At Kearny and Sacramento streets Benito, approaching the voting station, was told to get in line by Charley Elleard, the town constable.  Elleard rode his famous black pony.  This pony was the pet of the town and had developed a sagacity nearly human.  It was considered wondrous sport to give the little animal a “two-bit” piece, which it would gravely hold between its teeth and present to the nearest bootblack, placing its forefeet daintily upon the footrests for a “shine.”

As he neared the polls in the slow succession of advancing voters, Benito was beset by a rabble of low-voiced, rough-dressed men, who thrust their favorite tickets into his hands and bade him vote as indicated, often in a threatening manner.  Raucously they tried to cry each other down.  “Here’s for Geary and the good old council,” one would shout.  “Geary and his crowd forever.”

“We’ve had the old one too long,” a red-shirted six-footer bellowed.  “Fresh blood for me.  We want sidewalks and clean streets.”

This provoked a chorus of “Aye!  Aye!  That’s the ticket, pard,” until a satirical voice exclaimed, “Clean streets and sidewalks!  Gor a’mighty.  He’s dreamin’ o’ Heaven!”

A roar of laughter echoed round the town at this sally.  It was repeated everywhere.  The campaign slogan was hastily dropped.

At the polling desk Benito found himself behind a burly Kanaka sailor, dark as an African.

“I contest his vote,” cried one of the judges.  “If he’s an American, I’m a Hottentot.”

“Where were you born?” asked the challenging judge of election.

“New York,” whispered a voice in the Kanaka’s ear, and he repeated the word stammeringly.  “Where was your father born?” came the second question, and again the word was repeated.  “What part of New York?”

“New York, New York.”  The answer was parrot-like.  Someone laughed.

“Ask him what part of the Empire State he hails from?” suggested another.  The question was put in simpler form, but it proved too much for the Islander.  He stammered, stuttered, waved his hand uncertainly toward the ocean.  Perceiving that he was the butt of public jest, he broke out of the line and made off as fast as his long legs could transport him.

The man whose whispered promptings had proved unavailing, fell sullenly into the background, after venomous glance at the successful objector.  Benito caught his eyes under the dripping crown of a wide-brimmed slouch hat.  They seemed to him vaguely familiar.  Almost instinctively his hand sought the pocket in which his derringer reposed.  Then, with a laugh, he dismissed the matter.  He had no quarrel with the fellow; that murderous look was aimed at Henry Mellus, not at him.  So he cast his ballot and went out.

Opposite the Square he paused to note the progress of rehabilitation in the burned area.  It was less than a fortnight since he had stood there feverishly passing buckets of water in a fight against the flames, but already most of the evidences of conflagration were hidden behind the framework of new buildings.  The Eldorado announced a grand opening in the “near future”; Maguire’s Jenny Lind Theater notified one in conspicuous letters, “We Will Soon Be Ready for Our Patrons, Bigger and Grander Than Ever.”