Mr. Stanford arose, bowing from behind his desk, said:
“Be seated, gentlemen. Excuse my having kept you waiting.” Then seeing that there were but two chairs near by, and only one more at the furthest corner of the room, he added, going to bring the chair: “I thought that there were chairs for you.”
Don Mariano, too, had started for the same chair, now that its existence was discovered, but the Governor got there first, and brought it half way, then the Don took it and occupied it.
When all were seated, Governor Stanford said in his low, agreeable voice, which any one might suppose would indicate a benevolent, kind heart:
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Don Mariano laughed outright. The situation struck him as being eminently ridiculous. Here was this man, who held pitilessly their destiny in his hands—held it with a grip of iron—and not one thought of the distress he caused; he, through his associate, Huntington, was lavishing money in Washington to kill the Texas Pacific, and thus snatch away from them (the three friends) the means of support, absolutely deprive them of the necessaries of life, and he asked them what he could do? and asked it with that deep-toned, rich melody of voice which vibrated softly, as if full of sympathy, that overflowed from a heart filled with philanthrophy, generosity and good will. This was a sad and cruel irony, which to Don Mariano made their position absurd, to the point of being laughable.
“This is like laughing at a funeral,” said Don Mariano, apologetically. “Please pardon me. What made me laugh was that I felt like answering you by saying, ‘Governor, you can do for us all we ask.’ But—but—”
“Say it out. But what?” said the Governor, smiling.
“But will do nothing for us,” finished Mr. Holman.
“That is to say, for San Diego,” added Mr. Mechlin, afraid that it might seem as if they came to ask a personal favor.