CHAPTER LXXII

FATE TAKES A HAND

Francisco found that Pickering's prophecy had been a true one. On a subsequent visit to the Bush street saloon he found the Blind Boss unapproachable. After waiting almost an hour and seeing several men who had come after him, led to the rear room for a conference, word was brought him by the little, keen-eyed man that the position of Mayor's secretary was already filled. He was exceedingly polite, expressing "Mr. Buckley's deep regret," about the matter. But there was in his eye a furtive mockery, in his tight-lipped mouth a covert sneer.

Francisco went directly to the office of The Bulletin, relating his experience to the veteran editor. "I supposed as much," said Pickering. He tapped speculatively on the desk with his pencil. "What's more, I think there's little to be done at present. Printing the story of Platt's Hall will only be construed as a bit of political recrimination. San Francisco rather fancies gambling palaces."

"Jack!" he called to a reporter. "See if you can locate Jerry Lynch." He turned to Stanley. "There's the fellow for you: Senator Jeremiah Lynch. Know him? Good. You get evidence on Buckley. Consult with Lynch concerning politics. He'll tell you ways to checkmate Chris you wouldn't dream of...."

Pickering smiled and picked up a sheet of manuscript. Francisco took the hint. From that day he camped on Buckley's trail. Bit by bit he gathered proofs, some documentary, some testimonial. No single item was of great importance. But, as a whole, Robert had assured him, it was weaving a net in which the blind boss might one day find himself entrapped. Perhaps he felt its meshes now and then. For overtures were made to Stanley. He was offered the position of secretary to Mayor Pond, but he declined it. Word reached him of other opportunities; tips on the stock market, the races; he ignored them and went on.

* * * * *

One night his house was broken into and his desk ransacked most thoroughly. Twice he was set upon at night, his pockets rifled. Threats came to him of personal violence. Finally the blind boss sent for him.

"Is there anything you want--that I can give you?" Buckley minced no words.

Stanley shook his head. Then, remembering Buckley's blindness, he said "No."

Buckley took a few short paces up and down the room, then added: "I'll talk plain to you, my friend--because you're smart; too smart to be a catspaw for an editor and a politician who hate me. Let me tell you this, you'll do no good by keeping on." He spun about suddenly, threateningly, "You've a wife, haven't you?"

"We'll not discuss that, Mr. Buckley," said Francisco stiffly.

"Nevertheless it's true ... and children?"

"N-not yet," said Francisco in spite of himself.

"Oh, I see. Well, that's to be considered.... It's not what you'd call a time for taking chances, brother."

"What d'ye mean?" Francisco was a trifle startled.

"Nothing; nothing!" said the blind boss unctuously. "Think it over.... And remember, I'm your friend. If there's anything you wish, come to me for it. Otherwise--"

Stanley looked at him inquiringly, but did not speak. Nor did Buckley close his sentence. It was left suspended like the Damoclesian blade. Francisco went straight home and found Jeanne busied with her needle and some tiny garments, which of late had occupied her days. He was rather silent while they dined, a bit uneasy.

* * * * *

Francisco usually went down town for lunch. There was a smart club called the Bohemian, where one met artists, actors, writers. Among them were young Keith, the landscape painter, who gave promise of a vogue; Charley Stoddard, big and bearded; they called him an etcher with words; and there were Prentice Mulford, the mystic; David Belasco of the Columbia Theater. Francisco got into his street clothes, kissed Jeanne and went out. It was a bright, scintillant day. He strode along whistling.

At the club he greeted gaily those who sat about the room. Instead of answering, they ceased their talk and stared at him. Presently Stoddard advanced, looking very uncomfortable.

"Let's go over there and have a drink," he indicated a secluded corner. "I want a chat with you."

"Oh, all right," said Francisco. He followed Stoddard, still softly whistling the tune which had, somehow, caught his fancy. They sat down, Charley Stoddard looking preternaturally grave.

"Well, my boy," Francisco spoke, "what's troubling you?"

"Oh--ah--" said the other, "heard from your folks lately, Francisco?"

"Yes, they're homeward bound. Ought to be off Newfoundland by now."

The drinks came. Stanley raised his glass, drank, smiling. Stoddard followed, but he did not smile. "Can you bear a shock, old chap?" He blurted. "I--they--dammit man--the ship's been wrecked."

Francisco set his glass down quickly. He was white. "The--The Raratonga?"

Stoddard nodded. There was silence. Then, "Was any-body--drowned?"

Stanley did not need an answer. It was written large in Stoddard's grief-wrung face. He got up, made his way unsteadily to the door. A page came running after with his hat and stick and he took them absently. Nearby was a newspaper office, crowds about it, bulletins announcing the Raratonga's total destruction with all on board.

Francisco began to walk rapidly, without a definite sense of direction. He found relief in that. The trade-wind was sharp in his face and he pulled his soft hat down over his eyes. Presently he found himself in an unfamiliar locality--the water-front--amid a bustling rough-spoken current of humanity that eddied forward and back. There were many sailors. From the doors of innumerable saloons came the blare of orchestrions; now and then a drunken song.

Entering one of the swinging doors, Francisco called for whisky. He felt suddenly a need for stimulant. The men at the long counter looked at him curiously. He was not of their kind. A little sharp-eyed man who was playing solitaire at a table farther back, looked up interested. He pulled excitedly at his chin, rose and signed to a white-coated servitor. They had their heads together.

It was almost noon the following day when Chief Mate Chatters of the whaleship Greenland, en route for Behring Sea, went into the forecastle to appraise some members of a crew hastily and informally shipped. "Shanghaiing," it was called. But one had to have men. One paid the waterfront "crimps" a certain sum and asked no questions.

"Who the devil's this?" He indicated a man sprawled in one of the bunks, who, despite a stubble of beard and ill-fitting sea clothes, was unmistakably a gentleman.

"Don't know--rum sort for a sailor. Got knocked on the head in a scrimmage. Cawnt remember nothing but his name, Francisco."

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