"I don't understand you," I said. "Who was the old man you rescued from the mob?"
Parks looked at me in surprise. "Rescued from the mob!" he exclaimed. "Why, the mob--but wait a minute, and I'll tell you about it."
He turned as he spoke.
"Stop that fighting!" he shouted. And at his word a score of men lent their efforts to the task of separating the struggling, wrestling groups, raising the prostrate and quieting the violent.
The efforts of the peacemakers were signally assisted by the sudden appearance of a squad of police coming on the run around the corner from Montgomery Street. As the guardians of order were strong of limb, and were armed with heavy clubs, they had exemplary success in quieting the refractory, and satisfying those whose appetite for fighting was still unsated.
At the sight of the police, Parks took me by the arm and drew me quietly down the block and around the corner into Sansome Street.
"What was the trouble about, and who was the old man?" I asked.
"Why, that was Merwin," said Parks in a tone of surprise. "You ought to recollect him."
At the name I remembered the quiet, dreamy old man of my visit to the House of Blazes, and recalled the history of his life-wreck which was wrapped up in the volumes of legal lore that went under the title of Merwin versus Bolton.
"What had Merwin been doing to get the mob after him?" I asked.