CHAPTER LX

THE SHATTERED BUBBLE

Benito looked up from his pillows, tried to rise and found that he had not the strength. Someone was holding his wrist. Oh, yes, Dr. Beverly Cole. Behind him stood Alice and Robert.... How tall the boy looked beside his little mother! They seemed to be tired, worried. And Alice had tears in her eyes.

He heard the doctor's voice afar off, saying, "Yes, he'll live. The danger's over--barring complications." Once more his senses drifted, slept.

* * * * *

In the morning Po Lun brought a cup of broth and fed him with a spoon.

"Long time you been plenty sick," the Chinaman replied to his interrogation.

"Where's Alice?"

"She go 'sleep 'bout daylight.... She plenty ti'ed. Ebely night she sit up while you talk clazy talk."

"You mean I've been delirious, Po Lun?"

The Chinese nodded. "You get well now plitty soon," he said soothingly and, with the empty cup, stole softly out. After a time Alice came, rejoiced to find him awake. The boy, on his way to school, poked a bright morning face in at the door and called out, "Hello, dad! Better, ain't you?"

"Yes, Robert," said Benito. When the boy had gone he turned to Alice. "How long have I been ill?"

"Less than a fortnight--though it seems an age." She took his hand and cried a little. But they were happy tears. He stroked her hair with a hand that seemed strangely heavy.

* * * * *

Three weeks later, hollow-eyed, a little shaky, but eager to be back at work, Benito returned to his office. A press of work engaged him through the morning hours. But at noon, he wandered out into the bright June sunshine, walking about and greeting old friends. At the Russ House Cafe, where he lunched, William Ralston greeted him cordially.

"How is the war going?" Windham asked. "I've been laid up for a month--rather out of the running."

"Well, they're devilish hard fighters, those Confederates. And Lee's a master strategist.... But we've the money, Windham. That's what counts. The Union owes a lot to California and Nevada."

"Nevada!" with the word came sudden recollection. "That reminds me, Ralston.... How are stocks?"

But the banker, with a muttered excuse hastened off.

Benito finished his coffee, smoked a cigarette and made his way again into the street.

Presently he went into the stock exchange, almost deserted now, after the close of the morning session. O'Brien was there, smoking a long black cigar and chatting in his boisterous, confidential way with Asbury Harpending. The latter was babbling in real estate.

"Hullo, Windham!" he greeted. "You don't look very fit.... Been ill?"

"Yes," Benito told him. "Laid up since the last of May. What's new?"

"Nothing much--since the bottom dropped out of Comstock."

Instinctively Benito's hand went out toward a chair. He sank into it weakly. So that was the explanation of Ralston's swift departure.

He felt the men's eyes upon him as he walked unsteadily to the files and scanned them. Ophir stock had dropped 50 per cent. Gould and Curry was even lower. Benito closed the book and walked blindly out of the exchange.

After a time he heard footsteps following. Harpending's voice came, "Hey, there, Windham." Benito turned.

"Cleaned out?" asked the other sympathetically.

"Not--quite."

"Then forget the stocks. They're tricky things at best.... I've a proposition that's a winner. Positively.... There's law work to be done. We need you."

"Montgomery Street Straight" was the plan. It was to be extended across Market street either in a straight line or at an easy angle--over all obstructions to the bay.

"But such a scheme would involve millions," Benito objected. "It would cut through the Latham and Parrott homes for instance.... Old Senator Latham would hold you up for a prohibitive price. And Parrott would fight you to a finish."

"Quite right," returned Harpending. "That's where you come in, Benito. We want you to draw us a bill and lobby it through the Legislature...."

"The thing is to make it a law. Then the Governor must appoint a commission. The Latham and Parrott properties will be condemned and we can acquire them at a fair price."

"Very well," Benito answered. "It's a go."

Several days after his talk with Harpending, Benito met Adrian and Francisco, the latter a tall, gangling lad of sixteen. Father and son were talking animatedly, discussing some point on which Francisco seemed determined to have his way.

"What d'ye think of this youngster of mine?" Stanley questioned. "Scarcely out of short pants and wants to be a newspaper man! I say he should go to school a few years more ... to one of those Eastern colleges you hear so much about. I've the money. He doesn't need to work.... Talk to him, Benito. Make him listen to sense."

"I don't wish to go East, Uncle Ben," said Francisco. "What good will it do me to learn Latin and Greek.... Higher mathematics and social snobbery? I want to get to work. Calvin McDonald's offered me a job on The American Flag."

"What will you do? Write editorials or poetry?" his father asked.

Francisco flushed. "I'll be a copy boy to start with.... And there's no harm in writing poetry. Uncle Ben does it himself."

It was Benito's turn to redden. "Better let the boy have his way," he said hastily. "Journalism's quite an education in itself."

"So, you're against me, too! Well, well. I'll see about it."

They shook hands good-humoredly, the boy beaming. Afterward news reached Benito that young Stanley was a member of McDonald's staff.

* * * * *

In 1865 there came the joyous news of victory and peace. The Democratic Press accepted Lee's surrender sullenly, printing now and then a covert sneer at Grant or Lincoln. Enmity died hard in Southern breasts.

One morning as he came to town Benito saw a crowd of angry and excited men running down Montgomery street. Some of them brandished canes. "Down with Copperheads," they were shouting. Presently he heard a crash of glass, a cry of protest. Then a door gave with a splintering sound. The crowd rushed through, into the offices and print rooms of the Democratic Press.

There was more noise of wreckage and destruction. Broken chairs, tables, typecases, bits of machinery hurtled into the street. Benito grasped the arm of a man who was hurrying by. "What's wrong?" he asked.

The other turned a flushed and angry mien toward him. "God Almighty! Haven't you heard? President Lincoln was shot last night ... by a brother of Ed Booth, the actor.... They say he's dying." He picked up a stone and hurled it at an upper window of the Press.

"We'll show these traitor-dogs a thing or two," he called. "Come on, boys, let's wreck the place!"

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