

said Sansome. He had kept pace with, the others, but showed it not at

all. Sansome was a slender, languid, bored, quiet sort of person,

exceedingly well dressed in the height of fashion, speaking with a

slight, well-bred drawl, given to looking rather superciliously from

beneath his fine eyelashes, almost too good looking. He liked, or

pretended he liked, to view life from the discriminating spectator's

standpoint; and remained unstirred by stirring events. He prided

himself on the delicacy of his social tact. In the natural course of

evolution he would probably never marry, and would become in time an

"old beau," haunting ballrooms with reminiscences of old-time belles.

Keith, meeting the open air, began to feel his exhilaration.

"What I need is my head under a pump for about ten seconds," he told

Sansome frankly. "Lord! It was just about time I got away."

Arrived at the hotel, Sansome said good-bye, but Keith would have none

of it.

"No, no!" he cried. "You must come in, now you've come so far! I want

you to meet my wife; she'll be delighted!"

And Sansome, whose celebrated social tact had been slightly obscured by

his potations, finally consented. Truth to tell, it would have been a

little difficult for him to have got away. Poising his light stick and

gloves in his left hand, giving his drooping moustache a last twirl,

and settling his heavy cravat in place, he followed Keith down the

little hall to the Sherwoods' apartments.

At the knock Keith was at once invited to enter. The men threw open the

door. Sansome stared with all his might.

Nan Keith had made the usual miraculous recovery from seasickness once

she felt the solid ground beneath, her. The beautiful baby-textured

skin had come alive with soft colour, her dark, wide, liquid eyes had

brightened. She had assumed a soft, silken, wrapperlike garment with, a

wide sash, borrowed from Mrs. Sherwood; and at the moment was seated in

an enveloping armchair beneath a wide-shaded lamp. The firm, soft lines

of her figure, uncorseted in this negligée, were suggested beneath the

silk. Sansome stopped short, staring, his eyes kindling with, interest.

Here was something not only new but different--a distinct addition.

Sansome, like most dilettantes, was something of a phrase maker, and

prided himself on the apt word. He found it here, to his own

satisfaction, at least.

"Her beauty is positively creamy!" he murmured to himself.

At sight of her Keith crossed directly to her, full of a sudden,

engaging, tender solicitude.

"How are you feeling now, honey?" he inquired. "Quite recovered? All

right now?"

But Nan was inclined to be a little vexed and reproachful. She had been

left alone, with strangers, altogether too long. Keith excused himself

volubly and convincingly--she had been asleep--she was much better off

not being disturbed--that this was true was proven by results--she was

blooming, positively blooming--as fresh as a rose leaf--of course it

was rather an imposition on the Sherwoods, but the baggage hadn't come

up yet, and they were kind people, our sort, the sort for whom the word

obligation did not exist--he, personally, had not intended being gone

so long, but by the rarest of chances he had run across some of the men

to whom, he had introductions, and they had been most kind in making

him acquainted--nothing was more important to a young lawyer than to

"establish connections"--it did not do to overlook a chance.

He urged all this, and more, with all his usual, vital, enthusiastic

force. In spite of herself, she was overborne to a reproachful

forgiveness.

In the meantime Mrs. Sherwood had gone over to where Ben Sansome was

still standing by the door. Sansome did not like Mrs. Sherwood. He

considered that she had no social tact at all. This was mainly--though

he did not analyze it--because she was quite apt to speak the direct

and literal truth to him; because she had a disquieting self-confidence

and competence in place of appropriate, graceful, feminine dependence;

but especially because she had never and would never play up to his

game.

"Are you making a formal afternoon call, Ben?" she asked in her cool,

mocking voice. "Aren't you really a little _de trop?_"

"I did not come of my own volition at this time, I assure you," he

replied a trifle stiffly. The thought that he was suspected of a

blunder in social custom stung him; as, in a rather lazily amused way,

she knew it would.

At this reply she glanced keenly toward Keith, then nodded; slowly.

"I see," she conceded.

Sansome moved to go. But at this Keith's attention was attracted. He

sprang forward, seized Sansome's arm, insisted on introducing him to

Nan, was over-effusive, over-cordial, buoyant. Both Sansome and Mrs.

Sherwood were experienced enough to yield entirely to his mood. They

understood perfectly that at the least opposition Keith was in just the

condition to reveal himself, perhaps, to break over the frail barrier

that separates exhilaration from loss of self-control. They saw also

that Nan had no suspicion of the state of affairs. Indeed, following

the reaction from her long voyage and her illness, she responded and

played up to Keith's high spirits. Neither wanted her to grasp the

situation if it could be avoided: Mrs. Sherwood from genuine good

feeling, Sansome because of the social awkwardness and bad taste.

Besides, he felt that his presence at such a scene would be a very bad

beginning for himself.

"No, you're not going," Keith was insisting; "you don't realize what a

celebration this is! Here we've pulled up all our roots, haven't we,

Nan? and come thousands of miles to a new country, a wonderful country;

and the very first day of our landing you want us to act as though

nothing had happened!"

Nan nodded a vigorous assent to his implied reference to her.

"And what we're going to do is to celebrate," insisted Keith. "You're

all going to dine with us. No, I insist! You're the only friends we

have out here, and you aren't going to desert us the very first day we

need you."

"I wish you would!" cried Nan, sitting forward eagerly.

They tried to expostulate, to get out of it, but without avail. It

seemed easier to promise. Keith rushed out to look for his baggage, to

arrange for rooms, leaving the three together to await his return.