“And do you mean,” asked Broderick, “that these men will take the law into their own hands; that they’ll apprehend so-called criminals and presume to mete out punishment according to their own ideas of justice?”

“I mean just that,” returned Benito.

“Why—­it’s extraordinary,” Broderick objected.  “It’s mob law—­organized banditti.”

“You’ll find it nothing of the sort,” cried Windham hotly.

“How can it be otherwise?’ asked Broderick.  What’s to prevent rascals taking advantage of such a movement—­running it to suit themselves?  They’re much cleverer than honest, men; more powerful....  Else do you think I’d use my political machine?  No, no, Benito, this is farce—­disaster.”

“Read this, then,” urged Benito, and he thrust into the other’s hand a list of some two hundred names.  Broderick perused it with growing gravity.  It represented the flower of San Francisco’s business and professional aristocracy, men of all political creeds, religious, social affiliations.

* * * * *

A few days afterward Broderick conferred with his lieutenants.  Word went forth that he had cut his leading strings to city politics.  Rumors of a storm were in the air.  When it would break no one could say with certainty.  The Committee of Vigilance had quietly established quarters on Battery street near Pine, where several secret meetings had been held and officers elected.  These were not made known.  Members were designated by numerals instead of names.  Some said they wore masks but this was an unproven rumor.

Broderick, brooding on these things one afternoon, was suddenly aware of many people running.  He descried a man hastening down Long Wharf toward the bay.  “Stop thief!” some one shouted.  Others took it up.  Broderick found himself running, too, over the loose boards of the wharf, in pursuit of the fleeing figure.  The fugitive ran rapidly, despite a large burden slung over his shoulder.  Presently he disappeared from view.  But soon they glimpsed him in a boat, rowing lustily away.

A dozen boats set out in chase.  Shots rang out.  “He’s thrown his bundle in the water,” someone cried.  “He’s diving,” called another.  A silence, then “We’ve got him,” came a hail exultingly.

Ere long a dripping figure surrounded by half a dozen captors, was brought upon the wharf.  “He stole a safe from Virgin & Co.,” Broderick was told.  “The Vigilantes have him.  They’ll hang him probably.  Come along and see the show.”

“But where are the police?” asked Broderick.  The man laughed contemptuously.  “Where they always are—­asleep,” he answered, and went on.

Others brought the news that John Jenkins, an Australian convict, was the prisoner.  He had several times escaped the clutches of the “law.”  He seemed to treat the whole proceeding as a bit of horseplay, joking profanely with his captors, boasting of his crimes.