POLITICS AND ROMANCE
Ruef swept the field with his handsome fiddler. All "South of Market
street" rallied to his support. The old line parties brought their
trusty, well-oiled election machinery into play, but it availed
them little.
Robert and Francisco met one day soon after the election. "Everyone is
laughing at our fiddler Mayor," said the former. "He's like a king
without a court; for all the other offices were carried by Republicans
and Democrats."
Francisco smoked a moment thoughtfully. "Union Labor traded minor
offices for Mayoralty votes, I understand. Meanwhile Ruef is building
his machine. He has convinced the labor people that he knows the game.
They've given him carte blanche."
"And how does the big fellow take it?"
"I was talking with him yesterday," Francisco answered. "Schmitz is shy
just yet. But feels his dignity. Oh, mightily!" He laughed. "Little Abe
will have his hands full with big 'Gene, I'm thinking."
"But Ruef's not daunted by the prospect."
"Heavens, no. The man has infinite self-confidence. And it's no fatuous
egotism, either. A sort of suave, unshakable trust in himself. Abe
Ruef's the cleverest politician San Francisco's known in many
years--perhaps since Broderick. He makes such men as Burns and Buckley
look like tyros--"
Robert looked up quickly. "By the way, I've often wondered whether
Buckley wasn't guilty of your disappearance. He meant you no good."
"No," Francisco answered. "I've looked into that. Chris, himself, had
no connection with it. Once he threatened me ... but I've since learned
what he meant.... Just a little blackmail which concerned a woman.
But--" he hesitated.
Robert moved uneasily. "But--what?"
"Oh, well, it didn't work. The girl he planned to use told him the
truth." Francisco, too, seemed ill at ease. "It was so long ago ... it's
all forgotten."
"I trust so," said the other. Rather abruptly he rose. "Must be getting
back to work."
* * * * *
Once a week Frank donned his evening clothes and was driven to a certain
splendid home on Pacific Heights. Bertha Larned met him always with a
smile--and a different gown. Each successive one seemed more splendid,
becoming, costly. And ever the lady seemed more sweet as their intimacy
grew. Once when Frank had stammered an enthusiastic appreciation of her
latest gown--a wondrous thing of silk and lace that seemed to match the
changing fires in her eyes--she said suddenly: "What a fright I must
have looked that evening--in the Midway! And what you must have thought
of me--in such a place!"
"Do you wish to know just what I thought?" Frank asked her, reddening.
"Yes." Her eyes, a little shamed, but brave, met his.
"Well," he said, "you stood there with your hair all streaming and
your--and that splendid fire in your eyes. The beauty of you struck me
like a whip. You seemed an angel--after all the sordid sights I'd
seen. And--"
"Go on--please;" her eyes were shining.
"Then--it's sort of odd--but I wanted to fight for you!"
She came a little closer.
"Some day, perhaps," she spoke with sudden gravity, "I may ask you to do
that."
"What? Fight for you?"
Bertha nodded.
* * * * *
It was after the Olympia had been made over into a larger Tivoli Opera
House that Frank met Aleta Boice. She was a member of the chorus. Their
acquaintance blossomed from propinquity, for both had a fashion of
supping on the edge of midnight at a little restaurant, better known by
its sobriquet of "Dusty Doughnut," than by its real name, which long ago
had been forgotten.
Frank had formed the habit of sitting at a small table somewhat isolated
from the others where now and then he wrote an article or editorial.
Hitherto it had unvaryingly been at his disposal, for the hour of
Frank's reflection was not a busy one. Therefore he was just a mite
annoyed to find his table tenanted by a woman. Perhaps his irritation
was apparent; or, perchance, Aleta had a knack for reading faces, for
she colored.
"I--I beg your pardon. Have I got your place?"
"N-no," protested Frank. "I sit here often ... that's no matter."
"Well," she said; "don't let me drive you off. I'll not be
comfortable.... Let's share it, then," she smiled; "tonight, at least."
They did. Frank found her very like her mother--the smiling one of
Darlton and Boice, Olympia entertainers of past years. One couldn't call
her pretty, when her face was in repose. But that was seldom, so it
didn't matter. Her smile was like a spring, a fountain of perennial good
nature. And her eyes were trusting, like a child's. Frank often wondered
how she had maintained that look of eager innocence amid the life
she lived.
Frank learned much of her past. She could barely remember the father,
who was a circus acrobat and had been killed by a fall from a trapeze.
Her mother had retired from the stage; she was doing needlework for the
department stores and the Woman's Exchange.
"Every morning she teaches me grammar," said Aleta. "Mother's never
wanted me to talk slang like the other girls. She says if you're
careless with your English you get careless of your principles. Mother's
got a lot of quaint ideas like that."
Again came her rippling laugh. Frank grew to enjoy her; look forward to
the nightly fifteen minutes of companionship. They never met anywhere
else. But when an illness held Aleta absent for a week the Dusty
Doughnut seemed a lonesome place.
Bertha twitted Frank upon his absent-mindedness one evening as he dined
with her. By an effort he shook off his vagary of the other girl. He
loved Bertha. But, for some unfathomed cause, she held him off. Never
had she let him reach a declaration.
"We're such marvelous friends!... Can't we always be that--just that?"
* * * * *
Things drifted on. Schmitz, as a Mayor, caused but small remark. He
reminded Frank of a rustic, sitting at a banquet board and watching his
neighbors before daring to pick up a fork or spoon. But Ruef went on
building his fences. Union Labor was now a force to deal with. And Ruef
was Union Labor.
One of Robert's clients desired to open a French restaurant, with the
usual hotel appurtenances. He made application in the usual manner. But
the license was denied.
Robert was astonished for no reason was assigned and all requests for
explanation were evaded.
A week or so later, Robert met the restaurateur. "Well, I've done it,"
said the latter, jovially. "Open Monday, Come around and eat with me."
"But--how did you manage it?"
"Oh, I took a tip. I made Ruef my attorney. Big retaining fee," he
sighed. "But--well, it's worth the price."