CHAPTER LXXV

A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE

Stanley was to learn much more of Eugene Schmitz. It was in fact the following day that he met Ruef and the violinist at Zinkand's. Schmitz was a man of imposing presence. He stood over six feet high; his curly coal-black hair and pointed beard, his dark, luminous eyes and a certain dash in his manner, gave him a glamor of old-world romance. In a red cap and ermine-trimmed robe, he might have been Richelieu, defying the throne. Or, otherwise clad, the Porthos of Dumas' "Three Musketeers."

Francisco could not help reflecting that Ruef had borrowed a very fine presence indeed.

Ruef asked Francisco to his table. He talked a great deal about politics. Schmitz listened open-eyed; Stanley more astutely. All at once Ruef leaned toward Francisco.

"What do you think of Mr. Schmitz--as a candidate for Mayor?" he asked.

"I think," Francisco answered meaningly, "that you have chosen well." They rose, shook hands. To Francisco's surprise Schmitz left them. "I have a matinee this afternoon," he said. Ruef walked down Market street with Stanley.

"He's leader of the Columbia orchestra.... I met him through my dealings with the Musicians' Union." Impulsively he grasped Francisco's arm. "Isn't he a wonder? I'll clean up the town with him. Watch me!"

"And, are you certain you can manage this chap?"

Ruef laughed a quiet little laugh of deep content. "Oh, Gene is absolutely plastic. Just a handsome musician. And of good, plain people. His father was a German band leader; his mother is Irish--Margaret Hogan. That will help. And he is a Native Son."

Ruef babbled on. He had a great plan for combining all political factions--an altruistic dream of economic brotherhood. Francisco listened somewhat skeptically. He was not certain of the man's sincerity, but he admired Ruef. Of his executive ability there could be no doubt.

Yet there was something vaguely wrong about the wondrous fitness of Ruef's plan. Mary Godwin Shelley's tale of "Frankenstein" came to Francisco's mind.

* * * * *

That evening Frank said to his father, with a wink at Jeanne, "Want to go slumming with me tonight, father? I'm going to do my first signed story: 'The Night-Life of This Town'."

"Do you think I ought to, Jeanne?" asked her husband whimsically. He glanced at his son. "This younger generation is a trifle--er--vehement for old fogies like me."

Jeanne came over and sat on the arm of his chair. "Nonsense," she said, "you are just as young as ever, Francisco.... Yes, go with the boy, by all means. I'll run up to Maizie's for the evening. She's making a dress for Alice's birthday party. She will be sixteen next month."

* * * * *

Francisco and his son went gaily forth to see their city after dark. Truth to tell, the father knew more of it than the lad, who acted as conductor. Francisco's wanderings in search of 'local color' had included some nocturnal quests. However, he kept this to himself and let Frank do the guiding.

They went, first, to a large circular building called the Olympia, at Eddy and Mason streets. It was the heart of what was called the Tenderloin, a gay and hectic region frequented by half-world folk, but not unknown to travelers nor to members of society, Slumming parties were both fashionable and frequent. Two girls were capering and carolling behind the footlights.

"They are Darlton and Boice," explained young Stanley. "The one with the perpetual smile is a great favorite. She's Boice. She's got a daughter old as I, they say."

They visited the Thalia, a basement "dive" of lower order, and returned to the comparative respectability of the Oberon beer hall on O'Farrell street, where a plump orchestra of German females played sprightly airs; thence back to Market street and the Midway. "Little Egypt," tiny, graceful, sensually pretty, performed a "danse du ventre," at the conclusion of a long program of crude and often ribald "turns." When "off-stage" the performers, mostly girls, drank with the audience in a tier of curtained boxes which lined the sides of the auditorium. At intervals the curtains parted for a moment and faces peered down. A drunken sailor in a forward box was tossing silver coins to a dancer.

They made their exit, Francisco frankly weary and the young reporter bored by the unrelieved crudity of it all. A smart equipage, with champing horses, stood before the entrance. They paused to glance at it.

"Looks like Harry Bear's carriage," Frank commented. "You know the young society blood who's had so many larks." He turned back. "Wait a minute, father, I'm going in. If Bear has a party upstairs in those boxes it'll make good copy."

"It'll make a scandal, you mean," returned Francisco rather crisply. "You can't print the women's names."

"Bosh!" the younger man retorted pertly. "Everyone's doing this sort of thing now. Come along, dad. See the fun." He caught his father's arm and they re-entered, taking the stairs, this time, to the boxes above. From one came a man's laughing banter. "That's he," Frank whispered, Hastily he drew his half reluctant father into a vacant box. A waiter brought them beer, collected half a dollar and inquired if they wanted "Company." Francisco shook his head.

The man in the adjoining box was drunk, the girl was frightened. Their voices filtered plainly through the thin partition. He was urging her to drink and she was protesting. Finally she screamed. Stanley and his son sprang simultaneously to the rescue. They found a young man in an evening suit trying to kiss a very pretty girl.

His ears were red where she had boxed them and as he turned a rather foolish face surprisedly toward the intruders, a scratch showed livid on one cheek. The girl's hair streamed disheveled by the struggle. She caught up, hastily, a handsome opera cloak to cover her torn corsage.

"Please," she said, "get me out of here quickly.... I'll pay you well." Then she flushed as young Stanley stiffened. "I ... I beg your pardon."

He offered her his arm and they passed from the box together. The befuddled swain, after a dazed interval, attempted to follow, but Francisco flung him back. He heard the carriage door shut with a snap, the clatter of iron-shod hoofs. Then he went out to look for Frank, but did not find him. Evidently he had gone with the lady. Francisco smiled. It was quite an adventure. Thoughtfully he gazed at the banners flung across Market street:

"VOTE FOR EUGENE SCHMITZ,

"The Workingman's Friend."

That was Abraham Ruef's adventure. He wondered how each of them would end.

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