t set foot in
San Francisco as an officer of the clipper "Shooting Star." Tiring of
the sea he put his earnings in a draying enterprise. This, for half a
dozen years, had prospered.

Suddenly he cast his business interests to the winds. Became a labor
agitator.

Francisco Stanley, who had sought him, questing for an interview since
morning, cornered him at last in Bob Woodward's What Cheer House at
Sacramento and Leidesdorff streets. It was one of those odd institutions
found only in this vividly bizarre metropolis of the West. For "two
bits" you could get a bed and breakfast at the What Cheer House, both
clean and wholesome enough for the proudest. If you had not the coin, it
made little difference. One room was fitted out as a museum and
contained the many curious articles which had found their way into
Woodward's hands. Another room was the hotel library; the first free
reading room in San Francisco.

At the What Cheer House all kinds of people gathered. Stanley, as he
peeped into the library, noted a judge of the Superior Court poring over
a volume of Dickens. He waved a salute to tousle-haired, eagle-beaked
Sam Clemens, whose Mark Twain articles were beginning to attract
attention from the Eastern publishers. Near him, quietly sedate,
absorbed in Macaulay, was Bret Harte. He had been a Wells-Fargo
messenger, miner, clerk and steam-boat hand, so rumor said, and now he
was writing stories of the West. Stanley would have liked to stop and
chat ... but Kearney must be found and interviewed before The Chronicle
went to press.

Presently a loud, insistent voice attracted his attention. It was
penetrating, violent, denunciatory. Francisco knew that voice. He went
into an outer room where perhaps a dozen rough-clad men were gathered
about a figure of medium height, compactly built, with a broad head,
shifting blue eyes and a dynamic, nervous manner.

"Don't forget," he pounded fist on palm for emphasis, "on August 18 we
organize the party. Johnny Day will be the prisident. We'll make thim
bloody plutocrats take notice." He paused, catching sight of Stanley.
Instantly his frowning face became all smiles. "Ah, here's me young
friend, the reporter," he said. "Come along Misther Stanley, and I'll
give yez a yarn for the paper. Lave me tell ye of the Workingmen's Trade
and Labor Union."

He kept Francisco's pencil busy.

"There ain't no strings on us. We're free from all political
connections. We're for oursilves. Get