And we were getting our share when there occurred a new irruption on the scene.  This time it was the dreaded peace officers of the I.L.W.  The little girl had brought them.  They were armed with whips and clubs, and there were a score of them.  The little girl danced up and down in anger, the tears streaming down her cheeks, crying:  “Give it to ’em!  Give it to ’em!  That guy with the specs—­he did it!  Mash his face for him!  Mash his face!” That guy with the specs was I, and I got my face mashed, too, though I had the presence of mind to take off my glasses at the first.  My! but we did receive a trouncing as we scattered in all directions.  Brentwood, Halstead, and I fled away for the machine.  Brentwood’s nose was bleeding, while Halstead’s cheek was cut across with the scarlet slash of a black-snake whip.

And, lo, when the pursuit ceased and we had gained the machine, there, hiding behind it, was the frightened calf.  Brentwood warned us to be cautious, and crept up on it like a wolf or tiger.  Knife and cleaver had been left behind, but Brentwood still had his hands, and over and over on the ground he rolled with the poor little calf as he throttled it.  We threw the carcass into the machine, covered it over with a robe, and started for home.  But our misfortunes had only begun.  We blew out a tyre.  There was no way of fixing it, and twilight was coming on.  We abandoned the machine, Brentwood pulling and staggering along in advance, the calf, covered by the robe, slung across his shoulders.  We took turn about carrying that calf, and it nearly killed us.  Also, we lost our way.  And then, after hours of wandering and toil, we encountered a gang of hoodlums.  They were not I.L.W. men, and I guess they were as hungry as we.  At any rate, they got the calf and we got the thrashing.  Brentwood raged like a madman the rest of the way home, and he looked like one, with his torn clothes, swollen nose, and blackened eyes.

There wasn’t any more cow-stealing after that.  General Folsom sent his troopers out and confiscated all the cows, and his troopers, aided by the militia, ate most of the meat.  General Folsom was not to be blamed; it was his duty to maintain law and order, and he maintained it by means of the soldiers, wherefore he was compelled to feed them first of all.

It was about this time that the great panic occurred.  The wealthy classes precipitated the flight, and then the slum people caught the contagion and stampeded wildly out of the city.  General Folsom was pleased.  It was estimated that at least 200,000 had deserted San Francisco, and by that much was his food problem solved.  Well do I remember that day.  In the morning I had eaten a crust of bread.  Half of the afternoon I had stood in the bread-line; and after dark I returned home, tired and miserable, carrying a quart of rice and a slice of bacon.  Brown met me at the door.  His face was worn and terrified.