* * * * *

Francisco worked at his novel.  Word came of Alice Windham’s death in Massachusetts.  Robert urged his father to return to San Francisco, but Benito sought forgetfulness in European travel.

Frank had finished high school; was a cub reporter on The Bulletin.  Pickering was dead; his widow and her brother, R.A.  Crothers, had taken over the evening paper; John D. Spreckels, sugar nabob, now controlled the Call.

Newspaper policies were somewhat uncertain in these days of economic unrest.  Strike succeeded strike, and with each there came a greater show of violence.  Lines were more sharply drawn.  Labor and capital organized for self-protection and offense.

“I hear that Governor Gage is coming down to settle the teamsters’ strike,” said Francisco to his son as they lunched together one sultry October day in 1901.  “I can’t understand why he’s delayed until now.”

“Probably wanted to keep out of it as long as possible,” responded Frank.  “There are strong political forces on each side ... but the story goes that Colonel ‘Montezuma’ Burns is jealous of Ruef’s overtures to workingmen.  So he’s ordered the Governor to make a grandstand play.”

[Illustration:  “Perhaps I shall find me a man—­big, strong, impressive—­with a mind easily led....  Then I shall train him to be a leader.  I shall furnish the brain.”]

Stanley looked at his son in astonishment.  He was not yet nineteen and he talked like a veteran of forty.  Francisco wondered if these were his own deductions or mere parroted gossip of the office.

Later that afternoon he met Robert and told him of Frank’s comment.  Robert thought the situation over ere he answered.

“The employing class is fearful,” he said.  “They’ve controlled things so long they don’t know what may happen if they lose the reins.  It’s plain that Phelan can’t be re-elected.  And it’s true that if the labor men effect a real organization they may name the next Mayor.  Rather a disturbing situation.”

“Have you heard any talk about a man named Schmitz?  A labor candidate?”

“Yes, I think I have.  The chap’s a fiddler in a theater orchestra.  Big, fine looking.  But I can’t imagine that he has the brains to make a winning fight.”

“Big!  Fine looking!  Hm!” repeated Stanley.

“Meaning—­what?” asked Robert.

“Nothing much....  I just remembered something Ruef was telling me.”  He walked on thoughtfully.  “Might be a story there for the boy’s paper,” he cogitated.

Ruef’s offices were at the corner of Kearney and California streets.  Thither, with some half-formed mission in his mind, Francisco took his way.  A saturnine man took him up in a little box-like elevator, pointing out a door inscribed: 

     A. RUEF,
     Att’y-at-Law.

The reception-room was filled.  Half a dozen men and two women sat in chairs which lined the walls.  A businesslike young man inquired Francisco’s errand.  “You’ll have to wait your turn,” he said.  “I can’t go in there now ... he’s in conference with Mr. Schmitz.”