AN IDOL TOPPLES
News had come in early spring of Robert Windham senior's death in
Monterey; less than two months afterward his wife, Anita, lay beside him
in the Spanish cemetery.
The old Californians were passing; here and there some venerable Hidalgo
played the host upon broad acres as in ancient days and came to San
Francisco, booted, spurred, attended by a guard of vaqueros. But a new
generation gazed at him curiously and, after a lonely interval,
he departed.
Market street was now a lordly thoroughfare; horse-cars jingled merrily
along the leading streets. Up Clay street ran that wonder of the age, a
cable-tram invented by old Hallidie, the engineer. They had made game
of him for years until he demonstrated his invention for the conquering
of hills. Now the world was seeking him to solve its transportation
problems.
Ralston, as usual, was riding on the crest of fortune. His was a
veritable lust for city building. Each successive day he founded some
new enterprise.
"Like a master juggler," said Benito to his wife, "he keeps a hundred
interests in the air. Let's see. There are the Mission Woolen Mills, the
Kimball Carriage Works, the Cornell Watch Factory--of all things--the
West Coast Furniture plant, the San Francisco Sugar Refinery, the Grand
Hotel, a dry dock at Hunter's Point, the California Theater, a
reclamation scheme at Sherman Island, the San Joaquin Valley irrigating
system, the Rincon Hill cut, the extension of Montgomery street ..." he
checked them off on his fingers, pausing finally for lack of breath.
"You've forgotten the Palace Hotel," said Alice smiling.
"No," Benito said, "I hadn't got that far. But the Palace is typical.
Ralston wants San Francisco to have the best of everything the world can
give. He's mad about this town. It's wife and child to him. Why it's
almost his God!"
Alice looked into his eyes. "You're fearful for your prince! You Monte
Cristo!"
"Yes," he said, "I'm frankly worried. Something's got to drop.... It's
too--too splendid."
* * * * *
As he went down Market street toward Montgomery, Benito paused to
observe the new Palace Hotel. Hundreds of bricklayers, carpenters and
other workmen were raising it with astonishing speed. Hod-carriers raced
up swaying ladders, steam-winches puffed and snorted; great vats of lime
and mortar blockaded the street. It was to have a great inner court upon
which seven galleries would look down. Ralston boasted he would make it
a hotel for travelers to talk of round the world. And no one in San
Francisco doubted it.
Benito, eyes upraised to view the labors of a bustling human hive,
almost collided with two gentlemen, who were strolling westward, arm in
arm. He apologized. They roared endearing curses at him and insisted
that he join them in a drink.
They were J.C. Flood and W.S. O'Brien, former saloon proprietors now
reputed multi-millionaires.
Early in the seventies they had joined forces with Jim Mackey, a
blaster, at Virginia City and a mining man named J.G. Fair. Between them
they bought up the supposedly depleted Consolidated Virginia Mine,
paying from $4 to $9 each for its 10,700 shares. Mining experts smiled
good naturedly, forgot the matter. Then the world was brought upstanding
by the news of a bonanza hitherto unrivaled.
Con. Virginia had gained a value of $150,000,000.
After he had sipped the French champagne, on which Flood insisted and
which Windham disliked, the latter spoke of Ralston and his trouble with
the editors. "Some of the newspapers would have us think he's playing
recklessly, with other people's money," he said with irritation.
'"Well, well, and maybe he is, me b'y," returned O'Brien. "Don't blame
the newspaper fellahs.... They've raison to be suspicious, Hiven
knows.... Ralston's a prince. We all love the man. It's not that.
But--," he came closer, caught both of Benito's coat lapels in a
confidential grasp, "I'm tellin' ye this, me lad: If it should come to a
show-down ... if certain enemies should have a chance to call Bill
Ralston's hand, I tell ye, it would mean dee-saster!"
* * * * *
At 9 o'clock on the morning of August 25, Francisco Stanley entered the
private door of Windham's office. He was now an under-editor on The
Chronicle, which had developed from the old Dramatic Chronicle, into a
daily newspaper. Benito glanced up from his desk a bit impatiently; it
was a busy day.
"What's the matter, Francisco? You're excited."
"I've a right to be," the journalist spoke sharply. He glanced at his
uncle's secretary. "I must see you alone."
"Can't you come in later? I've a lot of clients waiting."
"For God's sake, Uncle Ben," the younger man said desperately, "send
them off."
Benito gazed at him, astonished. Then convinced by something in
Francisco's eyes, he nodded to the secretary who departed.
"It's Ralston ... word has reached the newspapers ... his bank has
failed."
Benito sprang to his feet. "You're crazy! It's--impossible!"
"Uncle Ben, IT'S TRUE!" His fingers closed almost spasmodically upon the
other's arm.
"How do you know?"
"RALSTON SAYS SO. I've just come from there.... He wants you."
Benito reached dazedly for his hat.
* * * * *
Benito found "Bill" Ralston in his private office, head bowed; eyes
dully hopeless. He looked ten years older.
"The Bank of California has failed," he said before the younger man
could ask a question. "It will never reopen its doors."
"I--I simply can't believe it!" After a stunned silence Benito spoke. He
laid a hand on the banker's shoulder. "All I have is at your
service, Ralston."
"Thank you ... but it isn't any use." He looked up misty-eyed. "I tried
to make this town the greatest in the world.... I went too far.... I
played too big a stake. Now--" he tried to smile. "Now comes the
reckoning."
"But, God Almighty! Ralston," cried Benito, "your assets must be
enormous.... It's only a matter of time. You'll pull through."
"They won't give me time," he spoke no names, yet Windham knew he meant
those who had turned from friends to enemies.
* * * * *
Two days later Francisco met Ralston coming out of the bank. His face
was haggard. His eyes had the look of one who has been struck an
unexpected blow.
"Will the directors' meeting take place today, Mr. Ralston?"
"It's in session now," he answered dully.
"Ah, I thought, perhaps--since you are leaving--it had been postponed."
Spots of red flamed in the banker's cheeks. "They've barred me from the
meeting," he replied and hurried on.
Several hours later newsboys ran through San Francisco's streets:
"EXTRA! EXTRA!" they screamed, "ALL ABOUT RALSTON'S SUICIDE."