"Then," said Big Sam in his suave tone, "I trust that she understands the responsibility she is taking."
"I explained the importance you set upon it."
"Oh, I did not refer to my interests," said Big Sam, waving them aside as though they were of no moment.
"Then I am afraid I don't understand you," I said in perturbation.
"It is very simple. If the girl dies I can no longer answer for the conduct of the tongs. And if she dies in Mr. Kendrick's house–"
Big Sam left the sentence unfinished, and I asked:
"Do you mean that as a threat of an attack on Mr. Kendrick or his niece?"
"Oh, I do not threaten. I merely suggest. There are very bad men in these tongs, and they will be very angry. You can not be surprised if they put something of the blame for the girl's death on those who have her in charge. And angry men will go far for revenge."
"This is a serious threat," I said, with more alarm than I cared to show.
"I do not intend it as such," said Big Sam calmly. "I merely state circumstances."
"I am obliged to you for the warning," I said, "but I can only say that the considerations you mention would not move Miss Kendrick. She is convinced that to send the girl here is to sacrifice her life. Miss Kendrick has a woman's courage–the courage that defends the helpless–and I know it would be useless to appeal to her fears."
"Then," said Big Sam, with the air of one dismissing the subject, "there is nothing more to be said. What will happen will happen."
And with royal courtesy he bowed me out.
CHAPTER XIV
BARGAINING
"I thought you would come," said the hard, dry voice of Peter Bolton, as he leaned back in his chair and surveyed me with a sardonic smile.
"Why, yes," I replied cheerfully. "Jim Morgan told me that you wanted to see me, and I took chances on his telling the truth." As Jim Morgan was the prize-fighter who was at the head of Bolton's bureau of private information and defense, I had reason to assume that he spoke by authority.
Peter Bolton looked at me suspiciously, and then gave grudging acknowledgment of Morgan's agency.
"I never write," he grumbled. "You never know whose hands a letter will fall into."
"A very prudent rule," I returned.
He shook his head slowly, drew down the corners of his mouth, and rubbed his hands.
"Well, I suppose by this time you are about ready to take up with my offer," he said with a look of shrewd cunning.
"Your offer? I really didn't know that you had made one," I answered.
His cold blue eyes looked searchingly into my face for a minute. Then he said:
"You'll find it best to take up with my terms. I don't know what salary you're getting from Kendrick, but you're going to lose it."
"I didn't expect to keep it for ever. Did Mr. Kendrick tell you he was going to discharge me?"
"Tell me?" began Peter Bolton with a sarcastic leer. "He didn't have to. I've got better information than he can give. Your man Kendrick is going broke within the next thirty days, and he won't have any use for that fine herd of clerks he has been keeping."
As Peter Bolton evidently expected me to comment on this prophecy, I murmured that I was sorry to hear it.
"You needn't be," said he with an attempt to be amiable. "I'll take care of you."
"You are very kind," I said. "But how do you know that Wharton Kendrick is going under?"
"How do I know?" he returned with something of passion under his drawling tone. "Why, I know your man Kendrick like a book. I've known him for forty years. I've watched his business. I've watched him. Oh, he can fool you fellows with his smirking face, and his open-handed way of throwing money about. But I know that it's borrowed money, and the man who makes a show on borrowed money comes to the end of it some day, doesn't he?" Bolton ended querulously, as though he was making complaint against Wharton Kendrick for not having gone into bankruptcy long before.
"Oh, I think you are mistaken," I said. "Mr. Kendrick is known to be very rich."
"Reported to be very rich, you mean," he said in his most sarcastic drawl.
"Oh, there's no doubt about it," I returned warmly. I hoped to provoke him into saying more than he intended.
Peter Bolton took up the challenge.
"Why, young man," he cried, his voice rising into a cracked treble, "he owes money he can't pay. There's five hundred thousand dollars of his notes in that safe there," and he pointed to the solid front of the burglar-defying case. "They fall due pretty soon–some of 'em are due now–and he can't meet 'em."
"Do you mean to say that he has borrowed money of you?" I asked in amazement.
"I didn't say that," he replied cautiously. "But there are the notes. They're signed by Wharton Kendrick, and they call for five hundred thousand. When they're presented he can't pay 'em, and I suppose I'll lose my money. I have bad luck about losing money." He shook his head ruefully, and drew down the corners of his mouth as sourly as though he saw the almshouse at the end of his road.
"Oh," I said hopefully, "you'll get it, I'm sure. Mr. Kendrick has a lot of property, and if he hasn't the money, he can borrow it."
This assurance was less pleasing than the prospect of loss that had soured his face but a minute before.
"I know what property he has, young man, a good, deal better than you do," he said sharply. "And there's more paper of his in the banks–I guess it's all of two hundred and fifty thousand, maybe more. Money's getting pretty tight now, pretty tight, and Kendrick's about at the end of his rope. When he goes down, you'll want a place to fall on." He looked at me ingratiatingly, and as I said nothing, he continued:
"Now, I want to see that you're taken care of. You shan't lose anything when the smash comes, if you just follow my instructions."
"It's very kind of you to take so much interest in me," I began with an echo of his own sarcasm, when he interrupted.
"Oh, I ain't such a hard man as some people say. I want to do you a good turn, and maybe you'll help me out. I'm a liberal employer to men who give me the right sort of service. Now you're trying to be a lawyer–"
I confessed that I hoped to do something in that line.
"And I've got a little legal business to attend to," he continued, "and I want to know what you'd consider a fair fee."
"Why," I said, "it depends, for one thing, on the work to be done, and for another on the amount of money we think the fellow has."
Peter Bolton looked at me in alarm.
"Oh, I have very little money, very little money," he said quickly.
"Except for such little items as five hundred thousand in Kendrick's notes, that you were just mentioning."
"Oh, them. Well, I'm expecting to lose that money, and a man who loses five hundred thousand feels pretty tight pinched."
"Now, as for the work to be done, if it were overlooking the Council of Nine and the anti-coolie agitation–"
"Anti-coolie agitation!" he exclaimed angrily. "I don't know anything about an anti-coolie agitation."
"Oh," said I apologetically, "I supposed you knew what Waldorf and Parks and Kearney were doing with the money you gave them. Didn't they tell you about it when they were here last night?"
"I don't know what you are talking about!" he cried angrily, but I read in his eyes anxiety and surprise at the accuracy of my information.
"Now if it were looking after them, I should want a larger fee than for looking after your plans with Big Sam."
A shade of gray passed over his face, and he held up one hand and gave me a malevolent look.
"Young Men talk a Good Deal of Nonsense," he said. "Now if you're through with your joke, we'll go back to talking Business." His sardonic voice showed that he was again thoroughly in command of himself, but I felt convinced that he was more eager than ever to secure my services. "Now what's your figure?"
"You haven't told me yet what you expect me to do."
He looked about cautiously, and then studied my face for a little before he replied.
"I'll tell you what it is," he said slowly. "You are in charge of Kendrick's campaign. I want you to stay in charge of it, but to run it according to My orders instead of according to His orders."
"How long do you think I could keep the job on those terms?" I asked. "You've known Mr. Kendrick forty or fifty years. You must have got the impression in that time that he isn't altogether a fool. How long do you think he would stand it? About long enough to kick me out of his office, wouldn't he?"
"He'll stand it long enough to suit My purpose," replied Peter Bolton, his sardonic smile tightening the corners of his mouth. "My orders will be His orders until the day comes that I am ready to put my hand on him." He reached out his long, bony fingers cautiously, and then brought his palm down on his desk with a thump as though he were catching a luckless fly. "When the time comes, an hour will be enough," he continued. "All I want you to do is to bring His orders to Me, before you carry them out. Then do as I tell you." His jaws closed with a snap, as though they were a trap, and Wharton Kendrick were between them.
"That sort of legal advice is worth a good deal of money," I said. "You can afford to pay well for it, for you'll make a big clean-up. I'll have to be paid well for it, for if it were to be found out, I could never do any more business in this town."
Peter Bolton gave me a shrewd look, as though he thought he was sure of me.
"I offered you Ten Thousand Dollars," he said, trying to make the sum sound very large, "but I won't stick at a thousand or two more. I'm not a close man with those I like–"
"It's worth a good deal more," I interrupted. He looked disappointed. Then he studied the desk, and appeared to be making up his mind to some great sacrifice.
"Well," he said slowly and grudgingly, "name your figure."
"I should think fifty thousand dollars was about right."
Peter Bolton gave a shudder, and pondered for a little. Then the shrewd look came again into his eyes, and he said:
"I'll be liberal, and give you more than it's worth. I'll pay you One Thousand Dollars a week for the next four weeks, and on the day that Wharton Kendrick makes his assignment, I'll give you Twenty-Five Thousand Dollars. I wouldn't do it for any one else, but I want to see that you don't lose anything."
I understood from this outburst of verbal generosity how much he overestimated my share in Wharton Kendrick's affairs.
"Well, I'll think it over and let you know," I said, rising to escape. The pressure of my indignation had reached the danger point, and I felt that if I sat there another minute my honest opinion would burst forth in words that would put an end to further hopes of getting any revelations out of him.
"You'd better take it now," he urged, with a shadow of disappointment on his face. "It's a good offer, and I might find some one else to take it up by to-morrow."
"Oh, I'll take the risk," I returned. "I have a monopoly on this business, and you know it, and I can take what time I please."
"Just as you like, young man, just as you like," he said in his sarcastic drawl. "But look out for your own interests. If you don't, I can tell you that Wharton Kendrick won't."
Before he could deliver another homily on the folly of honesty and the importance of pursuing the interests of Number One, I hastened out of the office, with the thought that I had penetrated far into the evil designs of Peter Bolton at the cost of a good deal of self-respect.
I soothed my indignant spirit with a walk that gave me time to assure myself that no spy was following me, and then bent my steps to Wharton Kendrick's offices to lay the case before my client. The accumulation of five hundred thousand dollars' worth of his notes in Peter Bolton's hands seemed to be a matter that might call for very serious consideration.
I found Wharton Kendrick in his private room in converse with General Wilson, and the discussion appeared to have become heated. General Wilson's face gleamed like a great carbuncle, and Wharton Kendrick's ruddy cheeks were ruddier than ever with signs of temper.
"You can't do it, Kendrick," General Wilson was saying, with a wave of the hand. "I've been over every foot of that land that isn't too soft to stand on, and I'll tell you that you can't put in any such works."
"I've had two first-class engineers go over it," replied Wharton Kendrick with equal positiveness, "and they say it can be done."
"Engineers–engineers! What are they worth?" snorted General Wilson scornfully. "I've got two eyes, and they are good enough engineers for me."
"You'll find 'em mighty expensive ones if you try to do business on their estimates," said Wharton Kendrick grimly. "Experts come high, but they are cheaper than your own guesswork. You can count it liberal of me to give you that information for nothing, for it cost me over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
"It's no use talking, Kendrick," said General Wilson positively. "When I'm right I know it, and all creation can't move me. That land of yours is no good to us unless we can get Bolton's piece with it. The two have got to be improved together or not at all. I'll tell you right now that the company won't pay any such price for your piece unless it can get the other, and Bolton won't sell just because he knows we've got to have it to make it a success."
"What's that?" exclaimed Kendrick, looking grave. "Bolton won't sell?"
General Wilson repeated his statement with characteristic vehemence.
"Did Bolton tell you that?"
"He couldn't have made it plainer if he had said it right out in so many words. He raised his price at the rate of a hundred thousand dollars a minute as soon as he heard that we wanted your land."
"Ah, yes. I remember now that Hampden was telling me something of the sort." Wharton Kendrick shook his head over the information, and then turned to me. "Was there something you wanted?"
"Well," I said, hesitating in some embarrassment at General Wilson's presence, "I had an interview with a friend of yours this afternoon."
The intonation in my voice was enough to give a hint of the identity of the friend, and he nodded his head in comprehension.
"Well, come up to the house to-night, and give me the whole story. It'll keep till then, won't it? By the way, what was that hullaballoo around the place last night? It waked me up, but I was too lazy to turn out and take a hand in it."
"Perhaps you heard my men when they caught three fellows climbing over the back fence, along in the early hours this morning. I don't think of anything else that happened."
"Well, upon my soul," gasped General Wilson, "isn't that enough? Good heavens, young man, you speak as though it was something a gentleman might expect as a common attention from his neighbors!"
"It's a first experience," said Wharton Kendrick with a jovial laugh. "But why didn't you tell me about it? If I'm an attraction to burglars, I think I'm entitled to know it."
"I didn't intend to make a secret of it; but you weren't in when I called this morning. Besides, I haven't run the thing down to its source and origin."
General Wilson's red face flamed with wonder and he stared at me from under his bushy brows.
"Are you trying to tell us that they weren't burglars?" He fired the question at me very much as if it were a revolver, with the professional air of a lawyer who has caught a witness trying to deceive.
"To be truthful, I was trying not to tell you," I replied. "But if you put it to me direct, I should say they were not."
"Fire away," said Kendrick, as I paused. "There's nothing about it that Wilson shouldn't hear."
"Well," I continued, "two of them got away, but the boys held on to the third, and hauled me out of bed at three o'clock this morning to find out what was to be done with him. He protested that he was an innocent citizen on his way home from an over-convivial evening. But as he couldn't explain what he was doing in your back yard at that time of night, we took him down to the police station. Instead of finding him in the jailbird class, he turned out to be a small politician out of a job. Just now he figures as sergeant-at-arms of the Twelfth Ward Anti-Coolie Club."
"The Anti-Coolie Club?" said Wharton Kendrick, wrinkling his brows. "I don't see what an anti-coolie club could want to do to me. I'm pretty well qualified for membership myself."
General Wilson's face flamed redder than before, in the frame of his aggressive side-whiskers, and he smote the desk with his fist.
"Good Lord, Kendrick! You don't mean to tell me that you take any stock in such riotous nonsense as these anti-coolie fellows here are getting off! Why, I was listening to one of them last night, and he roared like a bull-calf about the Chinese taking the bread out of the hands of the workmen, and split his lungs telling that the heathen must be driven into the sea. Why, sir, he made my blood boil, and if I was made provost-marshal of this town for one day, I'd bundle him and his crew down to the docks, and have them sailing over sea before night came."
Wharton Kendrick gave a good-humored laugh.
"My dear Wilson, I don't take much stock in the loud-mouthed orators, but I say, with them, that if we are to have the choice of a white or a yellow civilization in California, my vote goes to the white."
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried General Wilson, thumping the desk once more. "Why, my dear sir, you challenge the fundamental principles of this government when you say we must shut out these men merely because their skins are yellow. Why, sir, it is to our advantage, not to our detriment, that they work for small wages. The lower their wages, the less money they take out of the country, and when they go home they leave behind them the great works they have accomplished. God has given you illimitable resources, and you are crying out for hands to develop them, and here you are, ready to shut out the most plentiful and cheapest supply of labor that exists on the face of the green earth. It's against business principles and it's against the principles of humanity, and you can never do it, sir–never."
"Oh, fudge, Wilson, you don't know anything about the problem, and yet you come here telling us old Californians what we ought to think about it. I'll admit anything you say in favor of the coolies. They're industrious and faithful and cheap; but they're more than that. The Chinese can drive us out of any line they want to take up. I've seen that done too many times to doubt it any longer."
"Well, if they can do it, why shouldn't they?" cried General Wilson. "Survival of the fittest–isn't that the law of nature? If the white race can't stand the competition, let it perish. But it won't perish. It'll manufacture things to sell to the Chinese, and trade will go on whether the white or the yellow man settles this coast."
"That may be all right for you fellows in the East; but even there you'll be hit. Just ask yourself which would be more profitable as customers, a million Chinese who spend ten cents a day on their supplies, or a million whites who spend a dollar?"
"Sophistry, sophistry, Kendrick!" puffed the general, apparently impressed by the illustration. "But why go after the Chinese alone? I was in Castle Garden a month ago, and the fellows they let through there are every whit as un-American as the Chinese. Why don't you holler about them?"
"Why," said Kendrick, "we're hollering about the pigs in our corn. You're the fellows to look out for the other side of the continent."
"Why don't we try to keep them out?" cried General Wilson. "Why, it's because we've got to have cheap labor for our mines and mills and railroads. We need it just as we need machinery, and we've got to take the disadvantages with the benefits, and no loud-mouthed agitator can deprive us of the right to get our workmen in the cheapest market. It's the law of trade, the fundamental principle at the bottom of political economy–the science on which the development of civilization must depend–"
General Wilson's oration was suddenly cut short by an outburst of sound from the street below, and with common instinct we hastened to the window to view the cause of the hubbub. On the pavement was a crowd of five or six hundred men, moving slowly up California Street, circling with cries of anger or derision about some indistinguishable center of attraction. The outer fringe of the crowd was constantly breaking into sprays of individuals who ran forward to secure a position in front, while those behind tried to leap on the shoulders of those before them, and the center was an effervescent mass of arms, heads and clubs.
The nucleus of disturbance, I was at last able to make out, was composed of two policemen dragging a hatless man between them.
"Oh," said Wharton Kendrick, "it's nothing worse than an attempt to lynch some fellow who's been caught at his crime. I suppose he's killed a woman, or something of the sort. But the police will get him to prison easily enough. There's never nerve enough in one of these crowds to take such a fellow and hang him."
"They ought to string 'em up on the spot," snapped General Wilson. Then repenting suddenly of this unprofessional exclamation, he added: "But the majesty of the law must be upheld. It is the shield of the innocent and the sword of the righteous."
"Um-m, yes, I suppose so," said Kendrick doubtingly. "But all this doesn't settle that matter of the tule tract. I'll see you to-night, Hampden. The general and I must talk business now."