Bells were tolling. Black bunting was festooned from hundreds of doors and windows. All the flags of the city were at half-mast, even those of ships in the Bay.
From the Unitarian Church on Stockton street, between Clay and Sacramento, came the funeral cortege on its way to the burial ground at Lone Mountain. Everywhere along the route people stood with bared heads.
Little Joe King, a son of the murdered editor, 10 years of age, sat stiff and stunned by the strangeness of it all in a carriage beside Mrs. John Sime. Mr. and Mrs. Sime were great friends of his father and mother, and Mrs. Sime, whom he sometimes called "Auntie," had taken him into her carriage, since that of the widow was filled.
Little Joe did not know what to make of it all. He knew, somehow, vaguely, that his father had been put into a long box that had silver handles and was covered with flowers. He knew of that mystery called death, but he had not visualized it closely heretofore. The thing overwhelmed him. Just now he could only realize that his father was being honored as no one had ever before been honored in San Francisco. That was something he could take hold of.
As the carriage approached Sacramento street the crowd thickened. He heard a high-pitched voice that seemed almost to be screaming. He made out phrases faintly:
"... God!... My poor mother!... Let nobody call ... murderer ... God save me ... only 29 ..."
Swiftly the screaming stopped. A strange silence fell on the crowd. They turned their heads and looked down Sacramento street. Little Joe could stand the curiosity no longer. He craned his neck to see. Far down the street soldiers were standing before a building. Everybody watched them open-mouthed. In front of the building on a high platform two men stood as if they were making speeches. But they did not move their arms, and their heads looked very queer ... as if they had bags over them.
Then, unexpectedly, Mrs. Sime forced him back. She pulled the curtain on the left side of the carriage. Little Joe heard a half-suppressed roar go up from the throng. For an instant the carriage halted. He was grievously disappointed not to witness the thing which held the public eye. Then the carriage went on.