"Since you are so well-posted about the purchase of the rifles--" I
began.
"The alleged purchase of the rifles," interrupted Wharton Kendrick.
"The purchase of the rifles," I repeated. "I suppose I don't need to
tell you where the money came from to pay for them."
"Oh," said Wharton Kendrick carelessly, "it doesn't take much money to
get up a report."
"Well, it took thirty thousand dollars for this one."
"Pooh, Hampden, you've been dreaming. That crowd couldn't raise thirty
thousand cents."
"Not alone, I grant you. But you will admit that it might be done with
the assistance of a generous-hearted millionaire who has been convinced
of the loftiness of their aims."
"What the devil are you driving at, Hampden? Talk plain United States."
Wharton Kendrick sat bolt upright, and looked at me sternly, with the
light of half-comprehension in his eyes.
"In plain language, then, Peter Bolton paid thirty thousand dollars into
the treasury of the Council of Nine night before last, and the rifles
have been bought with his money."
Kendrick jumped to his feet. His ruddy face went pale, and then turned
ruddier than ever.
"Bolton!" he cried. "How do you know that?"
I gave Clark's account of the matter, recalled Bolton's dealings with
the Council, and clenched the conclusion with the corroborative
testimony of my interview with Bolton in his office. Wharton Kendrick
settled back in his chair and received my tale in a brown study. Before
I had done, he interrupted me.
"I see his game. This puts a different face on the matter. Come in
here." And rising suddenly he seized me by the arm and marched me into
the room from which he had come, with the authoritative air of a
policeman haling a burglar to prison.
The room to which I was introduced in this ignominious fashion was of
moderate size, and the score or so of men who were gathered there filled
it comfortably. I had noted in the company several of the leading
financial men of the city, when Wharton Kendrick brought me to a halt
before a tall, broad-shouldered, full-faced man, with a long gray
mustache, kindly gray eyes, and a calm, resourceful expression.
"Coleman, let me introduce my attorney, Mr. Hampden,"--I became suddenly
grateful that he had presented me in this character--"son of Dick
Hampden, you remember. He brings news that puts a different face on
affairs."
I had seen William T. Coleman on the street, and had known something of
his romantic history. His leadership of the forces of order in the
city, when the criminals of 1851 and 1856 left no remedy to honest men
but that of revolution, had impressed my imagination, and I was prepared
to feel the glow of admiration that warmed my spirit as he shook my hand
with a kindly word. No one could approach the man without receiving the
impression of quiet force; yet it was, after all, difficult to realize
that this kindly merchant had developed the highest qualities of
leadership at two critical periods in the history of the city and state,
had headed a successful revolution against a criminal administration of
the law, and had, after showing gifts that in another day would have
made him a Cromwell or a Simon de Montfort, quietly surrendered his
powers when his work was done, and settled contentedly back to the
prosaic business of buying and selling goods. I felt proud to be in his
presence.
"What is this important information?" asked Coleman, his gray eyes
searching my face with penetrating glance.
"Chiefly," said Wharton Kendrick, "that we are mistaken in supposing
that the story of the purchase of arms is false."
"There is no doubt of its truth, gentlemen," I said. "The conspirators
have received a large sum of money, and have put a good part of it into
guns. They have, on my information, about one thousand rifles."
This assurance produced a visible effect on the company.
"Where did they get this money?" asked the doubting voice of a man who
had been introduced as Mr. Partridge.
"That's not the important point," said Wharton Kendrick, striking in
smoothly. "The main thing is to know what they are going to do with
it."
I understood from this hint that I was to keep the name of Peter Bolton
out of the discussion.
"I have a little special information on that point," I said. And I
described the multiform purposes of the Council of Nine as they had
appeared from my investigations.
"How do you know all this?" came from several of the assembled magnates.
Wharton Kendrick took the reply out of my mouth.
"He has practically direct communication with the conspirators," he
said. "I think we shall all agree that it is best not to mention
names."
"Well, this certainly makes it a horse of another color," said
Partridge. "In the light of Mr. Hampden's information I withdraw my
objections to the plan proposed by Mr. Kendrick."
Wharton Kendrick heaved a scarcely perceptible sigh, and whispered to
me, "That settles it; Partridge represents the Golconda Bank, and the
rest will follow his lead."
"That is right," said another. "Let us take no chances." And with a
few similar expressions the company appeared to have come to a unanimous
agreement.
"Then," said Wharton Kendrick, turning to Partridge, "I'll put you down
for--"
"For five hundred thousand," replied Partridge.
"Make it a million," said Kendrick. "Nelson here is going to stand
responsible for five hundred thousand, and your people should stand for
more."
"Well, if you think the emergency calls for it, you can count on a
million," said Partridge.
One after another the men named the amounts for which they would stand
responsible, and Wharton Kendrick jotted down the figures in his
memorandum-book.
"Please make out your checks, gentlemen," he said at last. "Here is ten
million dollars pledged to the committee."
"That will be enough," said Coleman with decision. "I think that our
arrangements cover every point where there can be a break in the
markets."
"Unless it's M. & N., and the bank we mentioned," said Nelson.
"Oh, yes," said Kendrick; "our arrangements cover them, too. We've got
to back them up till this storm is over. They are bound to go some day,
but if they go now there will be a smash all along the line. Partridge
will see to getting the best collateral they have, and we'll feed them
just enough to keep their doors open."
"They will draw pretty heavily on the pool if disorder actually starts,"
said another.
"Oh," said Partridge, "we have a very comfortable reserve, and it isn't
likely that there will be an actual outbreak."
"Well, we have prepared for every emergency," said a stout and
sleepy-looking man in the corner; "and as we're likely to have a hard
day of it to-morrow, I move we get home and to bed. It's three minutes
of midnight, now."
The suggestion appeared to be approved, for everybody rose with the
breaking-up atmosphere that ends a gathering.
"One moment," said Coleman, raising his hand. "There is one thing we
have neglected to discuss. It is not impossible that the constituted
authorities will prove unable to handle the disorderly elements. In
case of need, how many of you gentlemen are ready to give your services
to the city to preserve order?"
There was a silence for a moment. Then one said:
"Pshaw, Coleman! This isn't fifty-six! We're twenty years older than
we were then, and the police and the militia can handle those fellows if
they make any trouble."
"I believe," said Coleman with deliberate emphasis, "that we are
standing on the crust of a volcano. We should be prepared to give our
money and our personal services to the public safety if the need comes."
"There's no danger," growled the sleepy man, "so what's the use of
worrying about it? Let's go home."
"Oh," said Kendrick, "we'll all stand in if there's trouble, of course."
"We'll leave Coleman on guard," said another with a facetious nod.
"We'll all turn out when he rings the bell."
In the bustle of guests departing, Coleman took me by the arm and led me
to a corner.
"Do you know where these guns are stored?" he asked.
I balanced my obligations to Clark against the obvious fact that the
publicity given to the armament had relieved him from chance of
suspicion, and replied:
"I understand that they were stored near the headquarters of the
Council--Blasius' saloon--known to the police as the House of Blazes."
"I think they should belong to the police," said Coleman dryly. "I dare
say Chief Ellis has heard of them, but I shall send word to him before I
go to bed."
In a moment more Kendrick called me, and we bade good night to our host.
As we reached the Kendrick house the magnate roused himself from a brown
study and said:
"The curmudgeon is a rather amusing cuss, Hampden, if you know how to
take him. I advise you to cultivate his acquaintance."
"Do you mean--" I began.
"I mean," said Kendrick sharply, "that the closer you get to a man the
more you find out about what he intends to do. If he wants to pay for
the pleasure of your society it might be a pity to deny him the
privilege."
*CHAPTER XI*
*TROUBLES IN THE MARKET*
Storm-signals were flying in the financial quarter of San Francisco.
California and Sansome Streets were thronged with men whose faces,
anxious, confident, hopeful or despairing, pictured a time of commercial
stress. There was an unusual bustle about the orderly precincts of the
banks, as clerks rushed in and out with the air of men who carried the
fate of the day on their shoulders. Bearers of checks jostled one
another in their eagerness to be first at the counters of the paying
teller. The doors to the offices of bank presidents and cashiers, that
on ordinary days opened but sedately to the occasional visitor, were now
swinging constantly to admit their customers in search of unusual
accommodation. And even at the savings banks there was a flutter of
uneasiness; for at the opening hour a long line of timid-faced men and
women had formed in front of the paying tellers' counters.
In the banking district this anxious activity was orderly and
well-mannered. The center of disturbance was to be found about the
rival stock exchanges on Pine and Montgomery Streets, where excited
crowds blocked the sidewalks and roadways, curbstone brokers raised a
deafening clamor with their offers to buy and sell, and groups of
individual traders surged hither and thither in endless but changing
combinations. The shouts followed one another in short and rapid
volleys, like the popping of a pack of fire-crackers, and as each vocal
explosion was the signal for the dissolution or rearrangement of a group
of traders, the human herd was tossed about in waves, eddies and
cross-currents, like the bay in a storm.
The granite pile on Pine Street that held the San Francisco Stock
Exchange--the "Big Board" as it was known in the parlance of the
street--was the origin of waves of disturbance that spread to the
remotest confines of the crowds. The flight of a messenger down the
granite steps would be followed by a roar of inarticulate sound, a wave
of human motion spreading out in a circle of eddies, individual groups
colliding, coalescing, separating into new combinations in a mad
confusion of excited voices, till its impulse was lost on the confines
of the crowd or whirled aside into the scores of bucket-shops that lined
the adjacent streets. And similar waves of excitement spread in smaller
volume from the rival and lesser exchanges on Montgomery and Leidesdorff
Streets.
The developing strength of the agitators, and the rumors of the arming
of the turbulent elements, had roused a spirit of uneasiness in the city
that was not far from panic. As a consequence of their fears, men were
rushing to protect their business interests, loans were called in,
collections were pressed, lenders became wary, and weak holders of
stocks were forced to sell. With these conditions overshadowing the
market, professional traders in stocks became fierce and aggressive
bears, and hammered at prices with every weapon that money and mendacity
put at their hand.
Wharton Kendrick was early at his office, and I sought him for
directions.
"Look after the other fellow," was his brusk command. "That is your
part of the business. Let me know what Peter Bolton does. Send me
reports every ten or fifteen minutes till the exchanges close. I'll be
here all day."
Having satisfied myself that my messenger system was in good working
order, I awaited the first move of the enemy. It came shortly after the
opening of the stock exchanges. I received word that Peter Bolton had
started for the "Big Board;" so I made my way thither to observe for
myself what sort of activity he might be about.
As I was edging my way forward between the shouting, tossing eddies that
divided the crowd, I felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned to find
Parks beside me.
"A shameful sight!" he shouted in my ear. "Sad and shameful!" And he
gave a vigorous shake to his head that put his shock of hair all
a-quiver. "It's like a round-up of helpless cattle driven to the
slaughter-house. It's worse than shameful. It's damnable!"
"More like the dairy, isn't it?" I asked. "They are like cows brought
up to be milked, and afterward turned loose to accumulate a new supply."
This view of the market brought an angry flame of color into Parks'
face.
"Worse than that--worse than that!" he cried indignantly. "It's like
those African fellows that cut a steak out of their live cattle and then
turn them out to grow another. Those men there," and he shook his fist
at the granite front of the Stock Exchange, "and those men there," and
he shook his fist at the El Dorado Bank as the nearest representative of
speculative finance, "are vampires that grow by sucking the blood of the
people."
"The people appear to be willing victims," I suggested, looking at the
eager if apprehensive faces about us.
"By heavens, no!" cried Parks, in his high excited voice. "They are
driven into the shambles by their poverty--by the inequalities and
injustices in the distribution of wealth--as surely as if they had been
driven by whips or bayonets." He glared about him as though he sought
contradiction. "They are here in the hope of wresting from knavery and
rapacity the share of the earth's products of which they have been
despoiled."
"I suspect," was my scoffing reply, "that they are here in the hope of
doing exactly what the owners of the El Dorado Bank have done--of taking
all they can get and a little more."
"Sir," said Parks, "you lose sight of the mass in looking at the
individual. The individual has been corrupted by a false system of
society into striving for unjust gains. But the mass calls only for
simple justice."
"Well, Parks," I returned, "I admire your optimism, though I can't say
as much for your judgment."
"Admire it or not, sir, as you like," said Parks. "That will not alter
facts. But this," he added, shaking his fist again at the frowning
front of the Exchange, "is one of the iniquities that we shall sweep
away."
"If we can judge by the patronage it is getting to-day it won't have to
close very soon," was my comment.
"Sir," said Parks, "the day when it will be closed is nearer than you
imagine. Our denunciations of the robbers of the stock exchanges excite
more applause than anything except our denunciations of the Chinese."
"I should think it quite likely. Men like to hear hard words said of
those who succeed where they themselves have failed. But the applause
means nothing."
"It means," said Parks, "that we shall have the masses behind us when we
give the word to abolish these iniquities."
"Abolish them? Pooh! It would take a despotism to do that."
"A despotism? No. A revolution. The revolution that will bring
equality to the people is all that is needed."
"And you still think your revolution is coming?" I asked.
"Not the slightest doubt of it." And Parks gave a mysterious nod as
though he could tell many things if he would, and then closed his mouth
tightly as though tortures could not wring another word from him.
At this moment I caught sight of Peter Bolton intent on pressing a way
to the entrance of the Exchange. His gaunt face was drawn into harsh,
determined lines, his sharp chin was thrust forward, and his whole
attitude was an expression of grim purpose. I lost sight of him in the
struggle of making my way through the throng, and I had reached the door
before I brought him under my eye again. He was pausing in the lobby to
pass a word with an alert, bright-eyed man whom I knew as a broker, and
I surmised that he was giving orders in regard to sales or purchases of
stocks.
Inside the Board-room the clamor was more insistent and disturbing than
on the street. The confined space compressed the waves of sound till
they struck upon the ear with a force that benumbed my unaccustomed
nerves. The cries, shouts, and yells of the brokers bidding for stocks
or making their offerings came only as a confused roar.
Except for the noise, the scene on the floor of the Exchange resembled
nothing so much as a magnified foot-ball scrimmage. The scores of
excited brokers were rushing hither and thither within the railed pit,
shouting, screaming, waving their arms, shaking their fists, forming
groups about a half-dozen of their fellows, flinging one another aside
to get to the center, struggling with all signs of personal combat, and
then separating a moment later to form new groups. The dissolving
combinations, the quick rushes, the kaleidoscopic changes among the
circling men, were as confusing to the eye as the swelling dissonance of
shouts was deafening to the ear.
The spectators of this tournament of riot made themselves a part of the
brabble. They felt all the interest of those unarmed citizens who
watched a battle which was to settle the fate of their goods and
households. They were mostly speculators, winning or losing money with
each burst of sound that rose from the bedlam dance in the pit. They
filled the seats and crowded the aisles, and added their quota of
outcries to the uproar, now shouting instructions to their brokers, now
bargaining among themselves, and now voicing an exclamation of
satisfaction or discomposure as the stocks changed prices at the call.
Peter Bolton dropped into a seat that had been reserved for him at the
rail, and watched the scene with keen and wary eye. It was plain that
he had been brought there by no idle curiosity. For the first time in
the knowledge of the frequenters of the Exchange he took an open part in
the trading, called brokers to him at every turn of the battle of the
pit, and gave his directions with confident brevity.
The Exchange was not altogether a novelty to me, and after I had become
accustomed to the confusion of sight and sound, I had no difficulty in
discerning the progress of the struggle that was going on before me. It
needed no broker to tell me that a hot financial battle was being fought
in that confined arena. A novice in trade could have seen that there
was a determined effort to break the market, met by an equally
determined effort to uphold it. The attacking force had strong support.
The alarms and anxieties caused by the signs of approaching trouble had
brought into the market the stocks held by small margins, those of
frightened investors, and those held by speculative merchants who found
their credits suddenly shortened. The rumors of coming disorder had
also brought to the bear side the professional traders who foresaw a
probable fall in prices, and by sales for future delivery did their
utmost to bring it about for their own profit.
But there were strong influences on the other side. And though each
call of stock was followed by an avalanche of offers, I soon observed
that every stock after a sharp decline was brought back to something
near its former quotations. I surmised that the steadying hand of the
syndicate was at work. It was not for nothing that Wharton Kendrick had
held his midnight session with the financial barons of the city.
As the session wore away with fierce assault and resolute defense, with
detonations of cries and shouts, with surges and clashes of conflicting
factions of traders, I thought I saw an air of disappointment settling
on the face of Peter Bolton. He spoke sharply to the brokers that from
time to time he summoned about him. These conferences were followed by
renewed activities and fresh outbreaks of sound among the gyrating,
dissolving groups upon the floor; but after a flutter of changing prices
the quotations returned to the level from which they started.
The session came to an end at last, and the throng of men poured out of
the Exchange, bearing on their faces the record of success and failure,
of excitement and fatigue, that had been scored by the morning's work.
But so far as the official figures of the session showed it might have
been a time of stagnation instead of fierce battle. The closing prices
were not a point away from those that ruled at the close of the previous
day.
"The El Dorado Bank has run against a snag this time," said one broker
to his neighbor, as he wiped his perspiring face and adjusted his limp
collar.
"The El Dorado Bank isn't the only one to feel a little sick over the
morning's business," said his companion, with a toss of his thumb toward
the bowed figure of Peter Bolton huddled in the seat by the rail and
contemplating with vacant intentness the floor of the deserted pit.
"Old Tightfist must have dropped a pile of money here to-day."
"He?" exclaimed his companion. "Not much he didn't. He always caught
the turn at just the right minute. When the books are made up he's as
likely to be ahead as behind."
"He has the devil's own luck," said the first broker.
"He found out what he was bucking against early in the game," said the
other, "and after that he didn't need anybody to tell him when to get
out."
As the throng passed out, Peter Bolton still sat in his seat by the
rail. A grim air of reflection was on his face, the lines of stern
determination still drew his chin forward and his lips back, and he
studied the floor of the Exchange as though it were a blackboard on
which his problem was being worked out. Then at last he slowly rose,
and with a sour shake of his head walked toward the door, I turned my
eyes on the clock in the hope of escaping his observation; but as he
came by my seat he halted.
"So, young man," he said, with the compressed force of anger audible in
his sarcastic drawl, "you think you have beat me, do you?--you and that
smirking scoundrel you call Kendrick!" There was the concentrated
essence of venom in his tone that testified to the depth of his hatred
and chagrin.
His words were an admission that I was quick to understand. In a moment
my mind flashed to the conclusion that the whole enginery of rumor and
riot had been set in motion by this man to serve the purposes of his
malignity. He had sought to pull down the commercial edifice of San
Francisco in the hope of burying Wharton Kendrick in the ruins.
The design was the worthy offspring of the malevolent mind before me,
but it was rather his insulting reference to my client than the
wickedness of the thing he had attempted to do that stirred me with
anger. A harsh answer was on my lips, but it was checked by the sudden
recollection of Wharton Kendrick's advice to "cultivate Peter Bolton's
acquaintance."
Accepting this recommendation as a command, I bowed with a smile as
sarcastic as his own, and replied cheerfully:
"You do seem to have made a failure of it, Mr. Bolton."
A flash of anger came into the pale blue eyes, a shade of red flamed in
the sallow cheeks, and Peter Bolton broke forth into passionate speech:
"Maybe you've beat me this time. Maybe you've had things your own way
for once. But the fight isn't over yet. There's plenty of it coming,
and I'll see that you get it. Let that scoundrel Kendrick look out for
himself. He can hire whipper-snappers"--by this term I judged that
Peter Bolton referred to me, and I was pleased to think that he credited
his discomfiture in part to my humble efforts--"he can hire a line of
whipper-snappers that would reach from here to the ferries, but he can't
save himself. I'll drag him down. I'll strip him to the last rag.
When I get through with him he won't have a dollar to his name. There
won't be a foot of land or one brick on top of another that he can call
his own." Peter Bolton spoke more rapidly than I had supposed was
possible to him, and his face flamed with the wrath that had carried his
tongue away.
"I'm sorry to hear it," I said politely. "I hope it won't happen before
I collect my month's salary."
Bolton looked at me venomously from his deep-set eyes, and his thin lips
curled with sarcastic lines.
"You've earned your salary this month," he said, with a return to his
harsh drawl, "but it doesn't follow that you'll get it. You beat me
this time, but it isn't the end."
"You did make rather a mess of it," I admitted. "You ought to have
consulted somebody about it--an attorney, for instance."
I spoke idly, without special meaning; but at my words Bolton's face
softened into a glance of sardonic humor.
"Oh," he said slowly, "I don't know but what you are right. Come around
to my office in a day or two, and we'll talk about the fee." He jumped
to the conclusion that I was ready to accept a bribe, and he continued:
"It'll be anything in reason, young man, anything in reason."
*CHAPTER XII*
*THE LOTTERY TICKET*
In the midst of the lull that followed the failure of Peter Bolton's
assault on the fortifications of commerce, I was surprised to find on my
office desk one morning the following letter: