“Who?” asked Roderick vaguely.
“Scotty Meisch, that little tad of a cow-puncher you and poor old Grant Jones took up and made a printer’s devil of. Well, the parson got his hooks in him and tells me he’s turned out to be a first-class organizer—that’s his word. It’s Scotty who goes around, starts each new lib’iy, and sets the machin’ry goin’ smooth an’ proper. It’s a case of a round peg in a round hole, although who the hell would have thought it?”
Roderick was pleased to hear this good news of Scotty Meisch, but, returning to his thoughts about Gail, failed to follow Jim as the latter switched off into another line of “unbosomings.”
He was glad to be alone at last and in the drawing room of the Pullman car which he had reserved by telegraph.
CHAPTER XXXVI—IN THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS
AFTER a tedious and delayed trip of three days and nights Roderick’s train steamed onto the mole at Oakland. During the last night he had refused to have the berth in his drawing room made down, and had lounged and dozed in his seat, occasionally peering out of the car window. The hour was late—almost three o’clock in the morning. The train should have arrived at seven o’clock the evening before.
There was the usual scramble of disembarking, red-capped porters pressing forward to carry hand baggage from the train to the ferryboat.
“Last boat to San Francisco will leave in five minutes,” was shouted from somewhere, and Roderick found himself with his valise in hand being pushed along with the throng of passengers who had just alighted from the train. Once on the ferryboat, he climbed to the upper deck and went well forward for the view. The waters of the bay were illumed with a half-crescent moon. Far across, six miles away, was San Francisco with its innumerable lights along the waterfront and on the slopes of her hills. To the right were Alcatras Island and the lighthouse.