"Stand back there!" came from above in a determined voice.
"Stand back there!" I repeated. And at the command and the show of
revolvers, the advancing hoodlums swerved aside into the street with a
sudden cooling of their ardor for battle.
"Is that you, Mr. Hampden?" came from above, and I recognized the voice
of Andrews, the head watchman for the night.
"Yes," I replied. "Be ready to shoot if I give the word." And walking
backward I climbed the steps till I stood on the landing and looked down
on the mob. Then with an eye on the tossing, circling array of faces
below, I knelt over Wharton Kendrick. He was limp and still. A long cut
extended from his forehead well back into his hair, and the blood
flowing from it had moistened his face and dyed his thinning locks.
I glanced at the mob, noted the signs that it was gathering courage for
another attack, and was calculating on the risk of weakening our defense
by ordering the men to carry Wharton Kendrick into the house, when I
heard the door open behind me. There was a swift patter of footsteps on
the walk, and Laura Kendrick flung herself on her knees beside me with a
cry of grief and fear, and lifted her uncle's head in her arms.
"Oh," she cried with a choking voice, "have they killed him?"
"No," I replied, "he's alive. He will be all right in a little while."
I hoped I was telling the truth. "We'll get him into the house, and have
a doctor to look after him as soon as we can drive this mob away.
Please go in now. You may be hurt yourself if you stay."
She had been wiping away the blood with her handkerchief, to the soft
accompaniment of a crooning utterance, as though she were quieting a
sick child.
"Indeed, I shall not go in till he does," she said. "Do you think I
shall leave him out here to be killed by those dreadful creatures?"
"Please go," I said. "You can do nothing here, and the mob may begin
firing at any minute."
At the apparition of the girlish figure the rioters had hushed something
of their wrathful cries, but I felt none the less apprehensive of their
next act.
As I spoke, with something of peremptoriness in my voice, Laura Kendrick
started to her feet, but instead of returning to the house she walked
hurriedly to the wall, and stood resolutely facing the crowd.
"Come back!" I cried with dismay, and restrained my impulse to rush
before her with the thought that I should be much more likely to incite
than to prevent an attack.
But instead of heeding my summons she began an indignant appeal to the
men before her, trying to shame them at their errand. As her piquant
voice rose on the air a terror gripped my throat at the thought of the
response that her call might bring, but at her first words the crowd
hushed to stillness, and I saw a man cuff a young hoodlum who uttered a
catcall. The appeal of the slender figure facing the mob in the glare
of the torches that had been brought to burn her house was a better
protection for the moment than the revolvers of my men.
"Do you think it manly to strike at the sick or at women? Do you think
it right to try to murder your friends? You have struck down a man who
never had an unkind word for you--who has done more than all of you put
together to keep the Chinese out of the country. Do you think that is
the way to help your cause? I don't."
The mob preserved an admirable silence, and she turned to me and said in
low, excited tones, "Carry him into the house while they are behaving
themselves."
I had already given the order, and four of my men bore the stricken
magnate up the steps and through the doors, while Laura spoke once more
to the mob.
"I'm sure," she said, "you ought to see by this time that you've done
enough harm to your cause for one day, and I hope you'll go quietly home
before you do anything worse."
"Three cheers for the leddy!" came in strong Hibernian response, and the
mover of the resolution led off with such a will that a hundred more
voices joined in the tribute.
"Thank you," she replied, "and good night." And with a courtesy to the
uninvited guests, she turned, crossed the garden, and mounted the steps
with dainty grace. At the door she turned, gave another bow, and waved
her hand in farewell, and then slipped through the open door as another
cheer was raised.
I had followed her with the purpose of keeping between her and possible
missiles and my misdirected solicitude was rewarded. As she put foot
within the hall, she staggered and would have fallen had I not caught
her. For an instant she clung to me with a convulsive gasp of fear.
Then her grasp relaxed, her head sank back, and her full weight rested
on my encircling arm. At the sight of her white face, and the crimson
stains on her hands and dress that had come from her uncle's blood, I
gave a cry of alarm, and lifted her limp form as carefully as one takes
up a sleeping child.
For a minute of tumultuous joy and fear I held her in my arms, as I
carried her to the room into which her uncle had been borne. But before
I reached the door she opened her eyes languidly. Then with a startled
look, full consciousness returned.
"Put me down," she said, and struggled to her feet. But so unsteadily
did she stand that she was forced to reach out for support, and I put a
sustaining arm about her.
"What is it?" she asked in a whisper. "Did I get knocked down? My head
is going round and round."
"No, you are all right," I said soothingly. "There was a little too
much excitement outside for you, I'm afraid."
"Oh, I was goose enough to faint, was I?" she said, disengaging herself
with a swift movement. But once more in full command of herself, tears
of apprehension gathered in her eyes, and she asked, "Where is uncle?"
And as I motioned to the door, she turned and ran into the room where
Wharton Kendrick lay white and still upon a couch. Mercy Fillmore's
deft hands were washing the wound, a servant was assisting, and the four
men who had brought the wounded master into the house stood about in
wait for orders. With a word I sent three to rejoin the line of
defense, and directed the fourth to slip out the back way in quest of
Doctor Roberts.
Laura Kendrick took her place quietly at Mercy Fillmore's side and with
tense self-possession assisted at the dressing of the wound. And in the
calmness and practised touch with which they played the part of surgeons
I had demonstration of the skill they had acquired in the weeks of
service which they had devoted to Moon Ying.
"I don't see why he doesn't come to himself," said Laura, when the
bandage had been adjusted. "I wish we could get the doctor."
"I have sent a man after him," I said.
"Do you think he can get through that howling mob of savages? I'm
afraid he will be killed; and if he isn't, the doctor can never get in."
"Oh, there's the back gate. I hope the doctor's not above taking it."
I had hardly spoken when I was checked at seeing my messenger standing
in the hall. Before I could exclaim at his sudden return, he had
beckoned me out with a warning finger on his lips.
At his signal I left the room with an attempt to disguise my disturbance
of mind under the pretense of idle restlessness.
"What's the matter?" I asked, as soon as I got the man away from the
door.
"There's a gang over in the next yard," he said, "and I couldn't get
through. I'm afraid they're getting ready to set fire to the house. I
smelt kerosene when I climbed on the fence. One of 'em says something
about 'smoking 'em out,' an' I guess they're fixing up some sort of
fire-balls."
"Where are you going?" asked Miss Kendrick, coming to the door. "You
are not meaning to venture out among those savages again?"
"I think it's time I told them to go home," I said. "They are making a
good deal of noise out there."
"You must not do anything of the sort," she said, catching my arm. "I
told them to go, and if they won't go for my telling, they won't go for
yours."
I bent over her with more tremors than I had felt in the midst of the
mob.
"I shouldn't go unless I thought it would help to protect you," I said.
"Well, if you must go," said Miss Laura, "please be careful and do not
go out the front way. Take the side door, where there's nobody likely
to see you." And leading the way down the passage between the library
and the dining-room she slipped a bolt and opened the door enough to let
us out. She held out her hand to me.
"You're not to get hurt," she murmured, as I paused.
"That settles it. I shall preserve a whole skin." And with a pressure
of the hand, I hastened out the door.
The yells from the front came with renewed distinctness, but no sounds
of attack were to be heard. The mob appeared to have resolved itself
into a disorderly debating society. I hurried to the rear of the house
with my messenger.
"Are any of our men back here?" I asked.
"One--Reardon is at the kitchen steps," replied the man.
Reardon proved to be awake and ready for any enterprise, and we advanced
to the fence and reconnoitered. The dim light showed a band of fifteen
or twenty men gathered a few yards away in the vacant lot behind the
Kendrick place.
"Aren't they ready yet?" asked one impatient conspirator. "I could have
fixed forty fire-balls in the time you've taken to fix those three."
"Why didn't you come and do it then?" was the resentful and belligerent
answer. "I'll have them ready in a jiffy."
With a few whispered words of direction I stationed my men by the fence,
a dozen yards apart, and took my place between them. Then climbing up I
gave a blast on a police whistle, and cried:
"Now, boys, gather them in. Don't let one get away." And at the word I
fired three or four shots at the group and my men followed my example.
The surprise was complete. At the fusillade there was a scattering of
the gang, and with a sudden realization of the importance of their
personal safety they took to their heels and ran into Franklin Street.
"That was a foine job, sor. We must have hit a power of thim," said
Reardon, with an exemplary faith in our marksmanship.
"I hope so," I said. I had been roused to fury by the deliberate
preparations to burn the house, and had shot to do mischief. "It looks
as though we had got one fellow, anyhow," I added, as I discovered a
dark heap on the ground, and heard a whimpering groan.
We jumped down from the fence, and an advance of a few steps confirmed
my guess. A man lay writhing on the earth, giving utterance to
suppressed sounds of pain. Reardon knelt over him.
"Why, it's Danny Regan!" he cried. "What th' divil are ye doin' here,
Danny?"
"Go 'way, ye murderin' spalpeen!" replied the stricken Danny. "Me leg
is bruk. 'Tis a bullet sthruck me knee."
"'Twas me that give it to yez, Danny," said Reardon with a chuckle. "I
picked ye out, me lad--an' whin Pat Reardon takes aim he niver misses.
If he don't hit wan thing he hits another--an' it's dollars to dimes the
other thing's jist as good."
The wounded man replied to this boast with an outbreak of curses.
"Yer timper's been soured, Danny," said Reardon. "That comes of mixin'
in bad company. ''Tis evil communications corrupts a good disposition,'
says Father Ryan; an' if you'd listened to him you'd a-been home an' in
bed now wid two sound legs instead of wan."
"Well, take me home, Pat," groaned the wounded conspirator; "though
maybe you'd like to make a clane job of it by puttin' wan iv yer bullets
t'rough me head."
"Faith, I wouldn't waste another wan on yez. Bullets cost money. If I
did me dooty I'd settle yer case by mashin' yer head in wid a rock."
"We wouldn't get so far as that," I said. "We'll compromise by holding
him prisoner of war. Up with him now."
Our inexpert handling brought whimpers and curses from the prisoner.
And in a few minutes we had him bestowed as comfortably as possible in
the little room that the watchmen had used as a lounging place.
"Now," said I to my messenger, "get over to Doctor Roberts' house as
fast as you can. Tell him Mr. Kendrick is hurt, and bring him back with
you. Hurry!"
The messenger had scarce disappeared when Reardon exclaimed:
"Whist! There comes some more of 'em."
Above the excited hubbub of the besieging crowd in front could be heard
a swelling roar that became more distinct with each moment. The
significance of the sound was unmistakable. Another reinforcement was
approaching, and in fear lest the assailants who had been beaten off
were returning to attack us from the rear we ran back to the fence. All
was quiet in that direction, and the hostile sounds now came so plainly
from the front that I doubled speed to the threatened quarter just as a
scattering crackle of pistol-shots punctuated the inarticulate language
of the mob, and a volley of stones hurtled against the house with the
explosive tinkle of breaking windows.
I reached the front yard just as another volley took out every window
that faced the street, and saw that a concerted rush was being made
against the place. A body of men was being pushed up the steps between
the flanking walls by the pressure of the mob behind, and immediately
before me--at the side of the garden--two young men were mounting the
wall on the shoulders of their companions, the vanguard of a flank
attack that would capture the place if they once got a foothold. I
fired a shot at one, who disappeared with a surprising suddenness, and
then bethinking myself of the unwisdom of wasting bullets, I ran forward
and brought down my revolver on the head of the other invader. He had
just got his knee on the railing, but he went down the eight-foot drop
with a yell of pain and a torrent of bad language. At the same moment
the men who were defending the steps threw the assailing column into
confusion by a fortunate volley, and the attack gave back. A score of
answering shots came from the mob, and a bullet whistled so close to my
ear that I clapped my hand to the spot with the thought that a piece had
been taken off. The agreeable disappointment of finding that I was
mistaken was overshadowed a moment later by the discovery that the wall
at the farther side of the garden had been scaled by a dozen of the mob,
and that others were clambering up in their path.
"Look out there on your right, Andrews!" I cried, hastening to join the
company. "They are on the terrace."
Before I reached the steps the dozen had increased to a score, and it
looked as though we were to be overwhelmed by numbers. For an instant
it seemed that our best chance lay in retreating into the house in the
hope that it would serve as a fortress until the police arrived. But as
the house was only a wooden structure, and it was the expressed purpose
of the mob to burn us out, I felt it was to be regarded as the last
resort of resistance.
"Shoot them down!" I cried.
"Not much chance," said Andrews as I reached him. "We're down to our
last cartridges."
This was a sickening bit of information, but it assured me that prompt
action was of the last importance. I took one of my men by the shoulder
and pushed him over toward the position I had just left.
"Here," I said, "see that nobody gets over that wall. You two," picking
out a pair of the guards, "hold the stair. Come on, the rest of you.
We must clear these fellows out. Double quick, now."
At this command the men sprang forward by my side, and we ran to the
invaded quarter, firing off our remaining cartridges as we charged.
The mob was mostly of but poor stuff, after all. Half of those who had
been bold enough to climb to the terrace halted at sight of our advance,
and dropped over the wall to the sidewalk in panic. But we were,
nevertheless, greatly outnumbered by those who stood their ground, and a
scattering though harmless fusillade gave evidence that they were armed.
In a moment we were in the thick of it. Fists, clubs and revolvers were
flying, and the thud of body blows could be heard under the cries and
curses that formed the dramatic chorus to the struggle. We used our
empty revolvers as clubs, and we appeared to do more execution with them
handled thus than with all the bullets we had fired. A bullet has a way
of wandering from its mark, but a pistol-barrel brought down with a
vigorous arm on a man's head never fails in execution, and has a
tendency to turn the most ardent warrior into the ways of peace. But in
spite of good luck, discipline and desperation, we were far from having
the battle all our own way. I had envied the ease with which my
favorite heroes of romance bowled over half a dozen enemies with fist or
sword, and I envied them still more when I found myself in a place to
put their lessons into practice. I had not been in the conflict more
than a minute when a knock on the head from a bony fist and a thump on
the shoulder from a club sent me to the grass with a realization of how
much better it is to give than to receive. But I was fortunate enough
to be up again in a moment, and laying about me with a savage hope of
repaying with usury the men who had sent me to the ground.
How the battle would have gone if we had been left to our unaided
strength, I shall leave to less partial historians to say. But just as
I had been thoroughly impressed with the fact that seven men have their
work cut out for them when they are called on to attack a score, I heard
a roar from the mob that finally separated into an articulate cry of--
"Here come the cops! Look out for the police! Knock their heads off!"
And a company of the guardians of order could be seen charging down the
avenue.
The pugilistic activities of the mob in the presence of the police,
however, appeared to be purely vocal. So far as I was able to observe,
the head-knocking business was wholly on the other side.
At the warning cry there was a sudden slackening of activity among the
invaders of the terrace. Then they began to drop over the wall to
rejoin the retreating main body, and in a minute, with a panic rush,
they were all gone. And while I caught my breath once more I had the
satisfaction of seeing the mob driven like sheep before a company of
some twenty-five policemen, who were savagely rapping with their clubs
at every head they could reach. The crowd was flying from a body of men
that it could have swallowed up, smothered, annihilated, by sheer force
of numbers, awed less by the physical force represented by the clubs
than by the moral force of law that lay behind them.
I hailed the police captain as a brother and a preserver, and hastily
explained the state of affairs.
"It's a bad night for us all," he said. "We're fighting 'em from North
Beach to Tar Flat. They've killed a dozen Chinamen, an' I'll bet my
straps there isn't a Chinese wash-house left with a window in the whole
city."
"I'm afraid we aren't much better off here," I said, with a rueful look
at the vacant sashes of Wharton Kendrick's windows.
"It's bad--it's bad," said the officer. "We got word they were coming
here, and the chief sent us up to clear the avenue. Then we heard that
they were settin' fire to Stanford's and Crocker's so we rushed over to
Nob Hill. It was only a small crowd there, though, and after chasin'
them out, we hurried up here."
"You were just in time," I said. "We were hard pressed."
"I'm sorry I can't leave you a few men," said the captain, "but we've
got too much work ahead of us. I don't think they'll try it again. But
we'll look around this way again in an hour or two."
*CHAPTER XXII*
*I BECOME A MAN OF BUSINESS*
I was a sorry sight when I entered the house once more, with one sleeve
torn from my coat, a large and growing lump over my right eye, and my
clothing an impressionist study in grass-stains and earth colors.
In the excitement of the moment I was not aware of the picturesque
figure I made until I saw the horror-stricken look that swept over Laura
Kendrick's face as she met me in the hall.
"Oh," she cried, "you did go and get yourself murdered, after all!"
"No, indeed. I had a day's work crowded into a few minutes, but we got
them driven off, and I'm as sound as a dollar." I spoke with the
exultation of victory; but with the reaction from the excitement and
fatigue of the battle I felt the need of a place to sit down and pull
myself together.
"Then you're very well disguised," she returned anxiously. "Are those
dreadful wretches all gone? Come into our hospital here--right away--and
we'll wash the blood off your face, and try to put you to rights."
"How is Mr. Kendrick?" I asked, as she led me toward the "hospital."
"He has opened his eyes and said a few words. Doctor Roberts is here,
and has stitched up his head, and says he will be all right in a week or
two if we take good care of him."
The room set aside for the hospital had a highly professional look.
Wharton Kendrick lay on the same couch on which I had left him. Doctor
Roberts was bending over him, carefully adjusting the bandage on his
head. Near them I was surprised to see Danny Regan of the broken leg,
attended by Mercy Fillmore, while at the other side of the room, propped
up in an easy chair, was Moon Ying, looking on the scene with passive
wonder.
"Sit here," ordered Miss Kendrick, wheeling a big chair to the table,
and I was glad to obey. "Yes," she continued, noting my scrutiny of
Danny Regan and Moon Ying. "The cook complained of the groans she heard
from the men's room, so we found out what had happened and had the man
brought here. And just before the rocks began to fly I had run up to
see about Moon Ying, so I had her carried down. It was lucky I did, for
we had hardly got out of the room when bang-cling! went every window in
the front of the house. I thought she had best be on the ground floor
in case of fire, and this room was as safe as any in the house. My!
what a bump you did get. A riot is 'most as bad as falling downstairs,
isn't it?"
With deft fingers she had wiped away the stains of battle, and now she
wrung out a cloth in cold water, folded it into a compress, and bound it
skilfully over my swollen forehead.