o frankly weary and the young reporter
bored by the unrelieved crudity of it all. A smart equipage, with
champing horses, stood before the entrance. They paused to glance at it.

"Looks like Harry Bear's carriage," Frank commented. "You know the young
society blood who's had so many larks." He turned back. "Wait a minute,
father, I'm going in. If Bear has a party upstairs in those boxes it'll
make good copy."

"It'll make a scandal, you mean," returned Francisco rather crisply.
"You can't print the women's names."

"Bosh!" the younger man retorted pertly. "Everyone's doing this sort of
thing now. Come along, dad. See the fun." He caught his father's arm and
they re-entered, taking the stairs, this time, to the boxes above. From
one came a man's laughing banter. "That's he," Frank whispered, Hastily
he drew his half reluctant father into a vacant box. A waiter brought
them beer, collected half a dollar and inquired if they wanted
"Company." Francisco shook his head.

The man in the adjoining box was drunk, the girl was frightened. Their
voices filtered plainly through the thin partition. He was urging her to
drink and she was protesting. Finally she screamed. Stanley and his son
sprang simultaneously to the rescue. They found a young man in an
evening suit trying to kiss a very pretty girl.

His ears were red where she had boxed them and as he turned a rather
foolish face surprisedly toward the intruders, a scratch showed livid on
one cheek. The girl's hair streamed disheveled by the struggle. She
caught up, hastily, a handsome opera cloak to cover her torn corsage.

"Please," she said, "get me out of here quickly.... I'll pay you well."
Then she flushed as young Stanley stiffened. "I ... I beg your pardon."

He offered her his arm and they passed from the box together. The
befuddled swain, after a dazed interval, attempted to follow, but
Francisco flung him back. He heard the carriage door shut with a snap,
the clatter of iron-shod hoofs. Then he went out to look for Frank, but
did not find him. Evidently he had gone with the lady. Francisco smiled.
It was quite an adventure. Thoughtfully he gazed at the banners flung
across Market street:

"VOTE FOR EUGENE SCHMITZ,

"The Workingman's Friend."

That was Abraham Ruef's adventure. He wondered how each of them would
end.

CHAPTER LXXVI

POLITICS AND ROMANCE

Ruef swept the field with his handsome fiddler. All "South of Market
street" rallied