Port O' Gold Part 69

Frank was in the court-room when Ruef's sentence was imposed. The Little Boss seemed oddly aged and nerveless; the old look of power was gone from his eyes. Frank recalled Ruef's plan of a political Utopia. The man had started with a golden dream, a genius for organization which might have achieved great things. But his lower self had conquered. He had sold his dream for gold. And retribution was upon him.

Frank thought of Patrick Calhoun, large, bl.u.s.tering, arrogant with the pride of an old Southern family; the power of limitless wealth between him and punishment; a masterful figure who had broken a labor union and who scoffed at Law. And Eugene Schmitz, once happy as a fiddler. Schmitz was trying to face it out in the community. Frank could not tell if that was courage or a sort of impudence.

During the holidays Frank visited his parents in San Diego. His granduncle, Benito Windham, had died abroad. And his mother was ailing.

Frank and his father discussed the Prosecution.

"It has had its day," the elder Stanley said. "Your public is listless, sick of the whole rotten mess. They've lost the moral perspective. All they want is to have it over."

"I guess I feel the same way." Frank's eyes were downcast.

Sometimes Frank met Norah France at Aleta's apartment, but she carefully avoided further mention of the topic they had talked of on election night. Frank liked her poetry. With a spirit less morbid she would have made a name for herself he thought.

Aleta was doing more and more settlement work. She had been playing second lead at the theater and had had a New York offer. Frank could not understand why she refused it. But Norah did, though she kept the secret from Frank.

"Do you know how many talesmen have been called in the Calhoun trial?"

Aleta asked, looking up from the newspaper. "There were nearly 1500 in the Ruef case. They called that a record." She laughed.

"Of course Pat Calhoun would wish to outdo Abe Ruef," said Frank.

"That's only to be expected. He's had close to 2500, I reckon."

"Not quite," Aleta referred to the printed sheet. "Your paper says 2370 veniremen were called into court. That's what money can do. If he'd been some poor devil charged with stealing a bottle of milk from the doorstep, how long would it take to convict him?"

"It's a rotten world," the other girl spoke with a sudden gust of bitterness. "A world without honor or justice."

"Or a nightmare," said Frank, with a glance at Aleta.

"Well, if it is, I'm going to wake up soon--in one way or another," said Norah. "I will promise you that." To Frank the words seemed ominous. He left soon afterward.

The Calhoun trial dragged interminably. Heney, not entirely recovered from his wound, but back in court, faced a battery of the country's highest priced attorneys. There were A.A. and Stanley Moore, Alexander King, who was Calhoun's law partner in the South; Lewis F. Byington, a former district attorney; J.J. Barrett, Earl Rogers, a sensationally successful criminal defender from Los Angeles, and Garret McEnerney.

Heney had but one a.s.sistant, John O'Gara, a deputy in Langdon's office.

For five long months the Prosecution fought such odds. Heney lost his temper frequently in court. He was on the verge of a nerve prostration.

Anti-prosecution papers hinted that his faculties were failing. Langdon more or less withdrew from the fight. He was tired of it; had declined to be a candidate for the district attorneyship in the Fall. Heney was the Prosecution's only hope. He consented to run; which added to his legal labors the additional tasks of preparing for a campaign.

It was not to be wondered at that Heney failed to convict Calhoun. The jury disagreed after many ballots. A new trial was set. But before a jury was empanelled the November ballot gave the Prosecution its "coup de grace."

P.H. McCarthy was elected Mayor. Charles Fickert defeated Heney for the district attorneyship. An anti-Prosecution government took office.

"Big Jim" Gallagher, the Prosecution's leading witness, disappeared.

Fickert sought dismissal of the Calhoun case and finally obtained it.

San Francisco heaved a sigh of relief and turned its attention toward another problem. Its people planned a great world exposition to celebrate the opening of the Panama Ca.n.a.l.

With the close of the Graft trials, San Francisco put its shoulders in concerted effort to the wheel. There were rivals now. San Diego claimed a prior plan. New Orleans was importuning Congress to support it in an Exposition. The Southern city sent its lobbying delegation to the Capitol. San Francisco seemed about to lose.

But the city was aroused to one of its outbursts of pioneer energy. The Panama-Pacific International Exposition Company was organized. A meeting was called at the Merchants' Exchange. There, in two hours, $4,000,000 was subscribed by local merchants.

CHAPTER XC

THE MEASURE OF REDEMPTION

Frank journeyed East with a party of "Exposition Boosters" after the memorable meeting in the Merchants' Exchange. The import of that afternoon's work had been flashed around the world. It swung the tide of public sentiment from New Orleans toward the Western Coast. Congress heard the clink of Power in those millions. President Taft discerned a spirit of efficiency that would guarantee success. He did not desire another Jamestown fiasco. He had an open admiration for the city which in four years could rebuild itself from ashes, suffer staunchly through disrupting ordeals of political upheaval and unite its forces in a mighty plan to entertain the World.

Frank went to the White House for an interview. He clasped the large, firm hand which had guided so many troubled ships of state for the Roosevelt regime, looked into the twinkling eyes that hid so keen a force behind their kindness. Stanley soon discovered that in this big, bluff President his city had a friend.

"What shall I say to the people at home for you, Mr. President? Will you give me a message?"

The Chief Executive was thoughtful for an instant. Then he said, "Go back, my boy, and tell them this from me, 'SAN FRANCISCO KNOWS HOW!'"

Frank left the White House, eager and enthusiastic; sought a telegraph office. On the following day Market street blazed with the slogan.

In New York, where he went from Washington, Frank heard echoes of that speech. San Francisco's cause gained new and sudden favor. Frank found the Eastern press, which hitherto had favored New Orleans, was veering almost imperceptibly toward the Golden Gate.

He met many San Franciscans in New York. John O'Hara Cosgrave was editing Everybody's Magazine, "Bob" Davis was at the head of the Munsey publications, Edwin Markham wrote world-poetry on Staten Island, "in a big house filled with books and mosquitoes," as a friend described it.

"Bill" and Wallace Irwin were there, the former "batching" in a flat on Washington Square. All of them were glad to talk of San Francisco.

Charley Aiken, editor of Sunset Magazine, was with the boosters. Stanley met him in New York. He had a plan for buying the publication from its railroad sponsors; making it an independent organ of the literary West.

Things were looking up for San Francisco.

Frank was glad to get back. He had enjoyed his visit to the East. But it was mighty good to ride up Market street again. It looked quite as it did before the fire. One would have found it difficult to believe that this new city with its towering, handsome architecture, had lain, a few years back, the shambles of the greatest conflagration history has known.

On Christmas eve Frank and Aleta went down town to hear Tetrazzini sing in the streets. The famous prima donna faced an audience which numbered upward of a hundred thousand. They thronged--a joyous celebrant, dark ma.s.s--on Market, Geary, Third and Kearny streets. Every window was ablaze, alive with silhouetted figures. Frank, who had engaged a window in the Monadnock Block, could not get near the entrance. So he and Aleta stood in the street.

"It's nicer," she whispered happily, "to be here among the people.... I feel closer to them. As if I could sense the big Pulse of Life that makes us all brothers and sisters."

Frank looked down at her understandingly, but did not speak. Tetrazzini had begun her song. Its first notes floated faintly through the vast and unwalled auditorium. Then her voice grew clearer, surer.

Never had those bustling, noisy streets known such a stillness as prevailed this night. The pure soprano which had thrilled a world of high-priced audiences rang out in a wondrous clarion harmony. It moved many people to tears. The response was overwhelming. Something in that vast human pack went out to the singer like a tidal wave. Not the deafening fusilade of hand-clapping nor the shouted "Bravos!" It was something deeper, subtler. Tetrazzini stepped forward. Tears streamed from her eyes. She blew impulsive kisses to the crowd.

The pageant of the months went on. A coal merchant by the name of Rolph had displaced P.H. McCarthy as Mayor of San Francisco. He had installed what was termed "a business administration." San Francisco seemed pleased with the result. Power of government had returned to the "North of Market Street."

San Francisco had been selected by Congress as the site of the exposition. It was scheduled for 1915 and the Panama Ca.n.a.l approached completion.

Frank was living with his father at the Press Club. His mother was dead.

He had given up newspaper work, except for an occasional editorial.

Through his father's influence he had found publication for a novel. He was something of a public man now, despite his comparative youth.

Occasionally he saw his Uncle Robert. Two of his cousins had married.