So the two began a round of the restaurants of the neighborhood, and at last found a wretched little place open, where they were glad to satisfy their hunger with coffee and doughnuts eaten at a dirty table, in a dirty, ill-smelling room. “I gloses up to-morrow,” the proprietor said, with a grin, as they paid their checks.
“Great guns!” exclaimed the carpenter. “We’ll all starve at this rate.”
“Oh, no,” said Burton hopefully. “We can always ‘bach it.’”
But one evening at the end of a fortnight he began to fear that even this would fail. He had cooked his own meals for three days, and had lived mainly on boiled eggs and baker’s bread; but on this particular morning he was unable to buy any bread, and had been forced to content himself with a single egg and the heel of a stale loaf soaked in milk.
“I shall go out in the country this afternoon in search of food,” he decided. Meantime, however, he had to go and fetch away a double load of golden twenties, for, filled with disgust at the useless coins, he had not gone the day before, and had been promptly notified by the bank that he must come and take away his daily allowance, as it would not be allowed to accumulate, the bank having no place to keep the quantities that would be left on their hands.
As he walked down Market Street he saw one of San Francisco’s millionaires driving his own team and carriage up-town. Inside the carriage was a tiny casket, at the head of which sat a weeping woman, the millionaire’s wife. The other occupant of the carriage was a lad of fourteen, the millionaire’s son. The casket contained the remains of the millionaire’s baby, and as Burton looked he knew that the millionaire was on his way to the cemetery to bury the child, for on the seat beside him he saw a pickax and shovel and a coil of rope. He remembered that in all the city there was not a man who could be hired to do a hand’s turn. All had money a-plenty, and no need to work. Then he remembered that there was a milk famine in the city, and reflected that the millionaire’s baby had probably died because of it.
He went to the bank and got his money, carrying it up Market Street openly in a canvas bag. There were no police in the city—the entire force had resigned, but no one would think of stealing money. If his bag had contained bread, now, it would had been different. Every food shop in town had long since been plundered by leading citizens, but gold was safe. Every store on the street was closed; not a street-car was in sight,—none were running. The ferries had ceased to make regular trips; sometimes a boat did not pass between Oakland and San Francisco for days. No trains went in and out of the city. Commerce was at a stand-still. It was in banking hours and every passer along Market Street carried a bag of gold, and every man and woman among them was hungry.
“Something must be done,” they muttered to each other. “This state of things cannot last.”
Passing down a street on the south side, to escape the sight of the general misery, Burton chanced upon a curious scene. A wretched, ragged street gamin was leading a goat along the sidewalk. A handsomely dressed gentleman had accosted him. The boy was just explaining to him that he meant to take the goat home and kill it; his mother would cook it.
“Here is a thousand dollars,” the man said, holding out a bag. “I’ll give it all to you for one quarter of the goat when you kill it.”