The president of the Committee raised his hand to command silence.
"Fellow-citizens:" he cried in a full, resonant voice. "You have come here to fight--not to talk or cheer. We find a mob spirit abroad, very dangerous to the peace and order of the city. It is your business to put that spirit down. For this purpose you are clothed with all the powers of police officers. The mayor has issued his proclamation, commanding disorderly persons to disperse, and it is our part to see that this proclamation is obeyed. You have behind you the armed force of the State and Nation. But it should be a part of your pride as San Franciscans that this force should not be needed for your protection. The people have shown on former occasions that they were able to protect themselves. Show now that your courage and self-reliance have not degenerated in twenty years."
There was a warm response to this exhortation, and, at a sign from Coleman, the adjutants began calling forward the companies, and despatching them to their work.
"Captain Korbel!" called the commanding voice of the adjutant at the desk nearest us.
"Here!" came the reply in a strong German accent, and a man with energetic face stepped out from a company of twenty men.
"You will patrol Mission Street, from Sixth to Twelfth. Keep the street clear of all persons having no business there. If they resist, put them under arrest, and turn them over to the police at the Southern Station. Get your arms from that pile."
"So ist righdt," said the captain, and giving a salute he marched his company to the west side of the hall where a great number of pick-handles that had been sawn in two, base-ball bats, and wagon spokes, had been arranged in convenient stacks. Each man of the company picked up a club, balanced it in his hand, and brought it down on the head of an imaginary hoodlum with the solemnity of a prepared ritual. Then at the word of command the company marched out while others were receiving their orders from the desks of the adjutants.
I had observed this lively scene with but half an eye, shouldering my way forward to meet William T. Coleman as he descended from the platform. He had talked for a little with some member of the Committee, but as he came down the steps on his way to the side room that served as a private office, I hailed him. He looked up quickly, and his face changed as he caught sight of me.
"Is Kendrick dead?" he asked anxiously.
"No. He is still unconscious, but living."