A NEW GENERATION
Isaac S. Kalloch was the labor candidate for mayor. People said he was
the greatest pulpit orator in San Francisco since Starr King. His Sunday
sermons at the Metropolitan Temple were crowded; as a campaign orator he
drew great throngs.
Robert's dislike for the man was mitigated by a queer involuntary
gratitude. Without that bit of paternal familiarity, which had goaded
the young lawyer to impulsive protective championship, he and Maizie
Carter, the little golden-haired cashier, might have found the road to
comradeship much longer.
For comrades they had become almost at once. At least so they fondly
fancied. Robert's mother wondered why he missed so many meals from home.
The rococo restaurant gained a steady customer. And the host of
cavaliers who lingered in the hope of seeing Maizie home each evening
diminished to one. He was often invited into the vine-clad cottage at
the top of Powell street hill. Sometimes he sat with Maizie on a
haircloth sofa and looked at Mrs. Carter's autograph album. It contained
some great names that were now no longer written. James Lick, David
Broderick, Colonel E.D. Baker and the still lamented Ralston, of whom
Maizie's mother never tired of talking. He, it seems, was wont to give
her tips on mining stocks. Acting on them, she had once amassed $10,000.
"But I lost it all after the poor, dear man passed away," she would say,
with a tear in her eye. "Once that fellow Mills--I hate his fishy
eyes!--looked straight at me and said, 'See the poor old mud-hen'!"
She began to weep softly. Maizie sprang to comfort her, stroking the
stringy gray hair with tender, youthful fingers. "Mother quit the market
after that. She hasn't been near Pauper Alley for a year ... not since
I've been working at the Mineral Cafe. And we've three hundred dollars
in the bank."
"Ah, yes," said the mother, fondly. "Maizie's a brave girl and a thrifty
one. We're comfortable--and independent, even though the rich grind down
the poor." Her eyes lighted. "Wait till Kalloch is elected ... then
we'll see better times, I'll warrant."
Robert was too courteous to express his doubts.
Later he discussed the situation with Francisco. His paper had printed
an "expose" of Kalloch, who struck back with bitter personal
denunciation of his editorial foes. "It's a nasty mess," Francisco said
disgustedly.
"Broderick used to tell my father that politics had always been a
rascal's paradise because decent men wouldn't run for office--nor vote
half of the time.... I'm going to write an article about it for The
Overland. And Pixley of the Argonaut has given me a chance to do some
stories. I shall be an author pretty soon--like Harte and Clemens."
"Or a poet like this Cincinnatus Heinie Miller, whom one hears about.
Fancy such a name. I should think he'd change it."
"He has already," laughed Francisco. "Calls himself Joaquin--after
Marietta, the bandit. Joaquin Miller--rather catchy, isn't it? And he's
written some really fine lines. Showed me one the other day that's
called 'Columbus.' It's majestic. I tell you that fellow will be
famous one day."
"Pooh!" scoffed Robert; "he's a poseur--ought to be an actor, with his
long hair and boots and sash.... How is the fair Jeanne?"
Francisco's face clouded. "I want her to leave newspaper work and try
literature," he said, "but Jeanne's afraid to cut loose. She's earning
her living ... and she's alone in the world. No one to fall back on,
you know."
"But she'd make more money at real writing, wouldn't she?" asked Robert.
"Ever since Harte wrote that thing about 'The Luck of Roaring Camp,'
which the lady proofreader said was indecent, he's had offers from the
Eastern magazines. John Carmony's paying him $5,000 a year to edit the
Overland and $100 for each poem or story he writes."
"Ah, yes, but Bret Harte is a genius."
"Maybe Jeanne's another," Robert ventured.
Francisco laughed ruefully. "I've told her that ... but she says no....
'I'm just a woman,' she insists, 'and not a very bright one at that.'
She has all kinds of faith in me, but little in herself." He made an
impatient gesture. "What can a fellow do?"
Robert looked at him a moment thoughtfully. "Why not--marry Jeanne?"
Dull red crept into Francisco's cheeks. Then he laughed.
"Well--er--probably she wouldn't have me."
"There's only one way to find out," his cousin persisted. "She's alone
... and you're soon going to be. When do your folks start on their
'second honeymoon,' as they call it?"
"Oh, that trip around the world--why, in a month or two. As soon as
father closes out his business."
"You could have the house then--you and Jeanne."
"Say!" exclaimed Francisco suddenly, "you're such a Jim Dandy to manage
love affairs! Why don't you get married yourself?"
It was Robert's turn to flush. "I'm quite willing," he said shortly.
"Won't she have you?" asked his cousin sympathetically.
"'Tisn't that ... it's her mother. Maizie won't leave her ... and she
won't bring her into our home. Mrs. Carter's peculiar ... and Maizie
says we're young. Young enough to be unselfish."
"She's a fine girl," returned Francisco. "Well, good bye." He held out a
cordial hand.
"I--I'll think over what you said."
"Good luck, then," Robert answered as they gripped.
* * * * *
Adrian Stanley was closing up his affairs. As a contractor he had
prospered; his reclaimed city lots had realized their purchase price a
hundred fold and his judiciously conservative investments yielded golden
fruit. Adrian was not a plunger. But in thirty years he had accumulated
something of a fortune.... And now they were to travel, he and Inez, for
a year or so.
He had provided, too, for Francisco. The latter, though he did not know
it, would have $20,000 to his credit in the Bank of California. Adrian
planned to hand his son the bank deposit book across the gang plank as
the ship cast off. They were going first to the Sandwich Islands. Then
on to China, India, the South Seas. Each evening, sometimes until
midnight, they perused the illustrated travel-folders, describing
routes, hotels, trains, steamships.
"You're like a couple of children," smiled Francisco on the evening
before their departure. He was writing a novel, in addition to the other
work for Carmony and Pixley. Sometimes it was hard work amid this
unusual prattle by his usually sedate and silent parents. He tried to
imagine the house without them; his life, without their familiar and
cherished companionship.... It would be lonely. Probably he would rent
the place, when his novel was finished ... take lodgings down town.