XIV

A NEW ELEMENT

Budge Kennedy was not so easily found.  There were many Kennedys.  About two-thirds of Ireland had apparently migrated to San Francisco under that name and had lodged in the directory.  We went through the lists on both sides of the bay, but found nothing; the old directories had mostly been destroyed by fire or had been thrown away as worthless; but at last we unearthed one.  In it we found the name of Budge Kennedy.

He had two sons—­Patrick and Henry.  One of these, Henry, we ran down in the Mission.  He was a great, red-headed, broad-shouldered Irishman.  He was just eating supper when we called; there were splotches of white plaster on his trousers.

I came right to the point:  “Do you know anything about this?” I held out the ring.

He took it in his fingers; his eyes popped.  “What, that!  Well, I guess I do!  Where’d you get it?” He called out to the kitchen:  “Say, Mollie, come here.  Here’s the old man’s jool!” He looked at me a bit fearfully.  “You aren’t wearing it?”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Why?  Well, I don’t know exactly.  I wouldn’t wear it for a million dollars.  It ain’t a jool; it’s a piece of the divil.  The old man gave it to Dr. Holcomb—­or sold it, I don’t know which.  He carried it in his pocket once, and he came near dying.”

“Unlucky?” I asked.

“No, it ain’t unlucky; it just rips your heart out.  It would make you hate your grandmother.  Lonesome!  Lonesome!  I’ve often heard the old man talking.”

“He sold it to Dr. Holcomb?  Do you know why?”

“Well, yes.  ’Twas that the old doc had some scientific work.  Dad told him about his jool.  One day he took it over to Berkeley.  It was some kind of thing that the professor just wanted.  He kept it.  Dad made him promise not to wear it.”

“I see.  Did your father ever tell you where he got it?”

“Oh, yes.  He often spoke about that.  The old man wasn’t a plasterer, you know—­just a labourer.  He was digging a basement.  It was a funny basement—­a sort of blind cellar.  There was a stone wall right across the middle, and then there was a door of wood to look like stone.  You can go down into the back cellar, but not into the front.  If you don’t know about the door, you’ll never find it.  Dad often spoke about that.  He was working in the back cellar when he found this.  ’Twas sticking in some blue clay.”

“Where was this place?  Do you remember?”

“Sure.  ’Twas in Chatterton Place.  Pat and I was kids then; we took the old man’s dinner.”

“Do you know the number?”

“It didn’t have no number; but I know the place.  ’Tis a two-story house, and was built in ’ninety-one.”

I nodded.  “And afterwards you moved to Oakland?”

“Yes.”

“Did your father ever speak of the reason for this partition in the cellar?”