the business of taking passengers and baggage ashore. The ship's boats
also began work early; and now, at last, Charley found himself embarked
in a skiff and making for the shore. He did not see any of the Jacobs
party, on the decks or in the other boats. As like as not, then, they
had sneaked away during the night.
The one wharf toward which the boat seemed to be making was crowded
with people and piled high with baggage. Every inch appeared
occupied--and now another difficulty presented. The tide was out, for
the water ended a quarter of a mile from the shore! The boat
sluggishly stopped.
"Here you are," said one of the boatmen. "Tumble out."
"What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Adams. "We've paid you two dollars
each to take us ashore. You don't expect us to walk through this mud,
do you?"
"Walk or fly. This is shore, as you can see for yourself. Boats don't
travel on stilts, in this country."
Other boats also were being stuck, and many of the passengers were
already wading knee-deep in ooze, for the dry land.
"An outrage!" exclaimed Mr. Adams.
"We can't control the tides, stranger, even in California," spoke the
other boatman. "We can leave you here and come again in about four
hours and take you the rest of the way for two dollars more. Tide'll
be turned by that time."
"What'll you charge to carry us in from here, now?" asked Mr. Grigsby.
"Five dollars apiece for self and baggage."
"Come on, Charley," bade Mr. Adams. "Off with your boots and
stockings. We can do as the rest do."
"That's the talk," approved Mr. Grigsby.
Barefooted, trousers rolled high, out they stepped, and lugging their
bed rolls and other hand baggage, stumped for the shore.
"Five dollars apiece!" muttered Mr. Grigsby. "Money must be mighty
cheap out here."
"If that's a sample of prices, the quicker Charley and I get out of
town, the better," answered Mr. Adams. "Eh, Charley?"
All along the stretch of tide-flats passengers from the _California_
were wading ashore. The women were being carried pickaback--and
screamed when their helpers stumbled. It was a comical sight, for
several men already had tripped and fallen, and were a mass of mud.
A number of men and boys were digging in the mud for clams. One man
they passed had such an odd appearance that Charley turned and stared
back at him. He was of a strange yellow complexion, his eyes were set
slantwise, he wore a short, loose, bluish frock with wide sleeves, and
a round little hat, and down his back hung a long pig-tail.
"There's a queer sort of Injun," remarked Mr. Grigsby. "Some sort of a
Sandwich Islander, I reckon."
"No; that's a Chinese--a Chinaman they call him in New Orleans," said
Mr. Adams. "I've seen some down there, and in Mexico, too."
"Well, he's an odd one, all right," insisted the Frémonter. And
Charley agreed.
The crowd on the wharf and shore were cheering and laughing at the
antics in the mud. From the wharf a long, steep flight of steps led
down, and up this, in the procession, toiled the Adams party.
It was a very good-natured crowd, almost all men, in rough costumes of
miner's red or blue or gray shirts, and trousers tucked into boots,
slouch hats, faces well whiskered and pistols and knives thrust through
belts. Some of the men were uproariously greeting newly-arrived
relatives and friends; but there was no one here to greet the Adams
party. So the first thing to do was to find the trunk, and then a
lodging-place.
"What's the proper hotel, Grigsby?" inquired Mr. Adams.
"I'll find out." And Mr. Grigsby addressed the nearest citizen--a
small, gray-shirted man with a beard almost as gray. "Pardner, what
are the lodging-houses here now? City Hotel still running?"
"City Hotel, Parker House, Portsmouth Hotel, United States Hotel;
they're all running, and full to the roofs, too, stranger. If you want
a bed you've got to make tracks--and I reckon by the looks of your feet
you'll make 'em."
"We'll go up to the plaza, I reckon, then," said Mr. Grigsby, to his
partners. "Better put on our boots first."
They wiped their feet on a piece of old canvas lying near, and donned
their stockings and boots.
"How'll we get our trunk up to the hotel, I wonder?" spoke Charley's
father. "Here----" and he called to a couple of Mexicans standing
near. "Want to earn fifty cents?"
The Mexicans laughed, and shrugged their shoulders; and one of them, in
a very impudent fashion, made a derisive answer in Spanish. Charley's
father colored, and took an angry step forward; but a miner stopped him.
"Go easy, stranger," he said. "This is a free land." He thrust his
hand into his pocket, and actually extended to Mr. Adams two dollars.
"Carry your trunk yourself," he said. "Fifty cents wouldn't take it to
the end of this wharf." And the onlookers shouted at the joke.
So Mr. Adams laughed.
"All right," he uttered. "I offered what I thought was a fair wage.
If somebody'll kindly help us up with that trunk we'll tend to the
other baggage and pay the regular tariff."
"Now you're talkin'," approved the miner. "Why, most of us out here
wouldn't stoop over to pick up four bits. What's four bits, in these
diggin's? 'Twouldn't buy a cup of coffee. But say, if you really want
to make easy money, instead o' spendin' it, I've got a little
investment worth your attention."
"What is it?"
"Best water lot in the city."
A score of voices interrupted, and the Adams party found themselves
almost mobbed.
"Don't listen to him. Hear me!"
"If you want a water lot----"
"No, no; I've got 'em all skinned."
"Wait a minute, now."
"The most valuable proposition in California."
"A water lot is what you ought to have. As soon as the city builds
out----"
And so forth, and so forth. It was most bewildering.
"Where is your lot, sir?" demanded Mr. Adams.
"Right under the red skiff yonder," directed the first miner. "Level
and sightly, as you can see as soon as the tide's full out. Straight
in line for the extension of Clay Street. Can't be beat."
"What's your price?" asked Mr. Grigsby, with a wink at Charley.
"You can have that fine lot for only $10,000 cash. It's worth $15,000."
Mr. Adams threw back his head and laughed, and laughed. Even Mr.
Grigsby guffawed. And Charley was indignant. These San Franciscans
must think them awful green, to offer them "lots" away out in the
bay--and at $10,000!
"Come on, boys!" bade his father. "I'm afraid, gentlemen, that your
real estate doesn't appeal. It might make a good navy yard, but not
the kind of a yard that I could use for my family."
"You'll see the day when you'll wish you'd taken some of those lots,
strangers," warned the man, after them.
And so they did--although that seemed ridiculous. The "water lots" are
now almost in the centre of the business district of great San
Francisco, and worth ten times ten thousand dollars.
It was an amazing town that they traversed, carrying their hand baggage
and followed by a couple of Mexicans who for the promise of two dollars
had deigned to pick up the trunk. Few of the buildings seemed
finished, and all looked as if they had just been put up, in a great
hurry. They were made from canvas rudely tacked on warped boards, of
rusty sheet-iron and tin, of brown clay or "adobe," of newly-sawed
rough lumber, of pieces of boxes and flattened cans, and one was even
built of empty boxes piled up for walls, with a canvas roof. But all
these stores were full of goods, many not yet unpacked, and of buyers,
and every third or fourth store was a saloon and gambling house, fuller
still. As for the streets, they were full, too,--and with what a queer
mixture of people!
The Americans were evidently as widely varied as on board ship. The
best dressed were smooth-shaven, quiet men in white shirts, black ties,
and well-fitting broadcloth and polished boots--the cool, professional
gamblers, as Charley somehow guessed. He had seen their like in St.
Louis, and on the ship. The others wore mainly the regulation
Californian costume of flannel shirt, etc.,--and with them it seemed to
be the fashion not to shave at all. Such whiskers! But every nation
under the sun appeared to be represented. Why, it was better than any
geography book.
Everybody seemed to be in a great hurry, acting as if should they
linger anywhere more than a minute they would be missing something.
There was something in the cool, windy air, fresh from the lively bay,
that made Charley himself throw out his chest and step lively. The
talk, right and left, was of the jerky, impatient type, and in terms of
dollars--dollars, dollars, thousands of dollars. Nobody acted poor,
all walked and talked gold; one would have thought that the very dirt
was gold--and as he trudged briskly, following the lead of Mr. Grigsby,
Charley saw people grubbing on hands and knees, with knives, in the
very street. Yes, he saw some boys, no older than he, doing this, and
one with a grin showed him half a handful of golden specks and dirt
mixed, that he evidently had scraped up!
The streets had no sidewalks, and in spots were thick with dust, blown
by gusts of wind. Mr. Grigsby plainly enough knew where he was going,
for at last he led into a vacant square, which was the plaza. A sign
on a long, two-and-a-half story wooden building, unpainted, said:
"Parker-house. Board and lodging." Under the sign Mr. Grigsby
stopped, and eased his arms.
"We'll try this," he said. "It's been built since I was here last
year. Great Jimmy, but how the town has grown! I'm mighty near lost
in it. I remember this old plaza, though. There's the City Hotel,
across. There's the old custom-house, too; that adobe building, with
the flagpole in front of it, where the flag was raised in Forty-six, by
the Navy. Well, let's go in."
They entered. The place was crowded.
"Yes, sir; I can give you one room, with two beds in it, upstairs,"
informed the clerk at the counter. "It's positively all we have, and
you're lucky to get that."
"What's the tariff?" queried Mr. Adams.
"Rates are twenty-five dollars a week, each, for bed; twenty dollars a
week for board."
Mr. Adams shook his head, and looked at Charley.
"I'm afraid we'll have to try elsewhere," he said. "Let's go across
the street."
"City Hotel is full; you can't get even blanket room," declared the
clerk. "The Frémont Hotel, down on the water-front, charges the same
as we do, and supplies fleas for nothing. If you don't want the room,
stand aside. Next!"
"But aren't your rates pretty high?" queried Mr. Adams, puzzled.
"High, my friend?" retorted the clerk. "Do you know where you are?
You're in San Francisco, where people dig gold in the streets. And do
you know what rent we pay, for this building? One hundred and ten
thousand dollars a year, my friend. The Eldorado tent-building next to
us rents at $40,000 the year; it measures exactly fifteen by
twenty-five feet. Out here, gentlemen, a hole in the ground rents for
at least $250 a month. Last April there were but thirty houses in the
whole town, and now there are 500."
"We don't want the room for a week. We'll take it for a night, though.
We're on our way to the mines," said Mr. Adams.
"So is everybody else," sharply answered the clerk. "For one night the
room is five dollars apiece, and I'll be losing money at that."
"All right. We've got a trunk out in front. Have it sent up, please."
"Can't do it, sir. Every man is his own porter, in this town. The
stairs are fairly wide. I'll show you up."
The Mexicans had dropped the trunk on the long porch, and refused to
carry it another inch. And when they were to be paid off, they
insisted that the two dollars meant two dollars apiece! Bystanders
gravely agreed that this was the correct price.
"Whew!" sighed Mr. Adams, with a quizzical smile, after he had paid.
"No wonder that twenty dollars a day is small wages, out here. What an
enormous amount of money there must be in circulation! Grab an end,
Charley. Come along, Grigsby. Let's inspect our quarters."
XV
THE SIGHTS OF SAN FRANCISCO
Charley took one end of the trunk, his father the other, and piloted by
the hotel man, with Mr. Grigsby, lugging the hand baggage, in their
wake, they climbed two flimsy flights of stairs to the third floor!
The hotel man led the way down a narrow hall of rough boards, and flung
open a door.
"Here's your room," he announced, shortly. "Don't ask for what you
don't see. We haven't got it. You're lucky, gentlemen, not to be
obliged to sleep in a tent--and San Francisco nights are cold. Five
dollars each, please."
"Certainly," said Mr. Adams; and he and Mr. Grigsby settled for the
party.
"Well," remarked Mr. Grigsby, when the hotel man alertly left, "I've
been in worse quarters."
"Don't bump your head," warned Mr. Adams.
It was a dormer room. The ceiling, of bare rafters, sloped sharply.
The walls also were bare, made of unsurfaced boards, warped and
cracked. There were two "beds": one a low bunk, home-made and solid
but not pretty, the other a wobbly canvas cot. Each had a pair of gray
blankets as bedclothes. There were a couple of rickety chairs, a
home-made table bearing a wash pitcher and a tin basin, with a towel
hanging from a nail over it, beside a cracked looking-glass, and in the
end of the room a small window dulled by dust. Charley tried to look
out through the window, but could dimly see only the tops of the roofs,
across. From below, and from the city around, floated in through the
thin floors and walls a medley of voices and bustle.
"Guess we'd better unpack some of our stuff, and sort what washing we
want done," quoth his father, cheerily. "When we take it out we can
look about and get what other supplies we need; eh, Grigsby? What are
your plans?"
"Same as yours, if you say so," answered the Frémonter.
"You mean to say you'll go along with Charley and me?"
"Why, yes. This town's too crowded for me, already. Doesn't strike me
as a very healthy place to loaf in. Money, money; that's all I've
heard. So I'm off for the diggin's, like the rest."
"Good. Shake," approved Mr. Adams, and Charley felt delighted. The
Frémonter was such a fine man; a loyal friend in need. "We'll stick
together as long as you can stand our company."
"Agreed," quoth Mr. Grigsby, shaking. "There'll be room enough in the
hills for us to spread out, if we want to."
They overhauled their baggage and wrapped their wash in some old
newspapers that had been stuffed into the trunk. Then they sallied
forth.
"Pshaw! There's no lock on the door," exclaimed Charley's father. "I
hate to leave all our stuff scattered around, in that fashion."
"It'll be all right, I reckon," said Mr. Grigsby. "Ask the clerk about
it."
"The door to our room has no lock," spoke Mr. Adams, to the hotel man,
when they had tramped below. "We've got quite a bunch of goods lying
open."
"That's all right, sir," answered the clerk. "They'll not be touched.
Not a door in this hotel has a lock. Thieves are given short shift in
San Francisco, and they know it. You can leave a bucket of gold out in
the street and it'll all be there when you want it again."
"Beg your pardon, gentlemen," spoke a voice near at hand, "but I see
you're carrying a newspaper or two. Would you sell them?"
He was a brusque, bearded man, in miner costume, but he spoke like a
person of education.
"I'll give you a dollar apiece," cried another man, hurrying forward;
and almost immediately the three in the Adams party were surrounded by
a crowd.
"Wait a minute," bade the first man. "I was here first. I'll give you
a dollar apiece."
Charley gasped. Were they crazy?
"But, gentlemen, these are only some old papers we happened to have as
fillers," protested Mr. Adams, as much astonished as Charley.
"How many have you got?" demanded the second speaker.
"Probably a dozen."
"Where from?"
"St. Louis; two or three from New York, maybe."
"I'll give you eight dollars for the lot."
"Give you nine," bid somebody else.
"But they're six weeks old, gentlemen," informed Mr. Adams.
"Only six weeks old?" queried the first man. "I'll give you ten
dollars for a dozen! And here's your money." He held out a ten-dollar
gold piece.
"Go up and get the other papers, Charley," directed Mr. Adams. "If
these men are crazy it isn't our fault. When you see the papers, if
you don't want them you needn't take them, sir," he said to the man.
"I'll take them," laughed the man, grimly. "Papers only six weeks old?
Why, stranger, that's fresh news out here. You can sell a thousand at
a dollar apiece."
"Wish I had them, then," remarked Mr. Adams. And Charley scuttled
away. He brought back all the crumpled papers that he could find.
They sold every one--the first lot at ten dollars for a dozen, and the
three more, in which the washing was wrapped, at dollar apiece on
delivery later!
"This will pay for our washing, at least," commented Mr. Adams. "Is
there a laundry near here?" he asked, of the clerk.
"Right around the corner."
"Thank you."
They went out--Charley sighing as he thought of the big stack of old
newspapers, back home. Why, they might have brought out a hundred
more! What a queer town this was, where people would pay a dollar
apiece for old papers! He resolved to write to his mother the first
thing, and tell her when _she_ came out to bring every old paper she
could find.
The air was much chillier than when they had arrived. A strong, gusty
wind was blowing, carrying clouds of dust, and because of this, and a
raw fog, the sunshine had waned from gold to gray. Nevertheless,
something in the atmosphere made them all step out briskly.
Around the corner of the plaza a torn canvas sign before a dingy
tent-house said: "Washing Done." And in through the open door they
filed. A short, stout Frenchman, apparently, stood behind the board
counter, and bowed at their approach. He wore a little black spike or
goatee, and his face fairly shone above a collarless shirt. From a
room behind sounded vigorous scrubbing and rinsing.
"You do washing?" demanded Mr. Adams.
"Oui, m'sieur."
"Here's some. When can we get it?"
"To-morrow morning, at the ten o'clock. And does m'sieur wish ze
_repassage_--what you call ir-ron?"
"What's the charge?" asked Mr. Grigsby.
"Seex dollair the dozen, m'sieur, for ze wash; the same for ze ir-ron."
"There goes your newspaper money, Adams," laughed the Frémonter. "I
think I'll do my own washing, after this."
"We have to live, my wife and I, messieurs," explained the Frenchman,
spreading his hands. "In France we live on ze very little. In New
York we have one très bon café, and we charge ze very little. But out
here----" and he shrugged his shoulders. "We wash, and for zis
meesairable caban--what you call it? hut--we pay ze price of 500
dollair ze month."
"Wash what we've brought, but don't you dare to iron them; eh,
Grigsby?" said Mr. Adams.
"Ze rough wash it shall be, messieurs," bowed the stout Frenchman.
"On the trap trail we washed twice a year--spring and fall," commented
Mr. Grigsby, as they trudged out. "That's plenty often enough here,
too, the way prices run."
"Look at the crowd!" exclaimed Mr. Adams, as they emerged at the
corner; for part way up a hilly street a great throng had gathered in
front of a low building, and a constant stream of other people were
hastening that way. "What's the matter up there?" he inquired, of a
passerby.
The man scarcely paused. He only turned his head, to drawl:
"Post-office, mister, and the mail's come in."
"That must be the mail we brought," cried Charley.
"If you came on the _California_, you brought it, sonny," informed
another stranger.
"When's the office open, sir?" inquired Mr. Adams.
"Whenever the mail's distributed, of course," replied the man. "I hear
the _California_ fetched about 25,000 pieces, in all languages from
American to Chinese. The postmaster and two assistants have been
working all night and they'll probably work all day and another night."
"Well, we don't expect anything this time; do you, Grigsby?"
The Frémonter shook his head.
"Nor do I," volunteered the strange man. "But I've a partner up there
who's been expecting a letter for six months. See those lines of
hopefuls? By noon they'll be extended two blocks. The first in line
must have got there as soon as the ship was sighted, last evening.
I've known men to wait in line for a week, and have their meals brought
to them. And then as like as not they didn't get their letter."
"I was thinking that we'd get what few supplies we need," said Mr.
Adams, as they resumed their way, "and start out for the diggin's in
the morning. There'll be some way of getting up there, I suppose."
"Yes, by boat, horse or foot," answered the Frémonter. "I don't reckon
we want to buy any horses, and it's a long trail afoot. I'll see about
a boat if you'll lay in what supplies you think we'll need."
"All right. Sugar, salt, flour, bacon and potatoes will be enough,
won't it?"
"Plenty. I'll meet you at the hotel at noon. Adios."
"Adios," replied Mr. Adams and Charley; and the tall Frémonter strode
away.
The throng at the post-office seemed to have no effect on the rest of
the down-town, for the streets were as crowded as before with hurrying
people, mostly men. New Yorkers, Arkansans, Illinoisans, Britishers,
Germans, Frenchmen, Swedes, Mexicans, Malays with long curved knives,
the queer Chinamen, and some swarthy persons, in brown ponchos (or
cloaks with a hole in the middle for the head), who his father said
were Peruvians and Chilians--all these passed hither-thither, only
pausing to bargain with each other or at the shops, until Charley's
brain whirled at the many odd sights. There were a few women, but none
who looked to him anything like his mother.
Across the plaza his father espied a new sign, in front of a shop built
of boxes. It said: "Potatoes for Sale. Just Received."
"That's what we want, Charley," he spoke; and for the place they made.
The potatoes were in open sacks, just inside the door--and that was the
shop's whole stock of goods.
"How much are your potatoes, my man?" asked Mr. Adams. "They look
pretty good."
"One dollar and a half. Yes, sir; they are good ones; came in only
this morning."
"Let me have a bushel, then, at a dollar and a half," bade Mr. Adams,
with satisfaction. "That's not an unreasonable price, is it, Charley!"
"We don't sell by the bushel; I quoted you the price by the pound,"
explained the potato merchant.
"What!" gasped Charley's father, again astounded. "You don't mean a
dollar and a half a _pound_?"
"You bet," smiled the merchant. "And going like hot cakes at that.
I'll not have a potato left, by night."
"Come on, Charley," laughed Mr. Adams. "We'll wait and grow our own
potatoes."
"I'll take all you can grow at your own price," challenged the
merchant, after them, as if growing potatoes out here in California was
impossible.
Suddenly a score of voices yelled: "Look out! Look out!" The crowd
jostling and bartering in the plaza parted and rushed to one side and
another, and people plunged headlong into the store doors. Mr. Adams
grabbed Charley by the arm and dragged him in the nearest doorway, too.
Amidst wild shouts and a cloud of dust, into the plaza charged a lean
red bull, with curving sharp horns and frothing mouth; close at his
heels pursued, on dead run, a horseman in Mexican costume, swinging his
riata, or noosed rawhide. The bull dodged--bolted right over a stand
where cakes were on sale--and over the stand sped the horseman, too.
His noose shot forward--it fell exactly over the bull's wide horns, and
to one side veered the quick horse. He braced as the rawhide tautened;
it snapped tight, and head down, heels up, the bull capsized in a
twinkling. The fiery horse held hard, bracing with his legs, while the
Californian sat straight and easy. As the bull struggled, with a
shrill whoop another rider like the first raced in, threw at full
speed, and noosed the bull by the two hind legs. With wave of hand and
flash of teeth the vaqueros, or cowboys, rode away, dragging the bull
through the plaza and out. The plaza filled up again, the shops
resumed business, and nobody appeared to be annoyed. Even the cake
seller gathered his cakes and joined in the laughter while several
persons helped him set up his booth again. Truly, this San Francisco
was a light-hearted, generous place.
"I should think that a man would make surer money farming than digging
for gold," declared Mr. Adams, after he and Charley had noted eggs
priced at twelve dollars a dozen, squashes at a dollar a pound, and
some cabbages at two dollars apiece! "Hello; there's Lieutenant
Sherman." For a spruce military figure was briskly crossing this plaza
of Portsmouth Square.