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Discord
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eBook.
Title: The Apple of Discord
Author: Earle Ashley Walcott
Illustrator: Alice Barber Stephens
Release date: May 28, 2016 [eBook #52180]
Most recently updated: April 30, 2018
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE APPLE OF
DISCORD ***
Cover art
Moon Ying
THE APPLE OF DISCORD
BY
EARLE ASHLEY WALCOTT
Author of
"Blindfolded"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ALICE BARBER STEPHENS
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers :: :: New York
COPYRIGHT 1907
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
OCTOBER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I I am Presented with an Overcoat
II The House of Blazes
III A Glimpse of Sunshine
IV Machiavelli in Bronze
V Miss Kendrick's Pleasure
VI Big Sam's Diplomacy
VII In the Current
VIII A Contribution to the Cause
IX Peter Bolton
X A Council of War
XI Troubles in the Market
XII The Lottery Ticket
XII The Wisdom of His Ancestors
XIV Bargaining
XV A Ripple of Trouble
XVI Laying Down the Law
XVII Big Sam's Warning
XVIII Little John as a Man of Action
XIX Mischief Afoot
XX On the Sand-Lots
XXI Battle
XXII I Become a Man of Business
XXIII The Committee of Safety
XXIV The Justice of Big Sam
XXV Facing a Crisis
XXVI On the Precipice
XXVII A Call to Arms
XXVIII With the Pick-Handle Brigade
XXIX A Tongue of Fire
XXX The End of the Feud
XXXI The Broken Web
XXXII The Answer
Epilogue
Postscript
THE APPLE OF DISCORD
CHAPTER I
I AM PRESENTED WITH AN OVERCOAT
Colonel Wharton Kendrick leaned back in his chair, stroked his red
side-whiskers reflectively, and looked across the table with an
expression of embarrassment on his round ruddy face. For the
moment his command of words had evidently failed him.
As embarrassment and failure of language were equally foreign
to his nature, I was confirmed in a growing suspicion that there had
been an ulterior purpose behind his cordial invitation to luncheon.
The meal had been a good one, and he was paying for it, and so I
felt that I owed him my moral support. Therefore, I returned such a
look of encouragement as might properly express the feelings of a
fledgling attorney toward a millionaire who was the probable source
of active litigation, and waited for him to speak.
"See here, Hampden," he said at last; "you know something
about my row with Peter Bolton, don't you?"
"The Bolton-Kendrick feud is a part of my very earliest
recollections," I admitted. "When I was a small boy I was convinced
that it was quite as much a part of the institutions of the country as
the Fourth of July. You may remember that my father took
something of an interest in your affairs."
"Good old Dick Hampden--the best friend a man ever had!" And
there was a note of tenderness in his voice that touched my heart-
strings. "It was a sad loss when he went, my boy. Well, then I
needn't go into the beginning of the feud, as no doubt he explained
it all to you."
"I should like very much to have an account of it at first hand," I
replied. In spite of my familiarity with the quarrels between Bolton
and Kendrick, I had never solved the mystery of the beginning of the
feud. Its origin was as deeply buried in the haze of historic doubts as
the causes of the Trojan War. I had heard it assigned to a dozen
different beginnings, ranging from a boyhood battle for the
possession of a red apple to a maturer rivalry for the hand of the
village belle, who had finally bestowed herself on a suitor whose
very name was forgotten. None of the explanations seemed
adequate. The first could scarce account for the depth of hatred that
each felt for the other. As for the last--imagination refused to picture
Peter Bolton in the figure of a sighing swain; the caricature was too
monstrous for credit. Therefore, I spoke hopefully, as one who sees
the doors of mystery ajar. But Wharton Kendrick shrank from the
task of enlightening me, and with a shake of his head he replied:
"Well, there's no need to go into it all now. It began back in the
Ohio village where we were born--long before the days we heard of
California--and it'll end when one of us is carried out feet foremost."
"I hope you're not expecting anything of that sort," I said.
"No, I can't say that I am. I'm expecting something, and I don't
know what it is. But what I want to know is this: Have you any
objections to doing a bit of secret service?" The manner in which he
plunged through his sentence, and the air of visible relief on his face
when he had done, told me that this was what he had been leading
toward.
"Well, that depends. You know there are some things
considered unprofessional--"
"Even in the law!" said Wharton Kendrick with a jovial laugh.
"Oh, thunder! What would the game be if we didn't pretend to have
rules? Well, I don't think this is anything that would get you on the
black books, though some of you fellows are so confounded touchy
that I've shied away from mentioning it to you. I want you to keep
an eye on Bolton for a while, and find out what he is up to."
"That sounds as though you wanted a private detective agency,"
I said dubiously, with distrust of my ability to fill the bill.
"If I had wanted one I should have sent for it," replied Wharton
Kendrick dryly. "I've had enough experience of them to know that I
don't want them. I want you because I must have some one I can
trust."
I murmured my thanks at this expression of esteem. It was the
more gratifying as, like the rest of my father's old friends, he had
carefully avoided giving me his legal business, with a wise but
annoying preference for having me try my 'prentice hand on the
litigation of strangers. So at this I professed my entire willingness to
be of service.
"That's good," he said. "Now, I've had warning from a source I
trust that Bolton is fixing up some sort of surprise for me. I want you
to find out what it is. Six months ago I got the same sort of hint that
came to me this morning, and I forgot all about it. Then one day I
got a jolt that cost me a cool hundred thousand dollars when I found
that Bolton had taken the Golden West Land and Water Company
away from me. He got hold of some of the stock that I thought was
in safe hands, and I had to pay four prices to get it. I've a notion
that the thing is more serious this time."
Something in his voice suggested alarming possibilities.
"Do you mean that Bolton is plotting against your life?"
"Oh, I don't say that. But, oh, thunder! You wouldn't put it
beyond him, would you?"
"Not beyond his morals, perhaps; but I should certainly put it
beyond his courage."
"Oh, P. Bolton isn't the man to go gunning for any one. But he
hasn't any scruples against getting another man to do it for him.
That's why he owns the Miroban mine."
"You don't mean to say so? I never heard of that."
"I suppose not. You're too young to remember the murder of
the Eddy boys. They had located the Miroban mine, and one day
they struck it rich. Bolton put in a claim that he had bought it from a
prior locator, and pretty soon they were all tangled up in litigation.
One night somebody poked a double-barreled shot-gun through a
window in the Eddy boys' cabin, and filled them full of buckshot.
There was a good deal of excitement about it for a while, but
nobody could find out the man who did the shooting, and we were
all too busy in those days to waste much time hunting criminals.
When the talk died down, Bolton was found in possession of the
Miroban."
"And you think--"
"I don't know who pulled the trigger, but I know well enough
that Bolton pointed the gun."
"Old Bolton is a more interesting character than I had
supposed," I confessed.
"You'll have a chance to get better acquainted with him," said
Kendrick, "but I can't promise you that he improves on
acquaintance." He smoothed his ruddy cheeks, and ran his fingers
through his side-whiskers, and then continued: "You'd better not
come to see me till you have something important to report. You'll
find it easier to get hold of things if the old spider doesn't know that
you are in my employ. Send word around to my office when you
want to see me. I suppose you'll want some money. You needn't
spare expense. I guess this will do for a starter." And, reaching into
his pocket, he brought up a handful of twenties and passed them
over. And in this pleasant way began my active relations with the
famous feud that was to shake San Francisco to its foundations.
Several days of cautious but diligent inquiry followed before my
industry was rewarded with an insight into Peter Bolton's purposes.
Then a lead of much promise opened, and I sent word to my
employer that I was prepared to make a progress report.
"Come around to the office to-night--nine-thirty," was the reply;
and prompt to the minute I mounted the stairs of the California
Street building in which Wharton Kendrick kept his business
quarters, and knocked at his private door.
At his brusk "Come in," I entered, and found him seated behind
his wide desk busily running over a bundle of papers. The gas-light
fell on his ruddy face and was reflected in glints from his red side-
whiskers with which he eked out the fullness of his cheeks. He was
indeed a handsome man, and carried his sixty years with the ease of
forty.
"So you have brought news," he said, thrusting his papers into a
drawer and leaning back to receive my communication. "Well, what
is the old fox up to now?"
"I have the honor," I returned, "to report that the old fox has
turned reformer."
"Reformer?" And a puzzled look overspread his face. "Well, if he
wants a job in that line he won't have to leave home to get it. He
can spend the rest of his life reforming himself and not have time
enough by half."
"He is not so selfish as all that. His zeal has reached out to
embrace the regeneration of the whole human race--or at least the
part of it that inhabits San Francisco."
"What do you mean? I may be thick-headed, but I don't get
your meaning."
"Oh, it is just as I say. And to carry out his benevolent purposes
he has engaged the services of the Council of Nine--or at least has
entered into active cooperation with it."
"The Council of Nine! I never heard of it." Wharton Kendrick
looked at me in amazement.
"Well, to confess the truth, I never heard of it myself until to-
day. However, you are likely to hear more of it later. It has a valiant
recruit in Bolton."
"But what is it? What is it trying to do?"
"So far as I can find out, it is the head-center of the local
organization of the International Reds. It is made up of anarchists,
socialists, communists, and the discontented of all sorts. I'll admit
that I don't understand fully the distinctions between these
elements, and they are so mixed up here that you can't tell one from
another."
"That's a promising combination," laughed Wharton Kendrick;
and then a thoughtful look followed his laughter, as he added: "But
what does P. Bolton think he can get out of that crowd?"
"A liberal education--or at least an education in liberality. He has
given a handsome contribution to their funds--"
"What!" ejaculated Kendrick, starting forward in astonishment.
"You don't mean to say that he has given them money?"
"I have the authority of a good witness--to wit, a man who saw
the money paid."
"Whew! That's pretty hard to swallow. What is the man's
name?"
"Clark--Jonas Clark."
"Who is he?"
"Why, he's a shining light in the Carpenters' Union. He's a
decent chap who is a little carried away by the eloquence of the
agitators, but he is all right. He has been a messenger back and
forth between Bolton and some members of the Council, but he had
the fault of being too scrupulous, and Bolton gave him the sack. So
now he is employee number one of our detective bureau."
"Hm-m! And maybe you can give a guess why P. Bolton is
putting up his good money for that crazy crowd? You are not trying
to tell me it's a case of pure philanthropy?"
"That is what he wants them to believe. He told Clark that
before he gave any money he must be satisfied that the aims and
methods of the Council were for the benefit of the people."
"Oh, thunder! To think of P. Bolton playing a game like that!
Well, did they satisfy him?"
"Clark took him any quantity of documents. They fed him first
with the brotherhood-of-man and the one-for-all-and-all-for-one
course of lectures. He thought there was too much milk-and-water
about that, so they gradually worked up to the dynamiting of royal
oppressors and the extinction of capitalistic robbers. At this he gave
up some good coin--five hundred dollars, as near as I can learn--
paid in person at midnight to three members of the Council of Nine."
Kendrick leaned back in his chair, and meditatively stroked his
red side-whiskers once more, while the thoughtful wrinkles chased
each other about his eyes.
"That begins to look like business," he said at last. "I'm sure I
could put a name to the capitalistic robber he would like to see
extinguished. Still, I don't see what he is driving at. Have you got
any light on his plans?"
"No. So far as I can find out, he has made no suggestions. He
has only approved their propaganda, and hinted that they might look
for more money if their course was such as to satisfy him."
"Then you think their schemes worth looking into?"
"Indeed I do. I have an engagement to meet Clark at their
headquarters, down at the House of Blazes to-morrow night. He is
going to introduce me to some of the leaders, and I hope to get a
line on what they are planning."
"The House of Blazes? What's that?"
"Oh, it's a saloon down on Tar Flat. The socialists and anarchists
and a lot of other 'ists' loaf around there and drink beer in their
hours of ease, and I believe there is a hall there where they hold
their meetings."
"Umph! I hope you'll enjoy your evening. But don't get your
head smashed." Wharton Kendrick was silent a little, and then
continued thoughtfully: "I don't see what P. Bolton can expect to
gain out of a lot of crack-brained fanatics like that, but you can do as
you like about looking into them. I suspect, though, that this is just
a blind for something else. Just remember that if you are expecting
P. Bolton to show himself in one place, he's sure to turn up in
another. Now, is that all your budget?"
"One thing more. Bolton has a little detective bureau of his own.
He has engaged Jim Morgan, the prize-fighter, with three or four
more of the same sort, and you're being watched. I've no doubt
there's a fellow out by the door, waiting to follow you home. So I'll
take the liberty of walking with you, and engage a few reliable body-
guards to-morrow."
Wharton Kendrick's mouth closed with a snap.
"Not much--no body-guards for me! I've walked San Francisco
for twenty years in the face of Peter Bolton, and I'm not going to be
afraid of him at this day. Hire all the men you want, but set them to
looking after P. Bolton--not after me."
"There are two at his heels already."
"Good; but I'm afraid a hundred wouldn't be enough to keep
track of the old fox," laughed Kendrick. "Well, it's time to be getting
home. Reach me my hat there, will you? Make sure of the door--
here goes the light." And he followed me into the hall and turned the
key behind him. "Now, there's no need for you to go home with me,"
he continued.
"It's my way as well as yours," I replied, "and unless you object
to my company, we'll go together."
We faced the west wind that came in gusts from over Nob Hill,
with the salt freshness of the ocean fog heavy upon it, turned north
at Kearny Street, and at Clay Street took the hill-climbing cable-car
that still passed as one of the city's novelties. From the western end
of the line we walked to the Kendrick residence on Van Ness Avenue.
"Well, good night, my boy," he said. "Sorry to have brought you
up here for nothing. If you should get any light on the Council's
plans to-morrow night, come up here next evening--say at eight
o'clock. I may have an idea of my own by that time." And he closed
the door.
As I turned to descend the steps, my eye was startled by a
glimpse of movement among the shrubs that decorated the Kendrick
lawn. At first I thought it but a branch tossed by the wind; but an
incautious movement revealed the figure of a man silhouetted
against the faint illumination from a distant street-lamp, and I felt a
momentary gratification that my precaution had been justified.
I descended the flight of steps to the garden with assumed
unconcern. Then, instead of following the second flight to the street,
I turned, made a sudden spring on to the lawn, straight for the
shrub behind which I had seen the man hide himself. It was but
twenty-five feet away, and I reached it in an instant. No one was
there. For a moment I thought my eyes must have deceived me.
Then the rustle of a bush by the fence attracted my attention, and I
made a dash for the spot. Before I could reach it a man rose from
behind the bush, vaulted the fence, disappeared for a second of
time, and then could be seen running swiftly down the street.
There was an eight-foot drop from the garden to the sidewalk,
but I made the leap in my turn without mishap, and was running in
the wake of the flying night-hawk before I had time to draw breath.
I soon gained upon him, and as I came nearer I could hear his
hoarse gasps, as the unaccustomed pace told upon him. At the
corner of Sacramento Street I was near enough to reach out and
grasp him by the coat.
He halted and turned.
"What do you want?" he growled, and then struck at me with
sudden movement. "Take that!" he cried, striking again as I tried to
close with him, and I felt the shearing of cloth before a sharp blade.
As I staggered back from the impact of the blow, my foot
caught on the curb, the earth whirled about, the stone sidewalk
gave me a thump alongside the head, and I witnessed a private
meteoric display of unrivaled splendor.
I was stunned for a minute, but collecting my wits I scrambled
to my feet, cleared my eyes, and looked for the flying enemy. He
was nowhere to be seen, and no sound of his footfalls came to my
ear. Making sure that he had escaped, I turned to take stock of my
injuries. I could find no wound, though a rent through my coat
showed how near I had come to the end of all my adventures. A
memorandum-book in my inside pocket had stopped the blade with
which the spy had struck at me. Then I recovered from my daze
enough to become aware that I was holding an overcoat that was
none of mine. The enemy had slipped from the garment to secure
his escape, and had left it in my hands.
CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE OF BLAZES
With the morning's light I looked carefully over the captured
overcoat for identifying marks by which I might trace the elusive spy
who was so near ending my life. A hasty survey of the garment
when I had reached my room had revealed nothing by which I might
learn of the owner; but after a night's sleep the detective instinct
burned within me, and I was persuaded that there was something
about it to differentiate it from other overcoats, if only I had the
keenness to discover it. The garment was of cheap material, and
even the maker's name had disappeared from it. There was nothing
individual about it, and not even a handkerchief was to be found in
its pockets. But when I was about to abandon search once more, a
small inside pocket attracted my attention, and, diving within it, I
brought out a square of paper, three or four inches wide. The
detective instinct within me raised a shout of triumph, and I opened
the paper with the conviction that it would bear some address that
would lead me to the spy. The detective instinct became more
humble to find that the paper bore only a few sprawling characters
that were reminiscent of a Chinese laundry or a Canton tea-chest.
Nevertheless, it was the only clue in my possession, and during
the day I made several attempts to secure a translation of the
marks. But nightfall came without success, and, reinforced by a good
dinner, I turned my steps south of Market Street to keep my
appointment with Clark.
"Here's the place," said the policeman, pointing across Natoma
Street to the corner building, from which lights flashed and sounds
of laughter and drunken song floated out on the night air. "We call it
the House of Blazes."
Even in the semi-darkness left by the street-lamps and the lights
that streamed from the windows, I could see that it was a rambling
two-story frame building, with signs of premature age upon it. The
neighborhood was far from select, but the House of Blazes had
characteristics of evil all its own. Above, the small windows scowled
dark, stealthy, mistrustful, as though they sought to escape the eye
of the officer of the law who stood by my side. Below, the broader
windows, ablaze with lamps, and the swinging half-doors, through
which we could see the feet of men and the occasional hat of a taller
customer, made a show of openness. But it all seemed the bravado
of the criminal who ventures forth by daylight, aggressively assertive
of his self-confidence and ready to take to his heels at the first sign
that he is recognized by the police. Across the windows and on a
swinging sign were painted letters proclaiming that wines and liquors
were to be had within and that H. Blasius was the owner.
"It doesn't look to be just the place for a stranger to show his
money in," I said lightly.
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