Port O' Gold Part 56

Nearby was a newspaper office, crowds about it, bulletins announcing the Raratonga's total destruction with all on board.

Francis...o...b..gan 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."

CHAPTER LXXIII

THE RETURN

In the fall of 1898 a man of middle years walked slowly down the stairs which plunged a traveler from the new Ferry building's upper floor into the maelstrom of Market street's beginning. Cable cars were whirling on turn-tables, newsboys shouted afternoon editions; hack drivers, flower vendors, train announcers added their babel of strident-toned outcries to the clanging of gongs, the clatter of wheels and hoofs upon cobblestone streets. Ferry sirens screamed; an engine of the Belt Line Railroad chugged fiercely as it pulled a train of freight cars toward the southern docks.

The stranger paused, apparently bewildered by this turmoil.

He was a stalwart, rather handsome man, bearded and bronzed as if through long exposure. And in his walk there was a suggestion of that rolling gait which smacks of maritime pursuits. He proceeded aimlessly up Market street, gazing round him, still with that odd, half-doubting and half-troubled manner. In front of the Palace Hotel he paused, seemed about to enter, but went on. He halted once again at Third street, surveying a tall brick building with a clock tower.

"What place is that?" he queried of a bystander.

"That? Why, the Chronicle building."

The stranger was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a curious, detached tone, "I thought it was at Bush and Kearney."

"Oh, not for eight years," said the other. "Did you live here, formerly?"

"I? No." He spoke evasively and hurried on. "I wonder what made me say that?" he mumbled to himself.

Down Kearney street he walked. Now and then his eyes lit as if with some half-formed memory and he made queer, futile gestures with his hands.

Before a stairway leading to an upper floor, he stopped, and, with the dreamy, pa.s.sive air of a somnambulist, ascended, entering through swinging doors a large, pleasant room, tapestried, ornamented with paintings and statuary. Half a dozen men lounging in large leathern chairs glanced up and away with polite unrecognition. The stranger was made aware of a boy in a much-b.u.t.toned uniform holding a silver tray.

"Who do you wish to see, sir?"

"Oh--ah--" spoke the stranger, "this is the Bohemian Club, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I call the house manager, sir?"

At the other's nod he vanished to return with a spectacled man who looked inquiring.

"I beg your pardon--for intruding," said the bearded man slowly. "But--I couldn't help it.... I was once a member here."

"Indeed?" said the spectacled man, tentatively cordial, still inquiring.

"And you're name--"

From the bearded lips there came a gutteral sound--as if speech had failed him. He gazed at the spectacled personage helplessly. "I--don't know." Sudden weakness seemed to seize him. Still with the helpless expression in his eyes, he retreated, found a chair and sank into it. He pa.s.sed a hand feverishly before his eyes.

The spectacled man acted promptly.

"Garrison, you're one of the ancients round this club," he addressed a smiling, gray-haired man of plump and jovial mien. "Come and talk to the Mysterious Stranger.... Says he was a member ten or fifteen years ago.... Can't recollect who he is."

"What do you wish me to do?" asked Garrison.

"Pretend to recognize him. Talk to him about the Eighties.... Get him oriented. It's plainly a case of amnesia."

He watched Garrison approach the bearded man with outstretched hand; saw the other take it, half reluctantly. The two retired to an alcove, had a drink and soon were deep in conversation. The stranger seemed to unfold at this touch of friendliness. They heard him laugh. Another drink was ordered. After half an hour Garrison returned. He seemed excited. "Hold him there till I return," he urged. "I'm going to a newspaper office to look at some files."

Fifteen minutes later he was back. "Come," he said, "I've got a cab ...

want you to meet a friend of mine." He took the still-dazed stranger's arm. They went out, entered a carriage and were driven off. As they pa.s.sed the City Hall the stranger said, as though astonished. "Why--it's finished, isn't it?"

"Yes, at last," Garrison smiled. "Even Buckley couldn't hold it back forever."

"Buckley ... he's the one who promised me a job, Is Pond the Mayor now?"

"No," returned the other. "Phelan." As he spoke the carriage stopped before a rather ornate dwelling, somewhat out of place amid surrounding offices and shops. The stranger started violently as they approached it.

Again the gutteral sound came from his lips.

The door opened and a woman appeared; a woman tall, sad-faced and eager-eyed. Beside her was a lad as tall as she. They stared at the bearded stranger, the boy wide-eyed and curious; the woman with a piercing, concentrated hope that fears defeat.

The man took a stumbling step forward. "Jeanne!" He halted half abashed.

But the woman sobbing, ran to him and put her arms about his neck. For an instant he stood, stiffly awkward, his face very red. Then something snapped the shackles of his prisoned memory. A cry burst from him, inarticulately joyous. His arms went round her.

It required weeks for Stanley to recover all his memories. It was a new world; Jeanne the one connecting link between the present and that still half-shadowy past from which he had been cast by some unceremonial jest of Fate into a strange existence. From the witless, nameless unit of a whaler's crew he had at last arisen to a fresh ident.i.ty. Frank Starbird, they christened him, he knew not why. And when they found that he had clerical attainments, the captain, who was really a decent fellow, had befriended him; found him a berth in a store at Sitka.... Since then he had roamed up and down the world, mostly as purser of ships, forever haunted by the memory of some previous ident.i.ty he could not fathom. He had been to Russia, India, Europe's seaports, landing finally at Baltimore. Thence some mastering impulse took him Westward. And here he was again, Francisco Stanley.

It was difficult to realize that fifteen years had flown. Jeanne seemed so little older. But the tall young son was startling evidence of Time's pa.s.sage. Stanley used to sit gazing at him silently during those first few days, as though trying to drink in the stupendous fact of his existence. Old friends called to hear his adventures; he was given a dinner at the club where he learned, with some surprise, that he was not unfamous as an author. Jeanne had finished his book and found a publisher. Between the advertis.e.m.e.nt of his mysterious disappearance and its real merits, the volume had a vogue.

Robert had married Maizie after her mother's death. They lived in the Windham house in Old South Park, for Benito and Alice had never returned from the East. Po Lun and Hang Far had gone to China.

Slowly life resumed its formed status for Francisco.

CHAPTER LXXIV

THE "REFORMER"

Francisco loved to wander round the town, explore its nooks and corners and make himself, for the time being, a part of his surroundings. A smattering of European languages aided him in this. He rubbed elbows with coatless workmen in French, Swiss, Spanish and Italian "pensions,"

sitting at long tables and breaking black bread into red wine. He drank black coffee and ate cloying sweetmeats in Greek or Turkish cafes; hobn.o.bbed with Sicilian fishermen, helping them to dry their nets and sometimes accompanying them in their feluccas into rough seas beyond the Heads. Now and then he invaded Chinatown and ate in their underground restaurants, disdaining the "chop suey" and sweets invariably served to tourists for the more palatable and engaging viands he had learned to like and name in Shanghai and Canton. Fortunately, he could afford to indulge his bent, for the value of his inheritance had increased extraordinarily in the past decade. Stanley's income was more than sufficient to insure a life of leisure.