THE "REFORMER"
Francisco loved to wander round the town, explore its nooks and corners
and make himself, for the time being, a part of his surroundings. A
smattering of European languages aided him in this. He rubbed elbows
with coatless workmen in French, Swiss, Spanish and Italian "pensions,"
sitting at long tables and breaking black bread into red wine. He drank
black coffee and ate cloying sweetmeats in Greek or Turkish cafes;
hobnobbed with Sicilian fishermen, helping them to dry their nets and
sometimes accompanying them in their feluccas into rough seas beyond the
Heads. Now and then he invaded Chinatown and ate in their underground
restaurants, disdaining the "chop suey" and sweets invariably served to
tourists for the more palatable and engaging viands he had learned to
like and name in Shanghai and Canton. Fortunately, he could afford to
indulge his bent, for the value of his inheritance had increased
extraordinarily in the past decade. Stanley's income was more than
sufficient to insure a life of leisure.
* * * * *
At Market and Fourth streets stood a large and rather nondescript gray
structure built by Flood, the Comstock millionaire. It had served for
varied purposes, but now it housed the Palais Royal, an immense saloon
and gambling rendezvous. In the massive, barn-like room, tile-floored
and picture-ornamented, were close to a hundred tables where men of all
descriptions drank, played cards and talked. Farther to the rear were
private compartments, from which came the incessant click of
poker chips.
Francisco and Robert sometimes lunched at the Palais Royal. The former
liked its color and the vital energy he always found there. Robert "sat
in" now and then at poker. He had a little of his father's love for
Chance, but a restraining sanity left him little the loser in the long
run. Robert had three children, the eldest a girl of twelve. Petite and
dainty Maizie had become a plump and bustling mother-hen.
It was in the Palais Royal that Francisco met Abraham Ruef, a dapper and
engaging gentleman of excellent address, greatly interested in politics.
He was a graduate of the State University, where he had specialized in
political economy.
Francisco liked him, and they often sat for long discussions of the
local situation after lunching at the Palais Royal. Ruef, in a small
way, was a rival of Colonel Dan Burns, the Republican boss. Burns, they
said, was jealous of Ruef's reform activites.
"If one could get the laboring class together," Ruef told Stanley, "one
could wield a mighty power. Some day, perhaps, I shall do it. The
laborer is a giant, unconscious of his strength. He submits to Capital's
oppression, unwitting of his own capacity to rule. For years we've had
nothing but strikes, which have only strengthened employers."
"Yes, they're always broken," said Francisco.
"The strike is futile. Organization--political unity; that's the thing."
"A labor party, eh?" Francisco spoke, a trifle dubiously.
"Yes, but not the usual kind. It must be done right." His eyes shone.
"Ah, I can see it all so plainly. If I could make it clear to others--"
"Why don't you try?" asked Stanley.
But Ruef shook his head. "I lack the 'presence.' Do you know what I
mean? No matter how smart I may be, they see in me only a small man. So
they think I have small ideas. That is human nature. And they say,
'He's a Jew.' Which is another drawback."
He was silent a moment. "I have thought it all out.... I must borrow the
'presence.'"
"What do you mean?" Francisco was startled.
"We shall see," Ruef responded. "Perhaps I shall find me a man--big,
strong, impressive--with a mind easily led.... Then I shall train him to
be a leader. I shall furnish the brain."
"What a curious thought!" said Francisco. Ruef, smiling, shook his head.
"It is not new at all," he said. "If you read political history you will
soon discover that."
* * * * *
Francisco worked at his novel. Word came of Alice Windham's death in
Massachusetts. Robert urged his father to return to San Francisco, but
Benito sought forgetfulness in European travel.
Frank had finished high school; was a cub reporter on The Bulletin.
Pickering was dead; his widow and her brother, R.A. Crothers, had taken
over the evening paper; John D. Spreckels, sugar nabob, now
controlled the Call.
Newspaper policies were somewhat uncertain in these days of economic
unrest. Strike succeeded strike, and with each there came a greater show
of violence. Lines were more sharply drawn. Labor and capital organized
for self-protection and offense.
"I hear that Governor Gage is coming down to settle the teamsters'
strike," said Francisco to his son as they lunched together one sultry
October day in 1901. "I can't understand why he's delayed until now."
"Probably wanted to keep out of it as long as possible," responded
Frank. "There are strong political forces on each side ... but the story
goes that Colonel 'Montezuma' Burns is jealous of Ruef's overtures to
workingmen. So he's ordered the Governor to make a grandstand play."
[Illustration: "Perhaps I shall find me a man--big, strong,
impressive--with a mind easily led.... Then I shall train him to be a
leader. I shall furnish the brain."]
Stanley looked at his son in astonishment. He was not yet nineteen and
he talked like a veteran of forty. Francisco wondered if these were his
own deductions or mere parroted gossip of the office.
Later that afternoon he met Robert and told him of Frank's comment.
Robert thought the situation over ere he answered.
"The employing class is fearful," he said. "They've controlled things so
long they don't know what may happen if they lose the reins. It's plain
that Phelan can't be re-elected. And it's true that if the labor men
effect a real organization they may name the next Mayor. Rather a
disturbing situation."
"Have you heard any talk about a man named Schmitz? A labor candidate?"
"Yes, I think I have. The chap's a fiddler in a theater orchestra. Big,
fine looking. But I can't imagine that he has the brains to make a
winning fight."
"Big! Fine looking! Hm!" repeated Stanley.
"Meaning--what?" asked Robert.
"Nothing much.... I just remembered something Ruef was telling me." He
walked on thoughtfully. "Might be a story there for the boy's paper," he
cogitated.
Ruef's offices were at the corner of Kearney and California streets.
Thither, with some half-formed mission in his mind, Francisco took his
way. A saturnine man took him up in a little box-like elevator, pointing
out a door inscribed:
A. RUEF,
Att'y-at-Law.
The reception-room was filled. Half a dozen men and two women sat in
chairs which lined the walls. A businesslike young man inquired
Francisco's errand. "You'll have to wait your turn," he said. "I can't
go in there now ... he's in conference with Mr. Schmitz."
Francisco decided not to wait. After all, he had learned what he came
for.
Abe Ruef had borrowed a "presence."