At the close there was a little pause, so deep the concentration of their listening, before the concourse broke into applause. Then it was hysteria, pandemonium. Hats flew in the air; whistles, cheers and bravos mingled. The striking of palm against palm was like a great volley. Again and again the preacher rose, bowed, retired. Finally he thanked them, called the meeting closed, and bade them a good afternoon. Only then the crowd began to melt. Fifty thousand people knew their city--and their State no doubt--were safe for anti-slavery.
The concourse broke into applause. Then it was hysteria, pandemonium. Fifty thousand knew their city was safe for Anti-Slavery.
CHAPTER LVII
WATERS PAYS THE PRICE
Months passed to a tune of fifes and drums. Everywhere men were drilling. At more or less regular intervals one saw them marching down Montgomery street, brave in their new uniforms, running a gauntlet of bunting, flags and cheers. Then they passed from one's ken. Each fortnight the San Francisco papers published a column of Deaths and Casualties.
In due time a letter came from Herbert Waters, now a sergeant of his troop. Benito promptly closed his office for the afternoon and ran home with it; he read the missive, while Alice, Robert and Po Lun listened, eager-eyed and silent:
"We have marched over historic ground, the trail of d'Anza, which Benito's forefathers broke in 1774. They say it is the hardest march that volunteer troops ever made and I can well believe it. There are no railroads; it was almost like exploring. Sometimes water holes are ninety miles apart. The desert is so hot that you in temperate San Francisco can't imagine it unless you think of Hell; and in the mountains we found snow up to our waists; were nearly frozen.