CHAPTER LXVIII

THE WOMAN REPORTER

Francisco stayed for tea and chatted of events. Yes, Dennis Kearney was in jail and making a great hullabaloo about it. He and five of his lieutenants had been arrested after an enthusiastic meeting on the Barbary Coast.

"And what's the Workingmen's Trade and Labor Union doing?" Robert asked.

"Oh, muttering and threatening as usual," Francisco laughed. "They'll not do anything--with the memory of Coleman's 1500 pick-handles fresh in their minds...."

"Well, I'm glad those murderous ruffians are behind the bars," said Alice. But Francisco took her up. "That's rather hard on them, Aunt Alice," he retorted. "They're only a social reaction of the times ... when railroad millionaires have our Legislature by the throat and land barons refuse to divide their great holdings and give the small farmer a chance.... Kearney, aside from his rant of violence, which he doesn't mean, is advocating much-needed reforms.... I was talking with Henry George today...."

"He's the new city gas and water inspector, isn't he?" asked Benito. "They tell me he's writing a book."

"Yes, 'Progress and Poverty.' George believes the single tax will cure all social wrongs. But Jean...." He hesitated, flushing.

"Jean?" His aunt was quick to sense a mystery. "Who is Jean?"

"Oh, she's the new woman reporter," said Francisco hastily. He rose, "Well, I'll be going now."

His aunt looked after him in silent speculation. "So!" she spoke half to herself. "Jean's the woman reporter." And for some occult reason she smiled.

* * * * *

Robert saw them together some days later, talking very earnestly as they walked through "Pauper Alley." Such was the title bestowed upon Leidesdorff street between California and Pine streets, where the "mudhens"--those bedraggled, wretched women speculators who still waited hungrily for scanty crumbs from Fortune's table--chatted with broken-down and shabby men in endless reminiscent gabble of great fortunes they had "almost won."

"Miss Norwall's going to do some 'human interest sketches,' as they call 'em," Francisco explained as he introduced his cousin. "Our editor believes in a 'literary touch' for the paper. Something rather new."

Jean Norwall held out her hand. She was an attractive, bright-eyed girl in her early twenties, with a searching, friendly look, as though life were full of surprises which she was eager to probe. "So you are Robert," she remarked. "Francisco's talked a lot about you."

"That was good of him," the young man answered. "He's talked a deal of you as well, Miss Norwall."

"Oh, indeed!"' She reddened slightly. "Well, we must be getting on."

Robert raised his hat and watched them disappear around the corner. There was a vaguely lonesome feeling somewhere in the region of his heart. He went on past the entrance of the San Francisco Stock Exchange and almost collided with a bent-over, shrewd-faced man, whose eagle-beak and penetrating eyes were a familiar sight along California street.

He was E.J. (better known as "Lucky") Baldwin, who had started the Pacific Stock Exchange.

Baldwin had a great ranch in the South, where he bred blooded horses. He owned the Baldwin theater and the Baldwin Hotel, which rivaled the Palace. Women, racing and stocks were his hobbies. Benito had done some legal work for Baldwin and Robert knew him casually. Rather to his surprise Baldwin stopped, laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Hello, lad," he greeted; "want a tip on the stock market?"

Tips from "Lucky" were worth their weight in gold. Robert was astonished. "Why--yes, thank you, sir," he stammered.

"Well, don't play it ... that's the best tip in the world." The operator walked off chuckling.

* * * * *

Robert continued his walk along Montgomery street to Market, where he turned westward. It was Saturday and his father's office, where he was now studying law, had been closed since noon. It had become a custom--almost an unwritten law--to promenade San Francisco's lordly thoroughfare on the last afternoon of the week, especially the northern side. For Market street was now a social barrier. South of it were smaller, meaner shops, saloons, beer-swilling "cafe chantants," workmen's eating houses and the like, with, of course, the notable exceptions of the Grand and Palace Hotels.

On the northern side were the gay haberdasheries, millinery stores, cafes and various business marts, where fashionable San Francisco shopped. Where men with top hats, walking sticks and lavender silk waistcoats ogled the feminine fashion parade.

As he passed the Baldwin Hotel with its broadside of bow-windows, Robert became aware of some disturbance. A large dray drawn by four horses, plumed and flower garlanded, was wending a triumphal course up Market street. A man stood in the center of it waving his hat--a stocky fellow in soiled trousers and an old gray sweater. Shouts of welcome hailed him as the dray rolled on; most of them came from the opposite or southern side.

"It's Dennis Kearney," said a man near Robert. "He and his gang were released from custody today.... Now we'll have more trouble."

Robert followed the dray expectantly. But Kearney made no overt demonstration. He seemed much subdued by his fortnight in jail.

The swift California dusk was falling. The afternoon was gone. And Robert, realizing that it was past the dinner hour at his home, decided to find his evening meal at a restaurant. One of these, with a display of shell-fish grouped about a miniature fountain in its window, confronted him ere long and he entered a rococo interior of mirrored walls. What caught his fancy more than the ornate furnishings, however, was a very pretty girl sitting within a cashier's cage of iron grill-work.

It happened that she was smiling as he glanced her way. She had golden hair with a hint of red in it, a dainty oval face, like his mother's; eyes that were friendly and eager with youth. Robert smiled back at her involuntarily.

The smile still lingered as a man came forward to adjust his score. A keen, dynamic-looking man of middle years and an imposing presence. Robert watched him just a little envious of his assured manner as he threw down a gold-piece. While the fair cashier was making change he grinned at her. "How's my little girl tonight?" Reaching through the aperture, he chucked her suddenly beneath the chin. Tears of mortification sprang into her eyes. Impulsively Robert stepped forward, crowding the other aside none too gently.

"I beg your pardon," he was breathless, half astounded by his own temerity. "But--can I be of any--ah--service?"

"Puppy!" stormed the elder man and stalked out haughtily. The girl's eyes encountered Robert's, shining, grateful for an instant. Then they fell. Her face grew grave. "You shouldn't have ... really.... That was Isaac J. Kalloch."

"Oh, the preacher that's running for Mayor," Robert's tone was abashed. "But I don't care," he added, "I'm glad I did."

Once again the girl's eyes met his, shyly. "So am I," she whispered.

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