INDUSTRIAL UNREST
About the Bank of California was a surging press of men and women. The
doors of that great financial institution were closed, blinds drawn, as
on the previous day. Now and then an officer or director passed the
guarded portals. D.O. Mills was one of these, his stern, ascetic face
more severe than usual.
Francisco Stanley pushed his way up to the carriage as it started.
"Will the bank reopen, Mr. Mills?" he asked, walking along beside the
moving vehicle.
The financier's eyes glared from the inner shadows. "Yes, yes.
Certainly," he snapped. "Very shortly ... as soon as we can levy an
assessment" The coachman whipped up his horses; the carriage rolled off.
Francisco turned to face his uncle. "What did he say?" asked Benito.
Others crowded close to hear the young editor's answer. The word found
it way through the crowd. "The bank will reopen.... They'll levy an
assessment.... We won't lose a cent."
Gradually the throng disbanded. Everywhere one heard expressions of
sorrow for Ralston; doubt of the story that he had destroyed his life.
As a matter of fact a coroner's jury found that death resulted from
cerebral attack. An insurance company waived its suicide exemption
clause and paid his widow $50,000.
The Bank of California was reopened. Ralston, buried with the pomp and
splendor of a sorrowing multitude, was presently forgotten. Few new
troubles came upon the land. Overspeculation in the Comstock lode
brought economic unrest.
Thousands were unemployed in San Francisco. Agitators rallied them at
public meetings into furious and morbid groups. From the Eastern States
came telegraphic news of strikes and violence. Adrian returned one
evening, tired and harassed.
"I don't know what's got into the working people," he said to Inez.
"Oh, they'll get over that," pronounced Francisco, with the sweeping
confidence of youth. "These intervals of discontent are periodical--like
epidemics of diseases."
Adrian glanced at the treatise on Political Economy in his son's hand.
"And what would you suggest, my boy?" he asked with a faint smile.
"Leave them alone," said Francisco. "It goes through a regular form.
They have agitators who talk of Bloodsucking Plutocrats, Rights of the
People and all that. But it generally ends in mere words."
"The Paris Commune didn't end in mere words," reminded Adrian.
"Oh, that!" Francisco was a trifle nonplussed. "Well, of course--"
"There have been serious riots in Eastern States."
"But--they had leaders. Here we've none."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Adrian thoughtfully. "D'ye know that
Irish drayman, Dennis Kearney?"
"Y-e-s ... the one who used to be a sailor?"
"That's the man. He's clever; knows men like a book.... Has power and a
knack for words. He calls our Legislature 'The Honorable Bilks.' Wants
to start a Workingmen's Party. And he'll do it, too, or I'm mistaken.
His motto is 'The Chinese Must Go!'"
"By Harry! There's a story for the paper," said Francisco. "I must see
the fellow."
Robert Windham and Po Lun were out for a morning promenade. They often
walked together of a Sunday. Robert, though he was now twenty-six, still
retained his childhood friendship for the Chinese servitor; found him an
agreeable, often-times a sage companion. Urged by Alice, whose ambitious
love included all within her ken, Po Lun attended night school; he could
read and write English passably, though the letter "r" still foiled his
Oriental tongue. Today they were out to have a look at the new
city hall.
On a sand lot opposite several hundred men had gathered, pressing round
a figure mounted on a barrel. The orator gesticulated violently. Now and
then there were cheers. A brandishing of fists and canes. Po Lun halted
in sudden alarm. "Plitty soon they get excited. They don't like Chinese.
I think maybe best we go back."
But already Po's "pig-tail" had attracted attention. The speaker pointed
to him.
"There's one of them Heathen Chinese," he cried shrilly. "The dirty
yaller boys what's takin' bread out of our mouths. Down with them, I
say. Make this a white man's country."
An ominous growl came from the crowd. Several rough-looking fellows
started toward Robert and Po Lun. The latter was for taking to his
heels, but Robert stood his ground.
"What do you fellows want?"
They paused, abashed by his intrepid manner. "No offense, young man. We
ain't after you. It's that Yaller Heathen.... The kind that robs us of a
chance to live."
"Po Lun has never robbed anyone of a chance to live. He's our cook ...
and my friend. You leave him alone."
"He sends all his money back to China," sneered another coming closer,
brandishing a stick. "A fine American, ain't he?"
"A better one than you," said Robert hotly. Anger got the better of his
judgment and he snatched the stick out of the fellow's hand, broke it,
threw it to the ground.
Savagely they fell upon him. He went down, stunned by a blow on the
head, a sense of crushing weight that overwhelmed his strength. He was
vaguely conscious of a tirade of strange words, of an arm at the end of
which was a meat cleaver, lashing about. The vindictive bark of a
pistol. Shouts, feet running. A blue-coated form. A vehicle with
champing horses that stood by.
"Are you hurt very bad, young feller?"
Robert moved his arms and legs. They appeared intact. He rose, stiffly.
"Where's Po Lun?"
"In the wagon."
Robert, turning, observed an ambulance. "Not--dead?"
"Well, pretty near it," said the policeman. "He saved your life though,
the yellow devil. Laid out half a dozen of them hoodlums with a hatchet.
He's shot through the lungs. But Doc. says he's got a chance."
* * * * *
Late that afternoon William T. Coleman sat closeted with Chief Ellis of
the San Francisco police. Coleman bore but scant resemblance to the
youth of 1856. He was heavier, almost bald, moustached, more settled,
less alert in manner. Yet his eyes had in them still the old invincible
gleam of leadership.
"But," he was saying to the man in uniform, "that was twenty years ago.
Can't you find a younger chap to head your Citizens' Committee?"
"No," said Ellis shortly. "You're the one we need. You know the way to
deal with outlaws ... how to make the citizens respond. Do you know that
the gang wrecked several Chinese laundries after the attack on Windham?
That they threaten to burn the Pacific Mail docks?"
Chief Ellis drew a little nearer. "General McComb of the State forces
has called a mass meeting. He wishes you to take charge...."