TERRY STABS HOPKINS
The peace-makers took an early boat for San Francisco. They were hopelessly alienated from the Law and Order Party. After some deliberation they decided to call a mass meeting in front of the Oriental Hotel. Thus they hoped to make the Vigilante sentiment practically unanimous and request through popular acclaim, a withdrawal of the Governor's proclamation.
Early on June 14, the day appointed, citizens began to gather at Bush and Battery streets; by noon they blocked both thoroughfares and overflowed into Market street. Each window, roof and balcony near by was filled. Women in their summer finery lent gay splashes of color, waved parasols or handkerchiefs excitedly at their acquaintances below.
Inez Windham called to David Broderick, who was passing, "There's room for one more on our balcony. Come up." As he stood behind her in the window, stooping a little, she looked eagerly into his careworn face. "One might think it was a circus." He smiled.
"You remind me of champagne, you San Franciscans. The inherent quality of you is sparkle.... Even if an earthquake came along and swallowed you, I think you'd go down with that same light, laughing nonchalance."
Mrs. Stanley made a moue at him. "You find us--different from your Eastern ladies, Mr. Broderick?" she asked expectantly.
He considered for a moment. "Sometimes I think it is the land more than the women. They come from everywhere--with all their varied prejudices, modes, conventions. But, after a time, they become Californians--like you."
"That's what Benito says," returned his sister. "He's daft about San Francisco. He calls it his Golden City. I think"--she leaned nearer, "but you must not say I told you--I think he has written poetry about it."
"Ah, yes," said Broderick, "he has that strain. And how is Alice?"
"Alice is well," he heard Inez say. Then a great shout from the street silenced their converse. Colonel Bailie Peyton was speaking.