CHAPTER XXXVI

FEVERS OF FINANCE

Four years had passed since the Vigilance Committee ceased active labors.  Some said they preserved a tacit organization; theirs was still a name to conjure with among evil doers, but San Francisco, grown into a city of some 50,000, was more dignified and subtle in its wickedness.  Politics continued notoriously bad.  Comedians in the new Metropolitan Theatre made jokes about ballot-boxes said to have false bottoms, and public officials who had taken their degrees in “political economy” at Sing Sing.

“Honest Harry” Meiggs and his brother, the newly-elected City Controller, had sailed away on the yacht “American,” leaving behind them an unpaid-for 2000-foot wharf and close to a million in debts; forged city warrants and promissory notes were held by practically every large business house in San Francisco.

It was concerning this urbane and gifted prince of swindlers that Adrian Stanley talked with William Sherman, manager of the banking house of Turner, Lucas & Company.

Sherman, once a lieutenant in the United States Army, had returned, after an Eastern trip, as a civilian financier.  In behalf of St. Louis employers, he had purchased of James Lick a lot at Jackson and Montgomery streets, erecting thereon a $50,000 fire-proof building.  The bank occupied the lower floor; a number of professional men had their offices on the second floor; on the third James P. Casey, Supervisor, journalist and politician, maintained the offices of The Sunday Times.  He passed the two men as they stood in front of the bank and shouted a boisterous “hello.”  Adrian, ever courteous and good-natured, responded with a wave of the hand while Sherman, brusk and curt, as a habit of nature and military training, vouchsafed him a short nod.

“I have small use for that fellow,” he remarked to Stanley, “even less than I had for Meiggs.”  The other had something impressive about him, something almost Napoleonic, in spite of his dishonesty.  If business had maintained the upward trend of ’51 and ’52, Meiggs would have been a millionaire and people would have honored him—­”

“You never trusted ‘Honest Harry,’ did you?” Stanley asked.

“No,” said Sherman, “not for the amount he asked.  I was the only banker here that didn’t break his neck to give the fellow credit.  I rather liked him, though.  But this fellow upstairs,” he snapped his fingers, “some day I shall order him out of my building.”

“Why?” asked Adrian curiously.  “Because of his—­”

“His alleged prison record?” Sherman finished.  “No.  For many a good man’s served his term.”  He shrugged.  “I can’t just tell you why I feel like that toward Jim Casey.  He’s no worse than the rest of his clan; the city government’s rotten straight through except for a few honest judges and they’re helpless before the quibbles and intricacies of law.”  He took the long black cigar from his mouth and regarded Adrian with his curious concentration—­that force of purpose which was one day to list William Tecumseh Sherman among the world’s great generals.  “There’s going to be the devil to pay, my young friend,” he said, frowning, “between corruption, sectional feuds and business depression ...”