“I wish that Inez might have seen it,” Mrs. Windham said a little wistfully.  “But she must help the Indian seamstress with her gown for the dance.  Don Adrian is to be there.”

“He has decided that there are other ways of serving God than in the pulpit,” remarked Stanley.  “They talk of making him the master of the school ... if our committee can ever decide on a location and what’s to pay for it.”

* * * * *

In the full regimentals of his rank, Colonel Stevenson graced Leidesdorff’s ballroom that evening, cordially exchanging smiles and bows with San Francisco’s citizenry.  Besides him was his quartermaster, Captain Joseph Folsom who, though less than thirty, had seen active service in a Florida campaign against the Seminoles.  He held himself slightly aloof with the class consciousness of the West Pointer.

Nearby stood a lanky surgeon of the volunteers discussing antiseptics with Dr. Jones.  Leidesdorff was everywhere, pathetically eager to please, an ecstatic, perspiring figure, making innumerable inquiries as to the comfort of his guests.

“He’s like a mother hen worried over a brood of new chicks,” said Brannan to Jasper O’Farrell.

“And a damned fine little man,” the Irishman answered.  “Oh—­I beg your pardon, Senorita.”

Inez Windham smiled forgiveness, nodding when he asked her for a dance.  “Tell me,” she asked eagerly, “of the grand new map you make for San Francisco.”

“Ah,” O’Farrell said, “they laugh at it because I have to change Vioget’s acute and obtuse angles.  They call it ‘O’Farrell’s Swing.’  You see, I’ve had to change the direction of some streets.  There are many more now.  Eight hundred acres laid out like a city.”

As the music stopped he led her to a bench and fumbled in his pocket for a drawing which he straightened on his knees.  “See, here is a new road through the center, a broad way, straight as an arrow from the bay to the foot of Twin Peaks.  It parallels the Mission camino, and Bryant wants to call it Market street.”

“But how is this?” asked Inez puzzled, “streets where there is only mud and water—­”

“They will be reclaimed with the waste from our leveled sand hills,” said O’Farrell.  He glanced about him searchingly, then whispered:  “Tonight Governor Mason told me confidentially he would cede the tide flats to our local government, provided they are sold at auction for the benefit of San Francisco.  They’ll go cheap; but some day they’ll be worth thousands.  Tell your father—­”

He broke off hastily.  Toward them stalked Benito Windham, covered with dust as though from a long ride.  There was trouble in his eyes.  With a swift apology he drew his sister aside.  “McTurpin,” he panted.  “He is back ... with a dozen men ... riding toward the rancho.”

CHAPTER XIII

The “Sydney ducks”