DENNIS KEARNEY
Weeks went by and brought no further outbreak. Chinatown which, for a
time, was shuttered, fortified, almost deserted, once again resumed its
feverish activities. In the theaters, funny men made jokes about the
labor trouble. In the East strikes had abated. All seemed safe and
orderly again.
But San Francisco had yet to deal with Dennis Kearney.
Dennis, born in County Cork just thirty years before, filled adventurous
roles since his eleventh year, mostly on the so-called "hell-ships"
which beat up and down the mains of trade. In 1868 he first set foot in
San Francisco as an officer of the clipper "Shooting Star." Tiring of
the sea he put his earnings in a draying enterprise. This, for half a
dozen years, had prospered.
Suddenly he cast his business interests to the winds. Became a labor
agitator.
Francisco Stanley, who had sought him, questing for an interview since
morning, cornered him at last in Bob Woodward's What Cheer House at
Sacramento and Leidesdorff streets. It was one of those odd institutions
found only in this vividly bizarre metropolis of the West. For "two
bits" you could get a bed and breakfast at the What Cheer House, both
clean and wholesome enough for the proudest. If you had not the coin, it
made little difference. One room was fitted out as a museum and
contained the many curious articles which had found their way into
Woodward's hands. Another room was the hotel library; the first free
reading room in San Francisco.
At the What Cheer House all kinds of people gathered. Stanley, as he
peeped into the library, noted a judge of the Superior Court poring over
a volume of Dickens. He waved a salute to tousle-haired, eagle-beaked
Sam Clemens, whose Mark Twain articles were beginning to attract
attention from the Eastern publishers. Near him, quietly sedate,
absorbed in Macaulay, was Bret Harte. He had been a Wells-Fargo
messenger, miner, clerk and steam-boat hand, so rumor said, and now he
was writing stories of the West. Stanley would have liked to stop and
chat ... but Kearney must be found and interviewed before The Chronicle
went to press.
Presently a loud, insistent voice attracted his attention. It was
penetrating, violent, denunciatory. Francisco knew that voice. He went
into an outer room where perhaps a dozen rough-clad men were gathered
about a figure of medium height, compactly built, with a broad head,
shifting blue eyes and a dynamic, nervous manner.
"Don't forget," he pounded fist on palm for emphasis, "on August 18 we
organize the party. Johnny Day will be the prisident. We'll make thim
bloody plutocrats take notice." He paused, catching sight of Stanley.
Instantly his frowning face became all smiles. "Ah, here's me young
friend, the reporter," he said. "Come along Misther Stanley, and I'll
give yez a yarn for the paper. Lave me tell ye of the Workingmen's Trade
and Labor Union."
He kept Francisco's pencil busy.
"There ain't no strings on us. We're free from all political
connections. We're for oursilves. Get that."
"Our password's 'The Chinese Must Go.'"
"How do you propose to accomplish this?" asked Stanley.
"Aisy enough," returned the other with supreme confidence. "We'll have
the treaty wid Chiny changed. We'll sind back all the yellow divils if
they interfere wid us Americans."
Stanley could not repress a smile. Kearney himself had been naturalized
only a year before.
For an hour he unfolded principles, threatened men of wealth, pounded
Stanley's knee until it was sore and finally stalked off, highly pleased
with himself.
"He's amusing enough," said Francisco to his father that evening. "But
we mustn't underrate him as you said. The fellow has force. He knows the
way to stir up human passion and he'll use his knowledge to the full.
Also he knows equity and law. Some of his ideas are altruistic."
"What is he going to do to the Central Pacific nabobs if they don't
discharge their Chinese laborers?" asked Adrian.
Young Stanley laughed. "He threatens to dynamite their castles on the
hill."
His father did not answer immediately. "It may not be as funny as you
think," he commented.
* * * * *
With the weeks Po Lun mended rapidly. Hang Far was at his bedside many
hours each day. Alice often found them chatting animatedly.
"When I get plenty well, we mally," Po informed her. "Maybeso go back to
China. What you say, Missee Alice?"
"I think you'd better stay with me," she countered. "As for Hang Far,
we'll find room for her." She smiled dolefully. "I'm getting to be an
old lady, Po Lun ... I need more help in the house."
"You nebbeh get old, Missee Alice," said the sick man. "Twenty yea' I
know you--always like li'l gi'l."
"Nonsense, Po!" cried Alice. Nevertheless she was pleased. "Will you and
Hang Far stay with me?"
"I t'ink so, Missee," Po replied. "By 'n' by we take one li'l tlip fo'
honeymoon. But plitty soon come back."
* * * * *
The labor movement grew and Dennis with it--both in self-importance and
in popularity. He went about the State making speeches, threatening the
"shoddy aristocrats who want an emperor and a standing army to shoot
down the people."
Every Sunday he harangued a crowd of his adherents on a sand-lot near
the city hall and owing to this fact his followers were dubbed "The
Sand-Lot Party." One day Robert, after hearing them discourse, returned
home shaken and angry.
"The man's a maniac," he told his father; "he talked of nothing but
lynching railroad magnates and destroying their property. He wants to
blow up the Pacific Mail docks and burn the steamers ... to drop
dynamite from balloons on Chinatown."
Young Stanley joined them, smiling, and dropped into a chair. "Whew!" he
exclaimed, "it's been a busy day down at the office. Have you heard that
Dennis Kearney's been arrested?"