"You'd better not tell any stories," she added.
"I'm afraid--" I began.
"Oh, if you're afraid I shall go away. I was going to read a book, but
it doesn't matter."
"I'm sure it does matter," I said. "If you go away I shall certainly
feel as though I'm the one who ought to have gone."
"I don't believe I ought to stay here talking with a man who thinks he
doesn't know me."
"I'm a very stupid person, I fear," I said.
"I'm afraid some people would say so," she said with another mischievous
look, though her face was perfectly grave; "but I shouldn't dare."
"I'm on the lookout for a good bargain," I said desperately. "I should
like very much to exchange names with you."
"Oh, that wouldn't be a fair exchange at all," said the girl, shaking
her head gravely. "I know Mr. Hampden's name already. You must offer a
better bargain than that."
"Then I must sue for pardon for a treacherous memory," I said.
"It's a very serious matter," said the girl, "but I'll give you three
chances to guess. If that's not enough, you'll have to ask uncle."
"Miss Laura--Miss Kendrick!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, did I tell you, after all?" she cried in dismay. "I said uncle,
didn't I? Now, you see, I'm quite as stupid as other people."
"Indeed, no," I said. "It's quite unpardonable that I should have
forgotten."
"It ought to be, but I'm afraid I shall have to forgive you," she said,
dropping into a chair. "It's a longish time."
"How many years has it been?" I asked.
"I'm afraid you're adding to your offenses," she said, with a shake of
the head. "You should certainly remember that it was five years ago
this summer."
"Have you been away so long?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, dear! what shall I do with such a man? First he doesn't remember me
at all, and then he doesn't know how many years I've been gone, and then
he has no idea it was so long."
"But you were only a little girl then," I urged.
"And not worth noticing, would you say if you dared? I used to think I
was quite grown up in those days."
"You didn't--er--quite give the impression."
"I see I didn't make one," she said. "It's a very good lesson for one's
vanity, isn't it?"
"And haven't you been back in all these years?"
"'All these years' sounds better," she said. "I believe you are
learning. I've been back twice, if you want your question answered."
"It was kept quite a secret."
"Oh, dear, no! Everybody knew who cared anything about knowing."
"And where have you been, and what doing?"
"I was in the East. First I finished the seminary."
"And then?"
"Then I went through college."
"Indeed?"
"Oh, you needn't be so surprised. It's nothing so very wonderful. You
didn't suspect it from my looks?"
"You certainly don't look like a blue-stocking."
"I'm afraid I'm not. I never could get enough into my head at one time
to be worthy of such a title. I believe a blue-stocking is a lady who
has a great deal of learning."
"Or at least," I said, "is very fond of showing it."
"Oh, I think I have her main characteristic then," laughed my companion.
"If I know anything I can't rest till I let somebody else know about it,
too."
"I believe you're not alone. They say that failing has descended to all
the daughters of Mother Eve. How long are you to be here?" I asked.
"Ages, I'm afraid," said Miss Kendrick. "Six months at least--maybe a
year."
"Then I can hope for the pleasure of seeing you sometimes?" I said.
"I don't know," she answered, appealing to a bust of Homer on a
book-shelf. "Do you think a man with such an uncertain memory could be
trusted to keep it in mind that such a person is here?"
"I can vouch for him," I said.
"If you're quite sure--" she said.
"Quite sure," I repeated positively.
"Then you can be told that we are at home on Thursdays. There--I hear
uncle showing that comical General Wilson out the door, so I'll be
getting my book and go. It was uncle you came to see, I believe."
"It was Mr. Kendrick I called for, but--"
"You needn't go on," interrupted Miss Kendrick calmly. "I suppose you
think it is only a white one, but I'd rather not hear it. Now if you
wouldn't mind reaching that fourth book from the end of the second row
from the top, you'll save me from the mortification of climbing on a
chair."
"This one?"
"Yes, please," she said. "Thank you. Good night. I really don't see
why I've talked so much."
"It was very good of you," I protested. "Good night."
The swish of her skirts had hardly died away when the opposite door--the
one by which I had entered--opened, and Wharton Kendrick walked in.
"Come this way, Wilson. I can put my hand on the book in one second."
"You can't find your citation, Kendrick--it isn't there," said a short,
stout, red-faced man, with short yellow-gray side-whiskers, as he
bustled in the wake of my client. "I tell you you can't find it. I
know the whole thing from cover to cover. Just give me the first line
of any page and I'll repeat it right to the bottom. I never have to
read a thing more than once and I can carry it on the tip of my tongue
for years afterward. Lord bless us, whom have we here?"
"Oh, Hampden," said Kendrick. "I didn't see you. General Wilson, allow
me to introduce you." And the magnate gave me a kind word of
identification.
"A lawyer?" exclaimed General Wilson, his red face beaming in the frame
of his yellow-gray side-whiskers. "Young man, you are entering on the
greatest and noblest profession that the human mind has devised. You
are following the most elevated and grandest principles that the wit of
mankind is capable of evolving from the truths of the ages. I am a
humble follower of the profession myself, and am proud to take you by
the hand."
He was not proud enough to make the most of the honor, for he gave but a
perfunctory grasp as I made some appropriate reply.
"I've been in the profession more decades than I like to tell about,"
said General Wilson, with a lofty wave of the hand, "but I've been
trying to get out of it for the last five years. Perhaps you can't
appreciate that, Hampden. Here you're trying to get into it, and I dare
say finding it devilish hard; but if you're like me you'll be trying to
get out of it some day and finding it a damned sight harder yet."
"I don't doubt it," said I with pious mendacity.
"Here's the book," said Kendrick. But General Wilson waved him aside.
"It's wonderful the way business sticks to a man. I've got clients who
just won't be discharged. I thought a year ago that I was going to see
the last of them, but no sooner did I mention it than they were all up
in arms. 'We can't spare you,' they said. 'I must take a rest,' I told
them. 'Take it at our expense,' they said. And the Ohio Midland gave
me a special car and paid the expenses of a trip around the country, and
the Pennsylvania Southern gave me a twenty-thousand-dollar check to
settle for a vacation in Europe, and the Rockland and Western made me
the present of a country place where I could go and have quiet; and
after that what could I do?"
"They must have been irresistible," I admitted.
"Just so; but even then I tried to beg off. I told 'em I had enough
money. It wasn't money I wanted. It was rest--freedom from worry of
business, the grinding care of law cases--that I was after. But it
wouldn't do. The Ohio Midland said, 'Wilson, if you can't be with us,
you mustn't be against us. We know you'll be back again. Take twenty
thousand a year as a retainer and count yourself as one of us yet. We
shouldn't be easy else.' But the Pennsylvania Southern and the Rockland
and Western wouldn't allow even that. They said, 'Wilson, we can't do
without you. We'll give you all the help you want, but we must have you
at the head. Name your own figures. It isn't a question of money. You
must be our leading counsel, even if you don't look in on us more than
once a quarter.' I couldn't shake 'em off, so, as I've been saying to
Kendrick, I'm like to die in harness, though I'd give anything to be
free and enjoy life as you young fellows do."
"Just so," said Kendrick cheerily; "but you're way out of the running
about that Mosely matter. Here's the book, and here's the page, and it
was just as I was telling you."
"Ahem!" growled General Wilson, turning redder than ever and taking the
book gingerly. "Oh, this is the thing you were talking about, is it? Of
course, of course, you were quite right--Mosely, of course. I don't
need to read a word of it. I thought you were talking about that
Moberly case. Mosely, of course. Well, I'll send you those papers as
soon as I get to New York. I must be off now. I've got to see Governor
Stanford to-night, and he's one of your early-to-bed men; so good
night."
"You'll call in on me within the week, then?" said Kendrick, taking him
to the door.
"Oh, I shall see you in two days. We must press this business to an
issue. They are waiting for me in New York, and I can't waste much time
in small affairs like this. Well, good night, Kendrick, God bless you!
There ought to be more men like you. Good night." And the outer door
closed behind him.
Kendrick suppressed a burst of laughter with a muscular effort that
appeared to threaten apoplexy.
"The old humbug!" he gasped. "Hampden, you've seen the most picturesque
liar that ever struck the Golden Gate. He is a regular Roman candle of
romances."
"Is he a fraud? Is it all a case of imagination run wild?"
"No, not altogether, I should say. Half of it seems to be the truth,
though which half to believe I'm blest if I can make out. He brings
good letters."
"From New York?"
"Yes; and Chicago, too. He came out two weeks ago to work up a land
deal. Represents a million dollars in a syndicate, though I fancy he's
not so big a part of it as he makes out. He's full of these tall
stories, though they don't all of them hang together well. It's fun to
listen to him, though. I couldn't help taking him down about that
Mosely affair. He was so cock-sure of knowing everything that I
couldn't resist the temptation."
"You did give his vanity a singe."
"It wasn't the politic thing to do with a million-dollar trade hanging
in the balance, but I reckon he's got enough of his feathers left to
carry him through the deal."
Wharton Kendrick leaned back in his chair, and his face glowed in
amusement.
Then on a sudden he straightened up, all gravity.
"Did you bring any news?" he asked.
"I have a present of an overcoat," I answered. And I gave him the story
of the adventure of the night.
"That was a rash play of yours," he said gravely. "Don't do it again.
It wasn't necessary."
"Are you certain that Bolton is the only man who has an interest in
setting a watch on you?" I inquired.
"Why, what have you found?" asked Kendrick, a little startled.
"I haven't found anything but an idea--and that," I said, handing him a
bit of paper.
"What's this?" asked Kendrick, putting on his eye-glasses. "Your wash
bill? China lottery? or what?"
"That's the thing that has puzzled me. You see, there's quite a bit of
Chinese writing on it."
"Well, what of it?"
"I got it out of the overcoat that the fellow left in my hands."
"Ah-ha!" said Kendrick. "And you don't see what one of Bolton's men
would be doing with a Chinese letter in his pocket?"
"That was just my idea--in part, at least. The letter was a clue,
anyhow, and I took it to a Chinese firm I have done some law business
for and know pretty well. I showed it to the boss partner. He talks
English like a native, and chatters like a magpie. But when he saw that
slip of paper he shut up like a clam, and all I could get out of him was
'No sabby.' You know the look of stolid ignorance they can put on when
there's anything they don't want to tell."
"It's the most exasperating thing you can run against."
"Well, when my merchant failed me, I went to another I knew slightly,
then to an interpreter, then to the boss of the Chinese guides. The
same 'No sabby,' and the same stolid look everywhere."
"Why didn't you go to the Chinese interpreter at the City Hall? He's a
white man, and wouldn't be afraid to give away secrets."
"I tried him, but he said it was nonsense. It's evidently a cipher,
though it's one pretty well known in Chinatown."
"I'll tell you what to do then, Hampden,"--and he took out his pencil
and wrote a few words on a card. "Take this to Big Sam at his Chinatown
office to-morrow. Show him the paper, and he'll give you the reading.
He is under some obligations to me, and he can hardly refuse."
"Just the thing! As Big Sam comes pretty near being the King of
Chinatown, he will have no one to fear."
"Now about the Council of Nine. What did you get?"
"Well, I saw two members of the Council and a few of their followers. I
tried to pump them, and I dare say I shall become as good a convert to
their propaganda as old Bolton himself. They have some crack-brained
notions of an uprising of the people, but they don't appear to have
anything definite in view at present." And I gave my employer an
account of my visit to the House of Blazes.
He stroked his red whiskers meditatively, and then said:
"Well, that doesn't sound as though they could amount to much, but as
long as P. Bolton is backing them, you'd better keep a close eye on
them."
*CHAPTER IV*
*MACHIAVELLI IN BRONZE*
Waverly Place was in the full tide of business. The little brown man in
his blue blouse and clattering shoes was seen in his endless variety,
chattering, bargaining, working, lounging, moving; and the short street,
with its American architecture half orientalized, was gay with colors
and foul with odors.
Patient coolies trotted past, bending between the heavily laden baskets
that swung upon the poles passed over the shoulder. On the corner an
itinerant merchant sat under an improvised awning with a rude bench
before him on which to display his wares, and a big Chinese basket
beside him from which his stock might be renewed as it was sold. Here
was a store with a window display of fine porcelains, silks, padded
coats and gowns covered with grotesque figures, everything about it
denoting neatness and order. Next it was a barber shop where two
Chinese customers were undergoing the ordeal of a shave.
Beyond the barber shop was a stairway leading to the depths, from which
the odors of opium and a sickening compound of indescribable smells
floated on the morning air. Brown men could be seen through the smoke
and darkness, moving silently as though in dreams, or listlessly gazing
at nothing. Here was a shop of many goods, with fish and fruits exposed
to tempt the palates and purses of the passer: Chinese nut-fruits, dried
and smoked to please the Chinese taste, candied cocoanut chips that form
the most popular of Chinese confections, with roots and nuts and
preserves in variety, appealing temptingly to the eyes of the Chinese
who passed. Behind, were boxes and bales and cans, big chests and little
chests, bright chests and dingy chests, in endless confusion. The
blackened walls and ceilings gave such an air of age that the shop
seemed as though it might have come out of the ancient Chinese cities as
a relic of the days of Kublai Khan. Shoe factories, clothing factories,
and cigar factories, were scattered along the street, with wares made
and displayed in the American fashion, and here and there, as if in
mockery, hung signs that bore the legend "White Labor Goods."
The little brown men sewed and hammered and smoothed and polished and
smoked and chaffered and traded--the great hive of Chinatown was astir;
and over all rose the murmur of the strange sing-song tongue that finds
its home on the banks of the Yellow River. Here and there a white face
showed. But where it belonged to a dweller in Waverly Place it was
sodden, brutal, depraved. Waverly Place got only the dregs and seepage
of the white race, and such as dwelt there boasted of an intimate
knowledge and possession of the vices of three continents.
Half-way up the block from Clay Street I paused before a dingy doorway.
The building had been one of the substantial structures of early San
Francisco, but the coolie occupation had orientalized it with a coating
of dirt and a mask of decay.
"This is an unpromising place to look for the richest Chinaman in San
Francisco," was my mental comment. "But it is surely the number given
me."
As I moved to enter the door, a stout, well-fed Chinaman, with a
pockmarked face, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his thick blue
blouse, put his body in the way.
"What you wan'?" he asked, with a trace of aggression in his voice.
"I want see Big Sam," I said.
The Chinaman's face took on the blank, stolid look of utter ignorance.
"No sabby Big Sam. No Big Sam heah."
"Nonsense! You know Big Sam. Every Chinaman in San Francisco knows Big
Sam. This is where I'm told he lives. I've got to see him."
"No sabby Big Sam heah. One Big Sam he live Stockton St'eet, one Big
Sam he live Oakyland. You go Stockton St'eet, you go Oakyland. No Big
Sam heah."
"See here, John," I said, "I've got to see Big Sam, and I know he's
here, and I'm going to see him. So get out of the way."
The Chinaman straightened up in offended dignity. "John" was a term of
insult, or at least of derogation in the Chinese mind. Then he called
back into the darkness and two other Chinese appeared. They were better
dressed than the ordinary, and were evidently some grades above the
Chinese laborers who thronged the street.
There was a minute or two of conversation in the high-pitched singsong
tongue that is so well adapted to the purpose of concealing
thought--from the white race, at least--and then one of the others
stepped forward.
"I must see Big Sam," I said in a determined tone. "You can tell him
first, or I'll go in without it, just as you please."
Before he could speak there was a shout and a scream behind me, and I
turned to see a Chinese girl running out of the fruit and variety store
across the way. She was probably fifteen years old and had that clear,
brilliant, creamy complexion that is sometimes seen in Chinese women.
Though her round flat face was not beautiful to the western eye, it
represented one of the highest types of oriental attractiveness. Even
the clumsy garments in which the Chinese dress their women, with their
long sleeves and armless coat and baggy trousers, were not able to
conceal the fact that she was graceful and well formed. I noted these
details more in memory than in the moment when she clattered into view,
her clumsy Chinese shoes beating a tattoo on the boards. She had hardly
reached the sidewalk when a half-dozen blue-bloused heathen surrounded
her. She gave a scream, but she was seized by two of the band, a cloth
was thrown over her head, and her cries were silenced. If I had taken
time for thought, I should have sought the police instead of the center
of disturbance, for I understood how little chance I should have in a
contest with a band of highbinders. But I could not see murder or
kidnapping done before my eyes without lifting a hand, and I raised a
cry and started across the way.
The street suddenly became alive with shouts and screams, and a hundred
Chinamen came running, all with hands under their blouses, chattering
ferociously as they pressed toward the struggling group. Before I could
reach the other side of the way the girl and her captors had
mysteriously disappeared, whisked through some of the doors that looked
blankly upon the street, and in their place was a mob of Chinamen,
shouting, gesticulating, and blowing police whistles, while threats of
slaughter flashed from their ugly faces. Two policemen appeared on the
run and there was a sudden melting away of the crowd. Hands came out
from under the blouses and from inside the long roomy sleeves. Threats
and hatred faded out of the faces of the quarreling men, and in their
place came the stolid mask of the "no sabby."
"What's the matter here?" panted one of the policemen, while the other
hustled the Chinese from one side of the walk to the other with gruff
orders to "move on."