FATE TAKES A HAND
Francisco found that Pickering's prophecy had been a true one. On a
subsequent visit to the Bush street saloon he found the Blind Boss
unapproachable. After waiting almost an hour and seeing several men who
had come after him, led to the rear room for a conference, word was
brought him by the little, keen-eyed man that the position of Mayor's
secretary was already filled. He was exceedingly polite, expressing "Mr.
Buckley's deep regret," about the matter. But there was in his eye a
furtive mockery, in his tight-lipped mouth a covert sneer.
Francisco went directly to the office of The Bulletin, relating his
experience to the veteran editor. "I supposed as much," said Pickering.
He tapped speculatively on the desk with his pencil. "What's more, I
think there's little to be done at present. Printing the story of
Platt's Hall will only be construed as a bit of political recrimination.
San Francisco rather fancies gambling palaces."
"Jack!" he called to a reporter. "See if you can locate Jerry Lynch." He
turned to Stanley. "There's the fellow for you: Senator Jeremiah Lynch.
Know him? Good. You get evidence on Buckley. Consult with Lynch
concerning politics. He'll tell you ways to checkmate Chris you wouldn't
dream of...."
Pickering smiled and picked up a sheet of manuscript. Francisco took the
hint. From that day he camped on Buckley's trail. Bit by bit he gathered
proofs, some documentary, some testimonial. No single item was of great
importance. But, as a whole, Robert had assured him, it was weaving a
net in which the blind boss might one day find himself entrapped.
Perhaps he felt its meshes now and then. For overtures were made to
Stanley. He was offered the position of secretary to Mayor Pond, but he
declined it. Word reached him of other opportunities; tips on the stock
market, the races; he ignored them and went on.
* * * * *
One night his house was broken into and his desk ransacked most
thoroughly. Twice he was set upon at night, his pockets rifled. Threats
came to him of personal violence. Finally the blind boss sent for him.
"Is there anything you want--that I can give you?" Buckley minced no
words.
Stanley shook his head. Then, remembering Buckley's blindness, he said
"No."
Buckley took a few short paces up and down the room, then added: "I'll
talk plain to you, my friend--because you're smart; too smart to be a
catspaw for an editor and a politician who hate me. Let me tell you
this, you'll do no good by keeping on." He spun about suddenly,
threateningly, "You've a wife, haven't you?"
"We'll not discuss that, Mr. Buckley," said Francisco stiffly.
"Nevertheless it's true ... and children?"
"N-not yet," said Francisco in spite of himself.
"Oh, I see. Well, that's to be considered.... It's not what you'd call a
time for taking chances, brother."
"What d'ye mean?" Francisco was a trifle startled.
"Nothing; nothing!" said the blind boss unctuously. "Think it over....
And remember, I'm your friend. If there's anything you wish, come to me
for it. Otherwise--"
Stanley looked at him inquiringly, but did not speak. Nor did Buckley
close his sentence. It was left suspended like the Damoclesian blade.
Francisco went straight home and found Jeanne busied with her needle and
some tiny garments, which of late had occupied her days. He was rather
silent while they dined, a bit uneasy.
* * * * *
Francisco usually went down town for lunch. There was a smart club
called the Bohemian, where one met artists, actors, writers. Among them
were young Keith, the landscape painter, who gave promise of a vogue;
Charley Stoddard, big and bearded; they called him an etcher with words;
and there were Prentice Mulford, the mystic; David Belasco of the
Columbia Theater. Francisco got into his street clothes, kissed Jeanne
and went out. It was a bright, scintillant day. He strode along
whistling.
At the club he greeted gaily those who sat about the room. Instead of
answering, they ceased their talk and stared at him. Presently Stoddard
advanced, looking very uncomfortable.
"Let's go over there and have a drink," he indicated a secluded corner.
"I want a chat with you."
"Oh, all right," said Francisco. He followed Stoddard, still softly
whistling the tune which had, somehow, caught his fancy. They sat down,
Charley Stoddard looking preternaturally grave.
"Well, my boy," Francisco spoke, "what's troubling you?"
"Oh--ah--" said the other, "heard from your folks lately, Francisco?"
"Yes, they're homeward bound. Ought to be off Newfoundland by now."
The drinks came. Stanley raised his glass, drank, smiling. Stoddard
followed, but he did not smile. "Can you bear a shock, old chap?" He
blurted. "I--they--dammit man--the ship's been wrecked."
Francisco set his glass down quickly. He was white. "The--The
Raratonga?"
Stoddard nodded. There was silence. Then, "Was any-body--drowned?"
Stanley did not need an answer. It was written large in Stoddard's
grief-wrung face. He got up, made his way unsteadily to the door. A page
came running after with his hat and stick and he took them absently.
Nearby was a newspaper office, crowds about it, bulletins announcing the
Raratonga's total destruction with all on board.
Francisco began to walk rapidly, without a definite sense of direction.
He found relief in that. The trade-wind was sharp in his face and he
pulled his soft hat down over his eyes. Presently he found himself in an
unfamiliar locality--the water-front--amid a bustling rough-spoken
current of humanity that eddied forward and back. There were many
sailors. From the doors of innumerable saloons came the blare of
orchestrions; now and then a drunken song.
Entering one of the swinging doors, Francisco called for whisky. He felt
suddenly a need for stimulant. The men at the long counter looked at him
curiously. He was not of their kind. A little sharp-eyed man who was
playing solitaire at a table farther back, looked up interested. He
pulled excitedly at his chin, rose and signed to a white-coated
servitor. They had their heads together.
It was almost noon the following day when Chief Mate Chatters of the
whaleship Greenland, en route for Behring Sea, went into the forecastle
to appraise some members of a crew hastily and informally shipped.
"Shanghaiing," it was called. But one had to have men. One paid the
waterfront "crimps" a certain sum and asked no questions.
"Who the devil's this?" He indicated a man sprawled in one of the bunks,
who, despite a stubble of beard and ill-fitting sea clothes, was
unmistakably a gentleman.
"Don't know--rum sort for a sailor. Got knocked on the head in a
scrimmage. Cawnt remember nothing but his name, Francisco."