I I am Presented with an Overcoat
II The House of Blazes
III A Glimpse of Sunshine
IV Machiavelli in Bronze
V Miss Kendrick's Pleasure
VI Big Sam's Diplomacy
VII In the Current
VIII A Contribution to the Cause
IX Peter Bolton
X A Council of War
XI Troubles in the Market
XII The Lottery Ticket
XII The Wisdom of His Ancestors
XIV Bargaining
XV A Ripple of Trouble
XVI Laying Down the Law
XVII Big Sam's Warning
XVIII Little John as a Man of Action
XIX Mischief Afoot
XX On the Sand-Lots
XXI Battle
XXII I Become a Man of Business
XXIII The Committee of Safety
XXIV The Justice of Big Sam
XXV Facing a Crisis
XXVI On the Precipice
XXVII A Call to Arms
XXVIII With the Pick-Handle Brigade
XXIX A Tongue of Fire
XXX The End of the Feud
XXXI The Broken Web
XXXII The Answer
Epilogue
Postscript
*THE APPLE OF DISCORD*
*CHAPTER I*
*I AM PRESENTED WITH AN OVERCOAT*
Colonel Wharton Kendrick leaned back in his chair, stroked his red
side-whiskers reflectively, and looked across the table with an
expression of embarrassment on his round ruddy face. For the moment his
command of words had evidently failed him.
As embarrassment and failure of language were equally foreign to his
nature, I was confirmed in a growing suspicion that there had been an
ulterior purpose behind his cordial invitation to luncheon. The meal had
been a good one, and he was paying for it, and so I felt that I owed him
my moral support. Therefore, I returned such a look of encouragement as
might properly express the feelings of a fledgling attorney toward a
millionaire who was the probable source of active litigation, and waited
for him to speak.
"See here, Hampden," he said at last; "you know something about my row
with Peter Bolton, don't you?"
"The Bolton-Kendrick feud is a part of my very earliest recollections,"
I admitted. "When I was a small boy I was convinced that it was quite
as much a part of the institutions of the country as the Fourth of July.
You may remember that my father took something of an interest in your
affairs."
"Good old Dick Hampden--the best friend a man ever had!" And there was
a note of tenderness in his voice that touched my heart-strings. "It
was a sad loss when he went, my boy. Well, then I needn't go into the
beginning of the feud, as no doubt he explained it all to you."
"I should like very much to have an account of it at first hand," I
replied. In spite of my familiarity with the quarrels between Bolton
and Kendrick, I had never solved the mystery of the beginning of the
feud. Its origin was as deeply buried in the haze of historic doubts as
the causes of the Trojan War. I had heard it assigned to a dozen
different beginnings, ranging from a boyhood battle for the possession
of a red apple to a maturer rivalry for the hand of the village belle,
who had finally bestowed herself on a suitor whose very name was
forgotten. None of the explanations seemed adequate. The first could
scarce account for the depth of hatred that each felt for the other. As
for the last--imagination refused to picture Peter Bolton in the figure
of a sighing swain; the caricature was too monstrous for credit.
Therefore, I spoke hopefully, as one who sees the doors of mystery ajar.
But Wharton Kendrick shrank from the task of enlightening me, and with a
shake of his head he replied:
"Well, there's no need to go into it all now. It began back in the Ohio
village where we were born--long before the days we heard of
California--and it'll end when one of us is carried out feet foremost."
"I hope you're not expecting anything of that sort," I said.
"No, I can't say that I am. I'm expecting something, and I don't know
what it is. But what I want to know is this: Have you any objections to
doing a bit of secret service?" The manner in which he plunged through
his sentence, and the air of visible relief on his face when he had
done, told me that this was what he had been leading toward.
"Well, that depends. You know there are some things considered
unprofessional--"
"Even in the law!" said Wharton Kendrick with a jovial laugh. "Oh,
thunder! What would the game be if we didn't pretend to have rules?
Well, I don't think this is anything that would get you on the black
books, though some of you fellows are so confounded touchy that I've
shied away from mentioning it to you. I want you to keep an eye on
Bolton for a while, and find out what he is up to."
"That sounds as though you wanted a private detective agency," I said
dubiously, with distrust of my ability to fill the bill.
"If I had wanted one I should have sent for it," replied Wharton
Kendrick dryly. "I've had enough experience of them to know that I
don't want them. I want you because I must have some one I can trust."
I murmured my thanks at this expression of esteem. It was the more
gratifying as, like the rest of my father's old friends, he had
carefully avoided giving me his legal business, with a wise but annoying
preference for having me try my 'prentice hand on the litigation of
strangers. So at this I professed my entire willingness to be of
service.
"That's good," he said. "Now, I've had warning from a source I trust
that Bolton is fixing up some sort of surprise for me. I want you to
find out what it is. Six months ago I got the same sort of hint that
came to me this morning, and I forgot all about it. Then one day I got
a jolt that cost me a cool hundred thousand dollars when I found that
Bolton had taken the Golden West Land and Water Company away from me.
He got hold of some of the stock that I thought was in safe hands, and I
had to pay four prices to get it. I've a notion that the thing is more
serious this time."
Something in his voice suggested alarming possibilities.
"Do you mean that Bolton is plotting against your life?"
"Oh, I don't say that. But, oh, thunder! You wouldn't put it beyond
him, would you?"
"Not beyond his morals, perhaps; but I should certainly put it beyond
his courage."
"Oh, P. Bolton isn't the man to go gunning for any one. But he hasn't
any scruples against getting another man to do it for him. That's why
he owns the Miroban mine."
"You don't mean to say so? I never heard of that."
"I suppose not. You're too young to remember the murder of the Eddy
boys. They had located the Miroban mine, and one day they struck it
rich. Bolton put in a claim that he had bought it from a prior locator,
and pretty soon they were all tangled up in litigation. One night
somebody poked a double-barreled shot-gun through a window in the Eddy
boys' cabin, and filled them full of buckshot. There was a good deal of
excitement about it for a while, but nobody could find out the man who
did the shooting, and we were all too busy in those days to waste much
time hunting criminals. When the talk died down, Bolton was found in
possession of the Miroban."
"And you think--"
"I don't know who pulled the trigger, but I know well enough that Bolton
pointed the gun."
"Old Bolton is a more interesting character than I had supposed," I
confessed.
"You'll have a chance to get better acquainted with him," said Kendrick,
"but I can't promise you that he improves on acquaintance." He smoothed
his ruddy cheeks, and ran his fingers through his side-whiskers, and
then continued: "You'd better not come to see me till you have something
important to report. You'll find it easier to get hold of things if the
old spider doesn't know that you are in my employ. Send word around to
my office when you want to see me. I suppose you'll want some money.
You needn't spare expense. I guess this will do for a starter." And,
reaching into his pocket, he brought up a handful of twenties and passed
them over. And in this pleasant way began my active relations with the
famous feud that was to shake San Francisco to its foundations.
Several days of cautious but diligent inquiry followed before my
industry was rewarded with an insight into Peter Bolton's purposes.
Then a lead of much promise opened, and I sent word to my employer that
I was prepared to make a progress report.
"Come around to the office to-night--nine-thirty," was the reply; and
prompt to the minute I mounted the stairs of the California Street
building in which Wharton Kendrick kept his business quarters, and
knocked at his private door.
At his brusk "Come in," I entered, and found him seated behind his wide
desk busily running over a bundle of papers. The gas-light fell on his
ruddy face and was reflected in glints from his red side-whiskers with
which he eked out the fullness of his cheeks. He was indeed a handsome
man, and carried his sixty years with the ease of forty.
"So you have brought news," he said, thrusting his papers into a drawer
and leaning back to receive my communication. "Well, what is the old
fox up to now?"
"I have the honor," I returned, "to report that the old fox has turned
reformer."
"Reformer?" And a puzzled look overspread his face. "Well, if he wants
a job in that line he won't have to leave home to get it. He can spend
the rest of his life reforming himself and not have time enough by
half."
"He is not so selfish as all that. His zeal has reached out to embrace
the regeneration of the whole human race--or at least the part of it
that inhabits San Francisco."
"What do you mean? I may be thick-headed, but I don't get your
meaning."
"Oh, it is just as I say. And to carry out his benevolent purposes he
has engaged the services of the Council of Nine--or at least has entered
into active cooperation with it."
"The Council of Nine! I never heard of it." Wharton Kendrick looked at
me in amazement.
"Well, to confess the truth, I never heard of it myself until to-day.
However, you are likely to hear more of it later. It has a valiant
recruit in Bolton."
"But what is it? What is it trying to do?"
"So far as I can find out, it is the head-center of the local
organization of the International Reds. It is made up of anarchists,
socialists, communists, and the discontented of all sorts. I'll admit
that I don't understand fully the distinctions between these elements,
and they are so mixed up here that you can't tell one from another."
"That's a promising combination," laughed Wharton Kendrick; and then a
thoughtful look followed his laughter, as he added: "But what does P.
Bolton think he can get out of that crowd?"
"A liberal education--or at least an education in liberality. He has
given a handsome contribution to their funds--"
"What!" ejaculated Kendrick, starting forward in astonishment. "You
don't mean to say that he has given them money?"
"I have the authority of a good witness--to wit, a man who saw the money
paid."
"Whew! That's pretty hard to swallow. What is the man's name?"
"Clark--Jonas Clark."
"Who is he?"
"Why, he's a shining light in the Carpenters' Union. He's a decent chap
who is a little carried away by the eloquence of the agitators, but he
is all right. He has been a messenger back and forth between Bolton and
some members of the Council, but he had the fault of being too
scrupulous, and Bolton gave him the sack. So now he is employee number
one of our detective bureau."
"Hm-m! And maybe you can give a guess why P. Bolton is putting up his
good money for that crazy crowd? You are not trying to tell me it's a
case of pure philanthropy?"
"That is what he wants them to believe. He told Clark that before he
gave any money he must be satisfied that the aims and methods of the
Council were for the benefit of the people."
"Oh, thunder! To think of P. Bolton playing a game like that! Well,
did they satisfy him?"
"Clark took him any quantity of documents. They fed him first with the
brotherhood-of-man and the one-for-all-and-all-for-one course of
lectures. He thought there was too much milk-and-water about that, so
they gradually worked up to the dynamiting of royal oppressors and the
extinction of capitalistic robbers. At this he gave up some good
coin--five hundred dollars, as near as I can learn--paid in person at
midnight to three members of the Council of Nine."
Kendrick leaned back in his chair, and meditatively stroked his red
side-whiskers once more, while the thoughtful wrinkles chased each other
about his eyes.
"That begins to look like business," he said at last. "I'm sure I could
put a name to the capitalistic robber he would like to see extinguished.
Still, I don't see what he is driving at. Have you got any light on his
plans?"
"No. So far as I can find out, he has made no suggestions. He has only
approved their propaganda, and hinted that they might look for more
money if their course was such as to satisfy him."
"Then you think their schemes worth looking into?"
"Indeed I do. I have an engagement to meet Clark at their headquarters,
down at the House of Blazes to-morrow night. He is going to introduce
me to some of the leaders, and I hope to get a line on what they are
planning."
"The House of Blazes? What's that?"
"Oh, it's a saloon down on Tar Flat. The socialists and anarchists and
a lot of other 'ists' loaf around there and drink beer in their hours of
ease, and I believe there is a hall there where they hold their
meetings."
"Umph! I hope you'll enjoy your evening. But don't get your head
smashed." Wharton Kendrick was silent a little, and then continued
thoughtfully: "I don't see what P. Bolton can expect to gain out of a
lot of crack-brained fanatics like that, but you can do as you like
about looking into them. I suspect, though, that this is just a blind
for something else. Just remember that if you are expecting P. Bolton
to show himself in one place, he's sure to turn up in another. Now, is
that all your budget?"
"One thing more. Bolton has a little detective bureau of his own. He
has engaged Jim Morgan, the prize-fighter, with three or four more of
the same sort, and you're being watched. I've no doubt there's a fellow
out by the door, waiting to follow you home. So I'll take the liberty
of walking with you, and engage a few reliable body-guards to-morrow."
Wharton Kendrick's mouth closed with a snap.
"Not much--no body-guards for me! I've walked San Francisco for twenty
years in the face of Peter Bolton, and I'm not going to be afraid of him
at this day. Hire all the men you want, but set them to looking after
P. Bolton--not after me."
"There are two at his heels already."
"Good; but I'm afraid a hundred wouldn't be enough to keep track of the
old fox," laughed Kendrick. "Well, it's time to be getting home. Reach
me my hat there, will you? Make sure of the door--here goes the light."
And he followed me into the hall and turned the key behind him. "Now,
there's no need for you to go home with me," he continued.
"It's my way as well as yours," I replied, "and unless you object to my
company, we'll go together."
We faced the west wind that came in gusts from over Nob Hill, with the
salt freshness of the ocean fog heavy upon it, turned north at Kearny
Street, and at Clay Street took the hill-climbing cable-car that still
passed as one of the city's novelties. From the western end of the line
we walked to the Kendrick residence on Van Ness Avenue.
"Well, good night, my boy," he said. "Sorry to have brought you up here
for nothing. If you should get any light on the Council's plans
to-morrow night, come up here next evening--say at eight o'clock. I may
have an idea of my own by that time." And he closed the door.
As I turned to descend the steps, my eye was startled by a glimpse of
movement among the shrubs that decorated the Kendrick lawn. At first I
thought it but a branch tossed by the wind; but an incautious movement
revealed the figure of a man silhouetted against the faint illumination
from a distant street-lamp, and I felt a momentary gratification that my
precaution had been justified.
I descended the flight of steps to the garden with assumed unconcern.
Then, instead of following the second flight to the street, I turned,
made a sudden spring on to the lawn, straight for the shrub behind which
I had seen the man hide himself. It was but twenty-five feet away, and
I reached it in an instant. No one was there. For a moment I thought my
eyes must have deceived me. Then the rustle of a bush by the fence
attracted my attention, and I made a dash for the spot. Before I could
reach it a man rose from behind the bush, vaulted the fence, disappeared
for a second of time, and then could be seen running swiftly down the
street.
There was an eight-foot drop from the garden to the sidewalk, but I made
the leap in my turn without mishap, and was running in the wake of the
flying night-hawk before I had time to draw breath. I soon gained upon
him, and as I came nearer I could hear his hoarse gasps, as the
unaccustomed pace told upon him. At the corner of Sacramento Street I
was near enough to reach out and grasp him by the coat.
He halted and turned.
"What do you want?" he growled, and then struck at me with sudden
movement. "Take that!" he cried, striking again as I tried to close
with him, and I felt the shearing of cloth before a sharp blade.
As I staggered back from the impact of the blow, my foot caught on the
curb, the earth whirled about, the stone sidewalk gave me a thump
alongside the head, and I witnessed a private meteoric display of
unrivaled splendor.
I was stunned for a minute, but collecting my wits I scrambled to my
feet, cleared my eyes, and looked for the flying enemy. He was nowhere
to be seen, and no sound of his footfalls came to my ear. Making sure
that he had escaped, I turned to take stock of my injuries. I could
find no wound, though a rent through my coat showed how near I had come
to the end of all my adventures. A memorandum-book in my inside pocket
had stopped the blade with which the spy had struck at me. Then I
recovered from my daze enough to become aware that I was holding an
overcoat that was none of mine. The enemy had slipped from the garment
to secure his escape, and had left it in my hands.
*CHAPTER II*
*THE HOUSE OF BLAZES*
With the morning's light I looked carefully over the captured overcoat
for identifying marks by which I might trace the elusive spy who was so
near ending my life. A hasty survey of the garment when I had reached
my room had revealed nothing by which I might learn of the owner; but
after a night's sleep the detective instinct burned within me, and I was
persuaded that there was something about it to differentiate it from
other overcoats, if only I had the keenness to discover it. The garment
was of cheap material, and even the maker's name had disappeared from
it. There was nothing individual about it, and not even a handkerchief
was to be found in its pockets. But when I was about to abandon search
once more, a small inside pocket attracted my attention, and, diving
within it, I brought out a square of paper, three or four inches wide.
The detective instinct within me raised a shout of triumph, and I opened
the paper with the conviction that it would bear some address that would
lead me to the spy. The detective instinct became more humble to find
that the paper bore only a few sprawling characters that were
reminiscent of a Chinese laundry or a Canton tea-chest.
Nevertheless, it was the only clue in my possession, and during the day
I made several attempts to secure a translation of the marks. But
nightfall came without success, and, reinforced by a good dinner, I
turned my steps south of Market Street to keep my appointment with
Clark.
"Here's the place," said the policeman, pointing across Natoma Street to
the corner building, from which lights flashed and sounds of laughter
and drunken song floated out on the night air. "We call it the House of
Blazes."
Even in the semi-darkness left by the street-lamps and the lights that
streamed from the windows, I could see that it was a rambling two-story
frame building, with signs of premature age upon it. The neighborhood
was far from select, but the House of Blazes had characteristics of evil
all its own. Above, the small windows scowled dark, stealthy,
mistrustful, as though they sought to escape the eye of the officer of
the law who stood by my side. Below, the broader windows, ablaze with
lamps, and the swinging half-doors, through which we could see the feet
of men and the occasional hat of a taller customer, made a show of
openness. But it all seemed the bravado of the criminal who ventures
forth by daylight, aggressively assertive of his self-confidence and
ready to take to his heels at the first sign that he is recognized by
the police. Across the windows and on a swinging sign were painted
letters proclaiming that wines and liquors were to be had within and
that H. Blasius was the owner.
"It doesn't look to be just the place for a stranger to show his money
in," I said lightly.
"It's about as tough as they make 'em," growled the policeman. "There's
a sight more throuble in that darty den than in all the others on the
beat."