“Him your Chinese friends call ‘The Blind White Devil?’ Yes, I’ve heard of Chris.”

“He keeps a saloon wid a gossoon name o’ Fallon, on Bush street....  Go up and see him, Misther Stanley....  He’s a fair-speakin’ felly I’m told....  Ask him,” Dennis whispered, nudging the writer’s ribs with his elbow, “ask him how his gambling place in Platt’s Hall is coming on?”

* * * * *

Several days later Francisco entered the unpretentious establishment of Christopher Buckley.  He found it more like an office than a drinking place; people sat about, apparently waiting their turn for an interview with Buckley.

A small man, soft of tread and with a searching glance, asked Stanley’s business and, learning that the young man was a writer for the press, blinked rapidly a few times; then he scuttled off, returning ere long with the information that Buckley would “see Mr. Stanley.”  Soon he found himself facing a pleasant-looking man of medium height, a moustache, wiry hair tinged with gray, a vailed expression of the eyes, which indicated some abnormality of vision, but did not reveal the almost total blindness with which early excesses had afflicted Christopher Buckley.

“Sit down, my friend,” spoke the boss.  His tone held a crisp cordiality, searching and professionally genial.  “What d’ye want ... a story?”

“Yes,” said Stanley.

“About the election?”

Stanley hesitated.  “Tell me about the gambling concession at Platt’s Hall,” he said suddenly.

Buckley’s manner changed.  It became, if anything, more cordial.

“My boy,” his tone was low, “you’re wasting time as a reporter.  Listen,” he laid a hand upon Francisco’s knee.  “I’ve got a job for you....  The new Mayor will need a secretary ... three hundred a month.  And extras!”

“What are they?” asked Francisco curiously.

“Lord!  I don’t have to explain that to a bright young man like you....  People coming to the Mayor for favors.  They’re appreciative ... understand?”

“Well,” Francisco seemed to hesitate, “let me think it over....  Can I let you know,” he smiled, “tomorrow?”

Buckley nodded as Francisco rose.  As soon as the latter’s back was turned the little sharp-eyed man came trotting to his master’s call.  “Follow him.  Find out what’s his game,” he snapped.  The little man sped swiftly after.  Buckley made another signal.  The top-hatted representative of railway interests approached.

* * * * *

Francisco stopped at Robert’s office on his way home.  Windham had moved into one of the new buildings, with an elevator, on Kearney street.  In his private office was a telephone, one of those new instruments for talking over a wire which still excited curiosity, though they were being rapidly installed by the Pacific Bell Company.  Hotels, newspapers, the police and fire departments were equipped with them, but private subscribers were few, Francisco had noticed one of the instruments in Buckley’s saloon.