In the Bank Exchange saloon, where the city’s powers in commerce, journalism and finance were wont to congregate, King met, on a rainy autumn afternoon, R.D.  Sinton and Jim Nesbitt.  They hailed him jovially.  Seated in the corner of an anteroom they drank to one another’s health and listened to the raindrops pattering against a window.

“Well, how is the auction business, Bob?” asked King.

“Not so bad,” the junior partner of Selover and Sinton answered.  “Better probably than the newspaper or banking line....  Here’s poor Jim, the keenest paragrapher in San Francisco, out of work since the Chronicle’s gone to the wall.  And here you are, cleaned out by Adams & Company’s careless or dishonest work—­I don’t know which.”

“Let’s not discuss it,” King said broodingly.  “You know they wouldn’t let me supervise the distribution of the money.  And you know what my demand for an accounting brought ...”

“Abuse and slander from that boughten sheet, the Alta—­yes,” retorted Sinton.  “Well, you have the consolation of knowing that no honest man believes it.”

King was silent for a moment.  Then his clenched hand fell upon the table.  “By the Eternal!” he exclaimed, with a sudden upthrust of the chin.  “This town must have a decent paper.  Do you know that there are seven murderers in our jail?  No one will convict them and no editor has the courage to expose our rotten politics.”  He glanced quickly from one to the other.  “Are you with me, boys?  Will you help me to start a journal that will run our crooked officials and their hired plug-uglies out of town?...  Sinton, last week you asked my advice about a good investment ...  Nesbitt, you’re looking for a berth.  Well, here’s an answer to you both.  Let’s start a paper—­call it, say, the Evening Bulletin.”

Nesbitt’s eyes glowed.  “By the Lord Harry! it’s an inspiration, King,” he said and beckoned to a waiter to refill their glasses.  “I know enough about our State and city politics to make a lot of well-known citizens hunt cover—­”

Sinton smiled at the journalist’s ardor.  “D’ye mean it, James?” he asked.  “Every word,” replied the banker.  “But I can’t help much financially,” he added.  “My creditors got everything.”

“You mean the King’s treasury is empty,” said Sinton, laughing at his pun.  “Well, well, we might make it go, boys.  I’m not a millionaire, but never mind.  How much would it take?”

Nesbitt answered with swift eagerness.  “I know a print shop we can buy for a song; it’s on Merchant street near Montgomery.  Small but comfortable, and just the thing. $500 down would start us.”

Sinton pulled at his chin a moment.  “Go ahead then,” he urged.  “I’ll loan you the money.”

King’s hand shot out to grasp the auctioneer’s.  “There ought to be 10,000 decent citizens in San Francisco who’ll give us their support.  Let’s go and see the owner of that print-shop now.”