KING STARTS THE BULLETIN
After several months of business convalescence, San Francisco found
itself recovered from the financial chaos of February. Many well-known
men and institutions had not stood the ordeal; some went down the
pathway of dishonor to an irretrievable inconsequence and destitution;
others profited by their misfortunes and still others, with the
dauntless spirit of the time, turned halted energies or aspirations to
fresh account. Among them was James King of William.
The name of his father, William King, was, by an odd necessity,
perpetuated with his own. There were many James Kings and to avert
confusion of identities the paternal cognomen was added.
In the Bank Exchange saloon, where the city's powers in commerce,
journalism and finance were wont to congregate, King met, on a rainy
autumn afternoon, R.D. Sinton and Jim Nesbitt. They hailed him jovially.
Seated in the corner of an anteroom they drank to one another's health
and listened to the raindrops pattering against a window.
"Well, how is the auction business, Bob?" asked King.
"Not so bad," the junior partner of Selover and Sinton answered. "Better
probably than the newspaper or banking line.... Here's poor Jim, the
keenest paragrapher in San Francisco, out of work since the
_Chronicle's_ gone to the wall. And here you are, cleaned out by Adams &
Company's careless or dishonest work--I don't know which."
"Let's not discuss it," King said broodingly. "You know they wouldn't
let me supervise the distribution of the money. And you know what my
demand for an accounting brought ..."
"Abuse and slander from that boughten sheet, the Alta--yes," retorted
Sinton. "Well, you have the consolation of knowing that no honest man
believes it."
King was silent for a moment. Then his clenched hand fell upon the
table. "By the Eternal!" he exclaimed, with a sudden upthrust of the
chin. "This town must have a decent paper. Do you know that there are
seven murderers in our jail? No one will convict them and no editor has
the courage to expose our rotten politics." He glanced quickly from one
to the other. "Are you with me, boys? Will you help me to start a
journal that will run our crooked officials and their hired plug-uglies
out of town?... Sinton, last week you asked my advice about a good
investment ... Nesbitt, you're looking for a berth. Well, here's an
answer to you both. Let's start a paper--call it, say, the Evening
Bulletin."
Nesbitt's eyes glowed. "By the Lord Harry! it's an inspiration, King,"
he said and beckoned to a waiter to refill their glasses. "I know enough
about our State and city politics to make a lot of well-known citizens
hunt cover--"
Sinton smiled at the journalist's ardor. "D'ye mean it, James?" he
asked. "Every word," replied the banker. "But I can't help much
financially," he added. "My creditors got everything."
"You mean the King's treasury is empty," said Sinton, laughing at his
pun. "Well, well, we might make it go, boys. I'm not a millionaire, but
never mind. How much would it take?"
Nesbitt answered with swift eagerness. "I know a print shop we can buy
for a song; it's on Merchant street near Montgomery. Small but
comfortable, and just the thing. $500 down would start us."
Sinton pulled at his chin a moment. "Go ahead then," he urged. "I'll
loan you the money."
King's hand shot out to grasp the auctioneer's. "There ought to be
10,000 decent citizens in San Francisco who'll give us their support.
Let's go and see the owner of that print-shop now."
* * * * *
On the afternoon of October 5th, 1885, a tiny four-page paper made its
first appearance on the streets of San Francisco.
The first page, with its queer jumble of news and advertisements, had a
novel and attractive appearance quite apart from the usual standards of
typographical make-up. People laughed at King's naive editorial apology
for entering an overcrowded and none-too-prosperous field; they nodded
approvingly over his promise to tell the truth with fearless
impartiality.
William Coleman was among the first day's visitors.
"Good luck to you, James King of William," he held forth a friendly
hand. The editor, turning, rose and grasped it with sincere cordiality.
They stood regarding each other silently. It seemed almost as though a
prescience of what was to come lay in that curious communion of
heart and mind.
"Going after the crooks, I understand," said Coleman finally.
"Big and little," King retorted. "That's all the paper's for. I don't
expect to make money."
"How about the Southerners, the Chivalry party? They'll challenge you to
duels daily."
"Damn the 'Chivs'." King answered. "I shall ignore their challenges.
This duelling habit is absurd. It's grandstand politics; opera bouffe.
They even advertise their meetings and the boatmen run excursions to
some point where two idiots shoot wildly at each other for some fancied
slight. No, Coleman, I'm not that particular kind of a fool."
"Well, you'd better carry a derringer," the other warned. "There are
Broderick's plug-uglies. They won't wait to send a challenge."
King gave him an odd look. "I have feeling that one cannot change his
destiny," he said. "If I am to be killed--then so be it ... Kismet, as
the Orientals say. But meanwhile I'll fight corruption. I'll call men by
name and shout their sins from the housetops. We'll wake up the town, or
my name isn't James King of William.... Won't we, James?" He clapped a
hand on Nesbitt's shoulder. The other turned half irritably. "What? Oh,
yes. To be sure," he answered and resumed his writing. Charles
Gerberding, who held the title of publisher in the new enterprise,
looked up from his ledger. "If this keeps up," he said, smiling and
rubbing his hands, "we can enlarge the paper in a month or so." He shut
the volume with a slam and lighted a cigar.
"Hello, Coleman, how are the Vigilants? I'm told you still preserve a
tacit organization."
"More of the spirit than substance," said Coleman smiling. "I hope we'll
not need to revive it."
"Not so sure," responded Gerberding. "This man here," the cigar was
waved in King's direction, "this editor of ours is going to set the
town afire."
Coleman did not answer. He went out ... wondering whether Isaac Bluxome
was in town. Bluxome had served as secretary for the Vigilance
Committee of '51.