GIFT OF 
 
 of /m 
 
SPRING STREET 
 
SPRING STREET 
 
 A STORY OF LOS ANGELES 
 
 JAMES H. RICHARDSON 
 
 Published by the Author by Special Permission of 
 
 LOS ANGELES EVENING HERALD 
 
 In Which the Story First Appeared 
 in Serial Form 
 
 TIMES -MIRROR PRESS 
 
 Los Angeles, Calif. 
 
 1922 
 

 COPYRIGHT, 1922 
 
 BY 
 
 EVENING HERALD PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Class or- 1887 
 
Dedicated to 
 MY WIFE 
 
 Who has "watched for my unworthy sake. 
 
 r 
 
 89 4 u 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 One day the editor stopped beside my desk 
 and told me he wanted me to write a novel 
 about Los Angeles to appear in serial form. 
 Seven weeks later "Spring Street" was on his 
 desk. I was assigned to write it as I would 
 have been assigned as a reporter to "cover" a 
 big story. 
 
 Writing a novel to appear as a serial in a 
 newspaper is vastly different from writing one 
 for publication in book form. "Spring Street" 
 was written primarily as a serial and is offered 
 now as a book in response to requests by friends 
 and from readers of The Evening Herald. 
 
 Let me say that I lay no claim to being a 
 novelist because I wrote "Spring Street." I 
 have sufficient pride in my profession to desire 
 to be known only as a reporter. 
 
 There are many to whom I owe thanks for 
 their help and encouragement. Especially am 
 I indebted to Dr. Frank F. Barham, publisher 
 of The Evening Herald, and Mr. Edwin R. 
 Collins, Mr. John B. T. Campbell and Mr. 
 Wesley M. Barr, its editors. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 TLJIS father was dying. 
 
 John Gallant paced the narrow sun 
 baked lawn between the porch of his home and 
 the street. 
 
 Soon, he knew, the door would open and he 
 would be called inside. That would be the 
 end. A sickening feeling of terror gripped 
 him and his heart pounded in his chest. 
 
 He took a step toward the door, which was 
 really an involuntary movement. No, he 
 couldn t go in there. The doctor was in a chair 
 at the bedside, watching, helpless. He would 
 only look up and say again that there was noth 
 ing to do but wait. 
 
 For a moment he hated that doctor because 
 he sat there without doing a thing. His brain, 
 inflamed and racked by the strain, throbbed in 
 his head. He had a distorted idea that the 
 doctor was making a coldly scientific observa 
 tion of his father s death, perhaps taking men 
 tal notes for a paper to be read to a class of 
 medical students. 
 
 He had tried waiting inside. That Mrs. 
 Sprockett from across the street, who was with 
 his mother, had whispered to him to be brave. 
 His mother sat very still in her rocking chair, 
 
12 SPRING STREET 
 
 her head bowed, her hand pressed to her eyes. 
 He knew she was praying. Unable to hold 
 himself, he had dropped at her feet and buried 
 his head in her lap. He had cried brokenly, 
 his shoulders heaving spasmodically, and he 
 had felt her hand gently touching his head. 
 
 They had not spoken, but the feeling that 
 she was suffering with him had assuaged his 
 agony until that Mrs. Sprockett had touched 
 him on the shoulder and spoken to him. 
 
 "Do be brave, John, you must be a man 
 now," she had said, and he had rushed outside 
 to begin his pacing, back and forth, back and 
 forth. 
 
 He began his walking again, ten steps across 
 and ten steps back. At first he strode furiously, 
 almost running, uttering queer little sounds like 
 a whimpering animal, tears streaming down his 
 cheeks. Now his throat was swollen and dry 
 and his eyes smarted. 
 
 A few doors down the street children shouted 
 at some wild game. Suddenly they stopped 
 and he knew that they had been told to be 
 quiet. He thought he saw their frightened 
 faces as they were told that Mr. Gallant was 
 dying. He remembered how he had been 
 shocked to dumbness years before when some 
 one in the neighborhood had died. 
 
 A boy passed on the sidewalk and looked at 
 him with widened eyes and gaping mouth. He 
 
SPRING STREET 13 
 
 hurried by as though he feared that death 
 might steal out from the Gallant house and 
 take him. 
 
 Somewhere across the street a phonograph 
 started blaring out a jazz piece. Then it 
 stopped as suddenly as the shouts of the chil 
 dren. A lot they cared, he thought. All his 
 father s death meant to them was the irritation 
 of stopping the phonograph. 
 
 The blind on a window of the house next 
 door was pulled to one side, emitting a shaft 
 of light across the path he paced. A head 
 the head of the little girl his father had so 
 often petted as he strode up the walk when he 
 came home from work shut off the light. He 
 heard a scuffle of feet and she was pulled from 
 the window. 
 
 Mrs. Sprockett s husband, in his shirt 
 sleeves, came over and stood on the sidewalk. 
 
 "Is Maude in there with your mother?" he 
 asked. 
 
 John looked at him, without a word. 
 
 "Beg your pardon," said Mrs. Sprockett s 
 husband, backing away. "She didn t say 
 didn t leave any word and the baby and " 
 
 The crying of the Sprockett baby could be 
 heard faintly. 
 
 "I didn t think I I " and Mrs. 
 
 Sprockett s husband turned awkwardly and 
 went back to the house. 
 
14 SPRING STREET 
 
 Everything was quiet, so quiet that it startled 
 him. A mocking bird warbled in a tree by the 
 porch. He remembered his father saying one 
 night that there was no music sweeter than its 
 song. 
 
 Fragments of memory came to him vividly. 
 His father pulling him from under a bed the 
 night he was punished for stealing apples at 
 the corner grocery store. His father reading 
 David Copperfield to him and their mutual re 
 joicing when Betsy Trotwood lectured David s 
 firm stepfather. His father closing his eyes 
 and leaning back and a soft smile on his lips 
 as his mother played "Annie Laurie." 
 
 These thoughts carried him away so that he 
 stopped quickly when they left him. For a 
 moment he could not realize that death was 
 taking his father. He felt he had been out of 
 his head, walking out there, that it was all a 
 horrible nightmare. He almost began to laugh 
 and dash up to the door to find things as they 
 always had been. He staggered back with an 
 impulse to shout in his agony as realization 
 came back to him. 
 
 A wild hope seized him. He had been walk 
 ing there for hours, for days it seemed, and 
 the door had not opened. Perhaps the doctor 
 was wrong, after all. Perhaps his father had 
 rallied strength and would live. His heart 
 beat exultingly. Perhaps 
 
SPRING STREET 15 
 
 And then the door opened. 
 
 ***** 
 
 He knew that his father had left them noth 
 ing but what was in the house. He had not 
 spoken to his mother about it. He had been 
 beside her bed until after dawn when, with a 
 gentle sigh, she had slipped off into a merciful 
 sleep. 
 
 Mrs. Sprockett, who left them only for a 
 few minutes in the morning, he thanked with 
 a guilty feeling of having not appreciated what 
 she had done. The doctor had spoken to him 
 kindly. 
 
 "My boy," he said, "this comes to all of us. 
 Your father passed as gently as he lived. Re 
 member, there s no sorrow nor suffering where 
 he has gone and be good to your mother." 
 
 It was not until after the funeral that John 
 and his mother talked of the life before them. 
 He told her that they would not have to leave 
 their little home, that he would quit school and 
 find work so they could go on together. 
 
 "Dearest, dearest mother, you shall be with 
 me always," he said to her. But she replied: 
 
 "We owe a heavy debt, John, that must be 
 paid at once." 
 
 He saw she was worrying over the expense 
 of his father s funeral. He knew how sensitive 
 she was about debts. 
 
16 SPRING STREET 
 
 U I can get money somewhere, dearest 
 mother," he said. "Don t worry." 
 
 "But where?" 
 
 "Somewhere I ll get it. Please, oh, please 
 don t think about it any more." 
 
 He could tell, however, that she could not 
 put it out- of her mind. There was a look 
 about her eyes that told him it weighed upon 
 her. It disappeared when he held her in his 
 arms and comforted her; she tried bravely to 
 hide it from him, but it was there, in his mind, 
 haunting him. 
 
 He came to his decision about the money 
 for the funeral director quickly. He told her 
 he was going to look for work and went to 
 George Blake at his Spring street gymnasium. 
 Blake, an instructor in boxing, had seen him 
 spar in amateur bouts and had taken him in 
 tow. He boxed because he liked it; never with 
 a thought of ever fighting for money. Only a 
 month before he had refused an offer of a bout 
 at Jack Doyle s Vernon arena. 
 
 "George," he said, "can you get me a bout 
 at Vernon?" 
 
 "What s the big idea?" asked Blake with a 
 smile. 
 
 "I need the money." 
 
 "How soon?" 
 
 "As soon as I can get it." 
 
 "I ll see Wad Wadhams, tonight," Blake 
 
SPRING STREET 17 
 
 said. "If there s a place on the bill I ll get it 
 for you." 
 
 The next day Blake called him to the gym 
 nasium. 
 
 "You ll go on in the preliminaries," he said. 
 "Two hundred if you win, a hundred if you 
 draw and fifty if you lose. How s that?" 
 
 "That means I must win," John said. 
 
 In his pocket as he spoke was the funeral 
 director s bill for $200. 
 
 "You d better get to work right now, then," 
 cautioned Blake. "You re matched with a 
 tough boy, but if you re in any sort of shape at 
 all you should come out on top." 
 
 They went to work. As he roughed it with 
 the young fellows Blake sent against him he 
 thought of his mother. Perhaps, after it was 
 all over and their debt had been paid, he would 
 tell her how he got the money. He couldn t 
 tell her now. She had even tried to persuade 
 him to stop boxing for exercise and if she 
 thought for a moment that he had arranged 
 to fight for money 
 
 A fist thudded against his jaw. Absorbed in 
 his thoughts he had left an opening and the 
 boy in the ring with him was quick to take 
 advantage of it. Instinctively he "covered," 
 bending over with his arms wrapped around 
 his head and body for protection until his brain 
 cleared. 
 
18 SPRING STREET 
 
 Then, savagely, he tore into the boy before 
 him, jabbing him swiftly with his left glove and 
 suddenly sending over his right with a snap. 
 The boy sank to the floor. 
 
 "That s enough, Gallant," admonished 
 Blake. "Take it easy." 
 
 He lifted the boy to his feet. 
 
 As he pounded at the punching bag a few 
 minutes later he promised himself that this 
 would be his one and only fight in a ring, for 
 his mother s sake. 
 
 That night, when he left for Vernon, he told 
 her his first deliberate lie. 
 
 ***** 
 
 He was in his corner. A scrawny youth 
 with a twisted nose, a jersey sweater and a 
 husky voice was tying on his gloves. 
 
 "Wot s your name, kid?" 
 
 The announcer was bending over him. 
 
 "Gallant," he answered, after hesitating. 
 The announcer turned and crossed to the op 
 posite corner of the ring and John s eyes fol 
 lowed him. He saw his opponent, a thick- 
 shouldered Mexican, with flashing black eyes, 
 gleaming white teeth, a broad, deep chest taper 
 ing to a slender waist. 
 
 The Mexican returned his appraising look, 
 and sneered. 
 
 Arc lamps threw a heated white light down 
 to the canvas floor of the ring. The chatter 
 
SPRING STREET 19 
 
 and rumble of voices came up from the crowd. 
 He looked out past the ropes and saw faces 
 hundreds of them dimly through clouds of 
 tobacco smoke. He could only distinguish 
 those at the ringside. He saw Charlie Chaplin, 
 the famous film comedian, looking at him. 
 There was Jack Dempsey, the world s ring 
 champion, towering up in his seat. There 
 was 
 
 "Come on, kid," the announcer was calling 
 to him from the center of the ring. 
 
 John dropped his bathrobe from his shoul 
 ders and went forward. 
 
 "On my right the Gallant kid," shouted 
 the announcer, pausing for the laugh that came 
 up from the crowd. 
 
 "The what?" a voice asked. 
 
 "The Gallant kid, he calls himself," shouted 
 back the announcer. "On my left Battling 
 Rodriguez. One hundred and thirty-five 
 pounds." 
 
 John went back to his corner. He rested his 
 gloved hands on the ropes and scraped the 
 soles of his shoes into a box of rosin shoved 
 beneath his feet by the twisted nose youth, who 
 had a towel thrown over his shoulder and a 
 pail of water near him. 
 
 Blake pulled himself up beside him. 
 
 "Remember, John, keep cool and keep jab 
 bing that left in his face," he said. 
 
20 SPRING STREET 
 
 John looked out at the crowd. A thought 
 of his mother flashed into his head and he 
 seemed to see her face in the blue haze of 
 smoke. 
 
 "He ll try rushing you he thinks he s an 
 other Joe Rivers," said Blake. "Wait for a 
 chance to soak him." 
 
 The gong sounded and, whirling around, he 
 went to the center of the ring. The Battler 
 came dancing out to meet him. They touched 
 gloves for a handshake and each took a step 
 back. The Battler moved his gloves in quick 
 little circles and the noise from the crowd 
 stopped. John forgot everything else, the 
 fight was on. 
 
 The Battler feinted, swaying his body from 
 side to side, and came at him. He shot out his 
 left hand, jabbing at the swarthy face of the 
 Mexican. His fist struck only the air and the 
 Battler, his lips drawn back, his eyes blazing, 
 crashed into him. 
 
 A fist pounded into his stomach and another 
 ripped into his face. He heard a wild shout 
 from the crowd and the Mexican jumped back, 
 smiling. A trickle of blood dropped to his 
 cheek from a cut over his eye. He heard the 
 Battler s seconds shout to their man to "tear 
 into" him. He watched, his left extended, his 
 right close to his body. 
 
 The Battler rushed again, swaying from the 
 
SPRING STREET 21 
 
 hips. John s left fist found its mark. He 
 jabbed once, twice, three times and lashed 
 out with his right. The blow glanced off the 
 Mexican s shoulders and they clinched. He 
 felt the Battler s strength in that clinch and he 
 realized it was more than his. The referee 
 called "Break!" and they pushed away from 
 each other. 
 
 He must keep his head. The Mexican was 
 fast; he pounced like a panther. Blake s warn 
 ing came back to him "keep cool and wait." 
 That was it, wait, wait for a chance to land a 
 blow that would end the fight. 
 
 He shot out his left again as the Battler 
 came at him. It missed and the strength he 
 put behind it carried his head forward. Like 
 a flash the Mexican s right crashed to his jaw. 
 John stumbled to his knees. The referee was 
 over him. 
 
 "One two three four five 
 six " 
 
 He felt his head slowly clearing. What a 
 punch that Mexican had! He must get to his 
 feet and cover. 
 
 "Seven eight " 
 
 He found strength to jump up. He saw 
 nothing before him. He heard shouting, miles 
 away, it seemed. His arms were heavy when 
 he lifted them to his head. He tried to set 
 
22 SPRING STREET 
 
 himself. His body reeled as the Battler 
 pounded him, his head, his face, his back. 
 
 Back across the ring he staggered until he 
 went down again. 
 
 "One two three four " the referee s 
 arm waved up and down in front of his face. 
 His arms, holding up his body from the floor, 
 began to sag. Blood poured from the cut over 
 his eye. Faintly he saw the sturdy brown legs 
 of the Mexican dancing before him. 
 
 "Five six seven " 
 
 He pushed himself up to his knees. 
 
 "Eight nine " 
 
 He got to his feet, his arms hanging loose 
 at his sides. The Battler swung forward on his 
 toes for another rush. He tried to lift his 
 hands. They were like dead things. He tried 
 to run out of the way of that tornado of blows 
 and he tottered back against the ropes. 
 
 The gong rang and saved him. 
 
 He sank into the canvas camp-chair that was 
 pushed under him in his corner and gulped at 
 the wind fanned into his heaving lungs by the 
 towel flapped up and down by the twisted-nose 
 second. A sharp pain as the cut over his eye 
 was burned with caustic brightened his brain. 
 
 "Has he had enough?" he heard the referee 
 ask Blake, who was behind him. 
 
 "No, give me a chance," he gasped. 
 
 "Let him try another one," Blake said. 
 
SPRING STREET 23 
 
 The pounding of his heart slowed and his 
 head cleared so that he could make out the 
 figure of the Battler leaning back in his chair, 
 his arms spread along the ropes, smiling. 
 
 A second massaged his arms and he felt life 
 coming back into them. Blake whispered in 
 his ear : 
 
 "One punch will end that Mex. boy; try to 
 land it this time." 
 
 John nodded. He must land it. He MUST 
 WIN. For the first time since the fight started 
 he thought of why he was there. If he could 
 only rest here a minute more just until his 
 head cleared a little the gong rang. 
 
 He rushed and saw a look of surprise cross 
 the Battler s face as he dodged to one side. He 
 hooked at the black, shaggy head with his left 
 and felt his fist crack against the Battler s 
 ear. He swung his right with all the strength 
 he had in him and grunted as he felt it sink 
 into the Battler s stomach. He stepped back. 
 He heard shouting. He saw the Mexican 
 double over and cover his head with his arms. 
 
 "Atta boy!" someone in the crowd yelled. 
 
 The Battler uncovered slowly. He went in 
 again, jabbing with his left. It struck the Bat 
 tler s thick arms wrapped around his head. 
 With a spring like a cat the Mexican was on 
 him. He shot up his right and it pounded into 
 the Battler s ribs. He tried to wrestle himself 
 
24 SPRING STREET 
 
 out of the clinch into which the Mexican had 
 thrown himself. 
 
 The referee tore them apart. 
 
 "None of that," he said to the Battler. 
 "Stop holding in the clinches." 
 
 The end came a minute later. They were 
 roughing it in the center of the ring and the 
 crowd was on its feet, howling. The Battler 
 swayed far to the right, the glove of his right 
 hand almost touching the floor. John brought 
 his guard down, fearful that the punch the 
 Mexican was swinging was aimed for his body. 
 He started a counter-blow with his right and 
 the Battler s fist rose high and crashed against 
 his jaw. 
 
 A white flash blinded him as he dropped. 
 He was down for the count of eight. He was 
 "out on his feet" when he struggled up again. 
 He smiled feebly and pawed in front of him 
 with his left. The Battler brushed it aside and 
 as John fell forward in a last desperate effort 
 to clinch, his right went over. The smack of 
 the Mexican s fist as it landed the knockout 
 punch sounded like the slap of a paddle on 
 water. 
 
 "Eight nine you re out!" 
 
 They carried him to his corner, the Battler 
 on one side, the referee on the other. As 
 through a fog he saw the Mexican dance back 
 to his corner to be received joyously by his 
 
SPRING STREET 25 
 
 seconds. He saw Jack Dempsey looking up 
 at him, nodding his head and smiling. He saw 
 a terribly anxious look on a pale, strained face 
 he slowly recognized as that of Charlie Chap 
 lin. 
 
 He closed his eyes. If they would only let 
 him alone and stop throwing water on him. 
 He could not see out of one of his eyes. They 
 tore the gloves from his hands and the sharp 
 odor of smelling salts bit into his nostrils. His 
 head ached, his lungs burned. 
 
 "Come on, kid, get back to da dressin 
 room," a husky voice said. 
 
 He pulled himself to his feet. He was 
 whipped. His only chance to get money to 
 pay for his father s funeral was gone. So 
 weak that his body shook and his legs trem 
 bled, hysterical tears sprang to his eyes and he 
 sobbed gasping sobs that choked him. 
 
 The hot tears smarted like salt in the cuts 
 on his cheek as he stumbled up the aisle toward 
 the dressing rooms. 
 
 Someone came running up behind him. A 
 hand grasped his arm and he heard a voice 
 say: 
 
 "Just a minute, my boy, I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 TJTE LOOKED up into the whimsically comic 
 A A face of Charlie Murray, famous in film 
 farces with funny features and gruff ways, 
 but a heart as soft as a mother s. With no 
 idea to whom he was speaking, John Gallant 
 blurted : 
 
 "Please, not now I can t." 
 
 "Just a word with you, son; come along, let s 
 get back to your dressing room," said the other 
 without taking his arm from his shoulder. 
 
 As they left the arena they heard the gong 
 sound for the opening round of another bout. 
 It brought back to John the bitterness of his 
 loss in defeat and his chagrin. He had made 
 a mess of things. How could he go back to 
 his mother with his face battered and swollen 
 and without the $200 he had expected to take 
 to her to pay for his father s funeral? 
 
 He flung himself on a bench in his dressing 
 room and buried his face in his hands. He sat 
 for a time until he had choked back his hys 
 terical crying and when he looked up he saw 
 the stranger who had stopped him in the aisle 
 gazing at him intently. He saw something in 
 the mild blue eyes of this man that overcame 
 the momentary feeling of shame he felt for 
 
SPRING STREET 27 
 
 having given way to his bitterness and despair. 
 
 "What s your trouble, son?" the stranger 
 asked. 
 
 He sat silent. 
 
 "Out with it, son, something s wrong some 
 where and I may be able to help you." 
 
 "Who are you?" John asked. 
 
 "I m Charlie Murray if that means any 
 thing to you. And, believe me, son, I know 
 that something beside the licking you got out 
 there is worrying you. That s why I followed 
 you here. Let s have it; come on, tell me what s 
 wrong. It ll make you feel better." 
 
 Before he really knew it, John was telling 
 him his story. 
 
 "That s the reason I made a fool of my 
 self," he said. "I couldn t help crying like 
 that. I guess I was too far gone. I don t 
 know what to do now. It will break my moth 
 er s heart when she sees me in this condition. 
 It would have helped if I could have handed 
 her enough to pay the funeral expenses. 
 
 "I don t know why I ve told you all this. 
 Making more of a fool of myself, I suppose." 
 
 Murray listened to it all, silently. Then 
 he rose and went to the door. 
 
 "Oh, Murphy," he called, putting his head 
 out the dressing room door. 
 
 The youth with the twisted nose whom 
 
28 SPRING STREET 
 
 John remembered as his second answered 
 Murray s call. 
 
 "Fix this boy up, Murphy," said Murray. 
 "Patch up his face the best you can and keep 
 him here until I get back. Understand, keep 
 him here until I get back. Don t let him out 
 of your sight." 
 
 "I heardja, boss, I heardja," said Murphy. 
 
 And Murray hurried out, leaving John 
 wondering, in Murphy s hands. 
 ***** 
 
 It was just before the main event that Mur 
 ray came down the aisle and climbed into the 
 ring, brushing the referee announcer, seconds 
 and others into the corners. He stood in the 
 center of the ring and held up his hand for 
 silence. The crowd quieted. 
 
 "What is it, Charlie?" someone shouted. 
 
 "It s this, boys," he said. "I ve just had a 
 talk with the Gallant kid, who was knocked 
 kicking a few minutes ago by Battling Rod 
 riguez. You saw the fight he put up and you 
 know it s only a good, game kid that can fight 
 like that. 
 
 "I don t know how many of you saw it, but 
 the Gallant kid that s his real name, John 
 Gallant was crying when he went out of this 
 ring and he wasn t bawling because he got 
 licked, either. 
 
 "I ll tell you what he told me back there 
 
SPRING STREET 29 
 
 in the dressing rooms. Do you know why he 
 was here fighting, tonight? He was here to 
 get enough money to pay for his father s fu 
 neral. He had to have the money given to 
 the winner and he lost. He didn t tell his 
 poor little mother he was coming out here. 
 He wanted to surprise her. 
 
 "Now, boys, the only surprise he ll take 
 home to her is a battered face unless you want 
 to surprise him with " 
 
 A silver dollar spun through the smoke- 
 filled air and hit the canvas at Murray s feet. 
 That started it. For a full two minutes the 
 air was thick with flying coins. They clinked 
 and rolled around in the ring. Bills weighted 
 with coins caromed along the canvas floor. 
 
 Murray and a few others collected the money 
 and counted it, standing in the ring. 
 
 "Is it enough?" asked a voice from the 
 crowd. 
 
 Murray looked up with a broad smile. His 
 hat, held in his hands, was brimming with 
 the money picked from the floor of the ring. 
 
 "Five hundred and fifty-six dollars and 
 sixty cents," he said. 
 
 "Where s the kid?" someone demanded. 
 
 "That s the idea, show us the kid," shouted 
 the crowd. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 When John was brought back into the ring, 
 
30 SPRING STREET 
 
 embarrassed, awkward, trying to smile through 
 his swollen lips, the "house" was quiet. Mur 
 phy pushed him to the center, where Murray 
 was waiting for him. 
 
 "That s for you, Mr. Gallant, with the com 
 pliments of the boys out here who know a good, 
 game kid when they see one and whose hearts 
 are always in the right place," he said, hand 
 ing him the hat full of money. 
 
 He felt the tears coming back in his eyes. 
 
 "I don t I can t " he said hoarsely. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you can," interrupted Murray. 
 "You take it and forget about it." 
 
 The crowd cheered. A thick-shouldered 
 individual pushed himself through the ropes 
 into the ring. 
 
 "For the keed, Meester Murray," said the 
 newcomer, handing him a $20 bill. "Hee s a 
 gude keed, maybe I help." 
 
 It was Battling Rodriguez. He crossed 
 over and taking John s hand grinned out at 
 the crowd. 
 
 John felt the tears coming again and was 
 thankful when Murray led him to a corner and 
 helped him down out of the ring. 
 
 "One of the newspaper men wants to speak 
 to you," he said. "Here s your man, Morton." 
 
 He shook hands with the newspaper man. 
 
 "You re not a fighter by profession, though 
 
SPRING STREET 31 
 
 you re game enough to be a champion. How 
 are you fixed for a job?" asked Morton. 
 
 "I need one," John replied. 
 
 "Tell you what you do, then," said the other, 
 who seemed to take John s answer for granted. 
 "You come down and see me tomorrow and 
 I ll see if I can t find something for you to do. 
 How would you like to get into newspaper 
 work?" 
 
 How would he like it? John felt that 
 nothing in the world would he like better. 
 
 "Tomorrow, then, ask for me," said Mor 
 ton, turning to watch the two boxers who en 
 tered the ring to fight the main event. 
 
 As he went up the aisle men reached out 
 and shook hands with him. Some of them 
 dropped money into the hat brimming with 
 bills and coins that he still held in his hand. 
 He filled his pockets with the money and 
 handed the hat to Murphy to be returned to 
 that prince of men, Charlie Murray. 
 ***** 
 
 With the money given him by the crowd, 
 the $20 bill Battling Rodriguez added to it and 
 the $50 he received as the loser s end of the 
 purse in his bout, he had more than $625 as 
 he boarded the car from Vernon to the city 
 to return home. His happiness was dimmed, 
 however, by the thought of facing his mother, 
 who, he knew, would be waiting up for him. 
 
32 SPRING STREET 
 
 When he transferred at Seventh and Spring 
 streets and boarded another car a woman 
 gasped at the sight of his face. Murphy had 
 used every trick known to a professional second 
 to doctor his battered features, but nothing 
 could hide the swollen lips, the cut over his eye 
 and the eye that was puffed so that there was 
 only a thin slit between the lids to see through. 
 
 He decided that it would be easier upon 
 his mother for him to tell her everything. 
 Then it would be over and done with. She 
 would not worry then as she would if he told 
 her some impossible story. 
 
 She was in her chair in the living room when 
 he returned home. He threw himself at her 
 feet. 
 
 "Mother," he said, "please." 
 
 "My boy," she said, waiting for him to lift 
 his face from her lap. 
 
 He felt he could not raise his head. They 
 sat silent for a while and then she put her 
 hands on each side of his head and lifted his 
 face to hers. He shut his eyes. He could 
 not stand to see her look as she saw his con 
 dition. 
 
 He waited, his battered face upturned. It 
 seemed hours that she held his face, without a 
 word. Then she leaned forward and her lips 
 touched his forehead gently in a kiss. 
 
SPRING STREET 33 
 
 "My boy," she said and her arms went 
 around his neck. 
 
 They rose at last and she bathed his wounds, 
 smiling through her tears. When he kissed 
 her goodnight she whispered again, "My boy." 
 He knew he was forgiven and he went to his 
 room thinking of the adventure waiting for 
 him in the morning when he would meet Mor 
 ton and begin work in a newspaper office. 
 ***** 
 
 He was bewildered when he entered the edi 
 torial department of the afternoon newspaper 
 of which Morton was sporting editor. Never 
 had he seen such a busy place. 
 
 Telegraph instruments and typewriters 
 clicked and clattered incessantly. Although it 
 was broad day outside, electric lights burned 
 brightly over desks. The floor was covered 
 with discarded newspapers and scraps and balls 
 of copy paper. 
 
 Men and boys hurried from desk to desk, 
 back and forth, in and out of swinging doors. 
 As he watched them, wondering if they really 
 knew what they were doing themselves, they 
 reminded him of ants around an ant hill. He 
 was thrilled by the life and energy of the 
 place, the speed and earnestness of the work 
 ers. 
 
 At a flat-topped desk over which was a sign 
 with the words "City Editor" sat a fat, bald- 
 
34 SPRING STREET 
 
 headed man wearing a green eye-shade, who 
 spoke over his shoulder to a younger man at 
 another desk close to his. This younger man 
 wore a telephone headgear, receivers over both 
 ears, and punched at the typewriter before him 
 with the first finger of each hand. John saw 
 he was writing what someone was dictating to 
 him oVer the telephone. 
 
 "T, like in Thomas; I like in Isaac; P like 
 in Peter," the man with the headgear shouted 
 into the mouthpiece of an extension close to 
 his face. 
 
 John tried to fathom what the man with the 
 headgear was talking about and it finally 
 dawned on him that he was making certain of 
 the spelling of the word "tip," dictated to him, 
 by repeating the letters as they appeared in 
 other words. 
 
 He caught sight of Morton at a desk on the 
 far side of the big, high-ceilinged room and 
 crossed over, weaving his way through a laby 
 rinth of desks, chairs and tables. Morton, 
 who had been glancing over a newspaper, 
 looked up as he approached. 
 
 "Well, if it isn t the Gallant kid!" he ex- 
 claimed. "I d almost forgotten all about you. 
 Sit down." 
 
 John sat down while Morton questioned 
 him. No, he had never done any writing ex 
 cept a little for his school paper. Yes, he d 
 
SPRING STREET 35 
 
 like to start in as a reporter. It didn t make 
 much difference how much he was paid as long 
 as he could get started. 
 
 "All right, then," said Morton, rising. 
 "We ll go over and see P. Q., but don t you 
 ever blame him for getting you started in this 
 game." 
 
 The sporting editor led him to the fat, bald- 
 headed man with the green eye-shade. 
 
 "P. Q.," he said. 
 
 The city editor looked up. 
 
 "Here s the young fellow I was telling you 
 about this morning; name s John Gallant." 
 
 "P. Q." John afterward learned that those 
 were his initials, uniquely symbolical of his 
 perpetual order to reporters to be "pretty 
 quick" in their work looked at the marks 
 on John s face left by the fists of Battling 
 Rodriguez. 
 
 "Fighting face, all right," he said. "Well, 
 suppose you go to work." 
 
 He reached back to his desk and brought up 
 a handful of clippings from a newspaper from 
 which he selected a few short ones. 
 
 "Grab a typewriter and rewrite these," he 
 said, handing the clippings to John. "Keep 
 em short. Twenty-five words each. Remem 
 ber that always. Keep everything short. 
 Keep your eyes and ears open and read the 
 papers. Read everything in them. Now get 
 
36 SPRING STREET 
 
 over there and start writing and I ll call you 
 when I need you." 
 
 John knew that as long as he lived he would 
 never forget that first day in newspaper work. 
 He rewrote the clippings carefully, counting 
 the words to make certain that they did not 
 exceed the twenty-five ordered by P. Q. He 
 had done some typewriting at school and prac 
 ticed more by filling page after page of copy 
 paper with the old favorite beginner s sentence, 
 "Now is the time for all good men to come to 
 the aid of the party," and its twin, "The quick, 
 brown fox jumped over the lazy dog." 
 
 He watched in open-mouthed wonder at the 
 speed with which the other reporters he 
 counted himself one of them wrote their 
 stories. He learned that everything written 
 for a newspaper is a "story," everything from 
 a three-line item about a meeting of the Colo 
 rado State society to a banner-line murder. 
 
 He was fascinated by a reporter whom P. Q. 
 called Brennan and who worked at a type 
 writer close to where he was sitting. Brennan, 
 thin-faced, about thirty, John judged, turned 
 out page after page of typewritten copy, stop 
 ping at the completion of each page to throw 
 back his head and shout : "Boy ! Oh, BOY !" 
 at the ceiling. In response to this call a copy 
 boy appeared and carried the page to P. Q. 
 As he worked he smoked cigarettes, lighting 
 
SPRING STREET 37 
 
 each fresh one from the stub of the one that 
 preceded it. These cigarettes he carefully stood 
 on end on the desk as his fingers pounded at 
 the typewriter. 
 
 When he took a deep inhalation of tobacco 
 smoke during his writing Brennan paused and 
 gazed, dreamy-eyed, out into space. Then sud 
 denly, he stood his cigarette on end again and 
 attacked the typewriter keys furiously. John 
 noticed that Brennan, like the man with the 
 headgear, used only one finger of each hand in 
 typewriting. 
 
 Along in the afternoon, when he had stopped 
 hammering at his machine, he turned to find 
 John staring at him. Stretching out his arms, 
 yawning, he asked: 
 
 "Newman?" 
 
 John said he was. 
 
 "First time?" 
 
 John said it was. 
 
 From Brennan, John learned many things. 
 He learned that P. Q. had an unswerving preju 
 dice against reporters who used the touch 
 system in typewriting. 
 
 "He says they use a typewriter like it was 
 a piano and get into the habit of not looking 
 at what they are writing," Brennan explained. 
 "He says the touch system has ruined more re 
 porters than shorthand." 
 
38 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Why shorthand?" asked John. "I thought 
 
 ) > 
 
 "I know, you thought every good reporter 
 should write shorthand," said Brennan. "Well, 
 that s one thing P. Q. and I agree on. I ve 
 seen a lot of them in my time and I ve never 
 seen a reporter who wrote shorthand who was 
 a real star man. Writing shorthand kills your 
 imagination. All you write is what other 
 people tell you and exactly as they said it. 
 Somehow, a shorthand man doesn t get pep 
 into his stuff, take it from me." 
 
 John thought he understood. 
 
 "You work hard and long in this game and 
 it makes an old man of you before your time," 
 Brennan continued. "But it s a great game. 
 Once it gets into your blood you re a newspaper 
 man for life. 
 
 "Generally speaking, there are two kinds 
 of reporters. One is the kind with a nose for 
 news and without any particular ability to write. 
 The other is the kind that can write without 
 being able to get the news for themselves. 
 When you get the two in one, a man who can 
 write and get the news himself, you ve got a 
 star, but they are few and far between. 
 
 "P. Q. says once in a while that I can write 
 and I think I m a demon news-getter and there 
 you are that s me. 
 
 "Let me tell you how it is about writing a 
 
SPRING STREET 39 
 
 story. Suppose Mary Jones, aged 18, of 1559 
 Fifty-Ump street, shop girl, kills herself and 
 leaves a note saying she did it because the man 
 she loved threw her over. It s no story to 
 write it that Mary Jones, 18 years old, a shop 
 girl, who resided at 1559 Fifty-Ump street, 
 ended her life today because of an unhappy 
 affair with an unnamed man. 
 
 "Plain Mary Jones isn t the story. Prob 
 ably only fifty people in the city know her. 
 What do the others care? Not much. This 
 is your story An 18-year-old girl who 
 dreamed of a Prince Charming to come and 
 carry her away from a monotonous life behind 
 a store counter and a dreary third-floor-back 
 room, took her life in Los Angeles today. 
 
 "Get the idea? Mary Jones isn t the story. 
 What she did, how she lived, what made her 
 do it, that s what the story is. That brings 
 a throb of sympathy, a tear perhaps, for her 
 from someone who never heard of her and it 
 helps to make better folks and a better world." 
 
 Brennan s way of talking entranced John. 
 He realized there was more in reporting than 
 he had ever imagined. P. Q. seemed to have 
 forgotten him completely during the next few 
 days. In the mornings he was given a few 
 short clippings to rewrite and that was all. 
 
 "Don t worry, he s got an eye on you," Bren- 
 nan told him. "And let me tell you something. 
 
40 SPRING STREET 
 
 Perhaps you ve read stories about the cub re 
 porter scooping the town, landing the big ex 
 clusive story and all that. Well, that s bunk. 
 No cub reporter ever did it, not unless he was 
 working against a bunch of other cubs. Why, 
 he s lucky if he knows what to do with a big 
 story when he s got one, let alone put it over 
 on the star men of the other sheets." 
 
 A really first-class newspaper man, Brennan 
 told him, was born and not made. 
 
 "You can make them up to a certain point, 
 but no further," he said. "And take it from 
 me, the ones that are born newspaper men aren t 
 born every minute for Mr. Barnum or anyone 
 else to get." 
 
 It was at noon of the third day he had been 
 at work when John was given his first assign 
 ment. He saw P. Q. rise from his chair and 
 look over the reporters at their desks and he 
 heard him call his name. 
 
 "Here, Gallant, I want you to do something," 
 the city editor said. "Lawn fete charity stuff 
 out at palatial home of the Barton Ran 
 dolphs. Society affair. Must have repre 
 sentative there. No story. Society editor 
 takes care of that. Just get list of names and 
 how much money they take in. Here s admis 
 sion card. Beat it." 
 
 John was disappointed. He had hoped for 
 something with a touch of adventure. Not 
 
SPRING STREET 41 
 
 until he left the office did he fully realize where 
 he was going. Society lawn fete ! He looked 
 down at his well worn suit and remembered 
 the patch on his trousers beneath his coat tail. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 * I A HE home of the Barton Randolphs, in 
 ^ West Adams street, was one of the old 
 mansions of that exclusive colony toward which 
 the business district of Los Angeles was advanc 
 ing, block by block. Set back from the street, 
 its immaculate lawn dotted with shade-giving 
 sycamore trees, it was reminiscent of one of the 
 "stately homes of England." An iron fence 
 topped with spear heads gave it a finishing 
 touch of haughtiness. 
 
 John liked to think of homes and of trees 
 as people. A stiffly built, sharply roofed house 
 with "gingerbread" trimmings reminded him 
 of a prim old maid. He imagined that he knew 
 what sort of person owned a particular house 
 simply by studying it. Houses, especially old 
 homes, fascinated him and he worshiped trees 
 with the fervor that inspired Joyce Kilmer. 
 
 The Barton Randolph home made John 
 think of a fine old aristocrat, holding aloof 
 from the world, conservative and with a love 
 for old fashions and old friends, a contempt 
 for things that are modern. As he stood at 
 the gate he thought that the mansion was glar 
 ing at him with an upturned nose and this 
 imaginative quirk caused him to hesitate to 
 enter. 
 
SPRING STREET 43 
 
 Before him on the cool green lawn moved 
 groups of men and women, the women in snowy 
 white. At intervals there were tea tables 
 around which were couples, chatting languidly. 
 Servants moved with quiet efficiency from the 
 tables to the house and back again. The shade 
 spread by the sycamore trees was pierced with 
 shafts of sunlight that gave the lawn a mottled 
 look. It seemed a place removed from all the 
 world. 
 
 Once more John looked at his shabby suit, 
 his dusty, worn shoes. Unconsciously he 
 tugged at his coat tail because of an instinctive 
 fear that the patch was showing. An idea of 
 waiting outside until the fete was over came 
 into his head. 
 
 "It can t be any worse than the wallop Bat 
 tling Rodriguez gave me, so here goes," he 
 said, starting up the finely graveled driveway 
 with the same feeling he always had when he 
 dashed down the beach to plunge into the cold 
 waters of the ocean. 
 
 He tramped steadily along until he dis 
 covered that the driveway was circular and that 
 if he kept on he would land out on the street 
 again. Boldly he started across the lawn in the 
 direction of the house. Somewhere on the 
 grounds a stringed orchestra was playing. As 
 he passed the tea tables he heard the clinking of 
 ice in glasses. Looking neither to right nor 
 
44 SPRING STREET 
 
 left he felt that the eyes of everyone he passed 
 were upon him. He tugged again at his coat 
 tail. 
 
 He saw a servant stop and wait for him and 
 he marched straight toward him. 
 
 "Tradesman?" asked the servant. 
 
 "Reporter," he said, looking straight into 
 the other s eyes somewhat defiantly. 
 
 "Whom do you wish to see?" 
 
 "Mrs. Barton Randolph." 
 
 "This way, please." 
 
 He followed, past more tables, past more 
 eyes. He watched while the servant ap 
 proached the woman he knew to be Mrs. Bar 
 ton Randolph, who excused herself from the 
 group around her. The servant returned. 
 
 "You were sent here from your office?" he 
 asked. 
 
 John produced the admission card given him 
 by his city editor. 
 
 "Very well. Mrs. Randolph instructs me to 
 tell you that any information you desire may 
 be obtained from her secretary in half an hour. 
 In the meanwhile you are to consider yourself 
 as one of the guests." 
 
 He was not long in reaching the gravel 
 driveway again and he was headed for the 
 street, determined to wait there for the thirty 
 minutes, when he noticed that to his left only 
 a few of the tables were occupied. At one of 
 
SPRING STREET 45 
 
 these he could wait in the shade. Besides, he 
 had a feeling that he was little more than a 
 coward if he went outside. 
 
 Far back from the driveway, in fact at the 
 table farthest from the drive, he seated him 
 self with a sigh of relief. For a while he be 
 lieved himself well alone, before he discovered 
 that directly facing him sat another man, a man 
 lounging in a wicker garden chair, alone, idly 
 smoking a cigarette and gazing at him some 
 what intently. Instantly John disliked this man, 
 for two reasons : he was too immaculately 
 dressed and his hair was so perfect that it ap 
 peared to have been moulded on his head. 
 
 The man continued to gaze at him, and John, 
 feeling his face grow hot, stared back. 
 
 Then the man flicked the ash from his 
 cigarette, turned lazily in his chair and raised 
 his hand as a signal to a servant who was hover 
 ing over a table and who hurried to him in re 
 sponse. He spoke to the servant and inclined 
 his head slightly in John s direction. The ser 
 vant bowed and came toward John s table. 
 
 "If you re not a guest here, sir, you will 
 kindly leave the grounds," he said. 
 
 John felt his blood gush through his veins. 
 He saw the man in the wicker chair smile mildly 
 and look up into the branches of the tree over 
 head. He overcame a wild impulse to step 
 over and ruin the perfect hair. 
 
46 SPRING STREET 
 
 "But it happens I am a guest," he said, as 
 clearly as his choked back temper permitted. 
 
 "You are, sir!" the servant pretended aston 
 ished humiliation. "Would you be so good as 
 to say by whose invitation?" 
 
 Then it happened. John afterwards was 
 never quite sure what would have taken place 
 there had it not occurred. 
 
 To John she seemed to have blossomed up 
 out of the ground before them. He never saw 
 anyone who looked more like a flower, a deli 
 cate, beautiful flower. She was in white, a 
 quaint frock with ridiculously tiny puffed sleeves 
 reaching only halfway to her elbows, gathered 
 in with a narrow black ribbon. Something 
 about her, the way she looked, the dress, the 
 whole expression of her face, sent the thought 
 "an old-fashioned girl" coursing through John s 
 brain. 
 
 The servant stepped back. 
 
 "Do you happen to be the newspaper re 
 porter ?" she said. 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 "Then I am so glad to have found you. 
 Mrs. Randolph felt she was rather abrupt when 
 you asked to see her and when she noticed you 
 walking rapidly away she feared you were 
 offended. I volunteered to find you." She was 
 in the chair beside him. 
 
SPRING STREET 47 
 
 "You are very kind and I am very happy," 
 he managed to say. "I wasn t offended. I was 
 embarrassed and frightened." 
 
 "By what?" 
 
 "By all this. The servant asked me if I 
 was a tradesman whatever that is isn t 
 that enough to frighten anyone?" 
 
 "I ve read stories of reporters who never 
 knew fear. And in plays the reporter always 
 does the bravest things." 
 
 "In stones and in plays," he repeated. 
 "This, too, is like a story or a play. Here I 
 am rescued by a heroine who is who is " 
 
 "Who is what?" 
 
 "Beautiful." The word was no sooner 
 spoken than he could have bitten off his tongue. 
 
 He hoped she would laugh it away, but she 
 only looked at him, her lips parted, a hint of 
 incredulousness in her eyes. 
 
 "I m sorry," he said. He was glad now that 
 she had not laughed or taken the word he had 
 spoken lightly. He felt she knew he had not 
 said it in an attempt at silly flirtation. 
 
 "You spoke of being rescued," she said, 
 smiling again. 
 
 "Yes, and the villain is yet in the back 
 ground," he said. "A devilishly handsome 
 villain he is, too." 
 
 She glanced back over her shoulder. The 
 
48 SPRING STREET 
 
 servant had disappeared. The man in the 
 wicker chair was looking at them, a half smile 
 on his lips. 
 
 "Surely," she said, u not Mr. Gibson?" 
 
 "If Mr. Gibson is the gentleman in the chair 
 over there, yes." 
 
 "And why a villain?" 
 
 "Well, he whispered something to the ser 
 vant who was here when you came that caused 
 him to come here and ask me to leave. That 
 was how you rescued me." 
 
 "It is like a book or a play, isn t it?" 
 
 "Only in books and plays dreams come true," 
 he told her. "And villains are vanquished." 
 
 "And what dream do you wish to come 
 true?" 
 
 "A dream a rather silly, hopeless, golden 
 sort of dream a dream of meeting you again." 
 
 Once more he could have bitten off his 
 tongue. Now she would think him a maudlin 
 flirt. He looked to the ground and saw his 
 dusty, worn shoes. He was afraid to hear her 
 speak, afraid to look up. At last he did, expect 
 ing to find her gone. But she was there, looking 
 at him as she had when he told her she was beau 
 tiful, the same hint of incredulousness in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Don t say you re sorry," she said softly. 
 "I d like to think you meant it." 
 
SPRING STREET 49 
 
 They were silent. He saw the man in the 
 wicker chair rise, toss aside his cigarette and 
 come toward them, slowly. They waited, with 
 out speaking, until he reached their table. 
 
 His eyes met Gibson s steadily for two tense 
 seconds. Then he saw Gibson turn from him 
 to the girl as if he was not there. 
 
 "Consuello," Gibson said. 
 
 She rose. 
 
 "Reggie," she said, "a friend, Mr. " 
 
 "John Gallant," John said, slowly. 
 
 "Mr. Gallant, Mr. Gibson," she said. 
 They shook hands. 
 
 "I believe I saw Mr. Gallant several nights 
 ago," Gibson said. 
 
 John waited, wondering how Gibson would 
 say it. 
 
 "He was very busily engaged with another 
 gentleman" he gave a slight emphasis to the 
 "gentleman" "whose name, I believe, was 
 Rodriguez." 
 
 "Really! You have met before?" 
 
 "Come, Consuello," said Gibson, "we must 
 be trotting back to the house. The afternoon 
 will be gone soon." 
 
 She saw the look in John s eyes before she 
 answered: 
 
 "Reggie, you must excuse me. I ll be along 
 shortly with Mr. Gallant" 
 
50 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Very well," Gibson turned leisurely and 
 they watched him walk away. 
 
 He was only slightly incensed by Gibson s 
 deliberate insult in strolling away without ac 
 knowledging, by even so much as a nod of his 
 head, their introduction to each other by Con- 
 suello. He felt a tinge of satisfaction, of even 
 vengeance. 
 
 "You mustn t let me keep you," he said, as he 
 saw she still looked at Gibson s retreating fig 
 ure and that an expression of astonishment was 
 puzzling her face. 
 
 "It was wrong of him I do not understand," 
 she said. She laughed lightly. "But you must 
 not believe him a villain. It was so unlike him. 
 Fm sure he will tell you so himself before you 
 leave." 
 
 The hum of starting motors came to them 
 and through the trees John saw the first of the 
 long line of automobiles go up the driveway 
 toward the house. The fete was ending; the 
 guests were leaving. He remembered why he 
 was there; his appointment to meet Mrs. Ran 
 dolph s secretary. They started across the 
 lawn. 
 
 "Mrs. Randolph will believe I m lost," she 
 said. "I shouldn t be surprised if she has al 
 ready sent someone to look for me." 
 
 "I hope " he began. 
 
SPRING STREET 51 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I hope you do not feel I have been bold," 
 he said. "It was rude and presumptuous for 
 me to say the things I did to you. Please try 
 to understand and forgive me." 
 
 "If I say I believe I understand and that 
 there is nothing to forgive, will you think me 
 vain?" she asked. 
 
 They reached the driveway. Luxurious se 
 dans and limousines with liveried chauffeurs 
 blocked their crossing. She turned to him, her 
 hand extended. 
 
 "Good afternoon," she said. "Sometime, 
 soon perhaps, if you wish, we will meet again; 
 you will hear from me, because because I 
 think you meant it." She added the final words 
 lightly and with a smile. 
 
 "I did," he said. 
 
 She turned to the driveway. An automobile 
 stopped and she crossed over in the gap of the 
 line of motors it made for her. The machine 
 moved forward again, blocking any sight of 
 her as she went on toward the house. 
 
 The list of guests and the amount of money 
 netted by the fete he received from Mrs. Ran 
 dolph s secretary in neatly typewritten lists. 
 The last of the motors were chugging up the 
 driveway as he left. He walked out into the 
 street, toward the car line, bound for his office. 
 
52 SPRING STREET 
 
 As he waited at the corner for his car a low, 
 rakish roadster stopped before him. He heard 
 a creaking of brakes and saw the back wheels 
 of the machine lock as it came to a stop. He 
 looked up. Gibson was at the wheel, Consuello 
 at his side. 
 
 "Mr. Gallant," Gibson called. 
 
 John stepped forward. Gibson leaned to 
 ward him, his hand outstretched. 
 
 "Miss Carrillo has reminded me I made 
 rather a fool of myself back there at the table," 
 he said, smiling. "Perhaps you may understand 
 the position I was in. I offer my apologies." 
 
 John gripped his hand. 
 
 "Thanks," said Gibson. "You understand 
 how it is." 
 
 "Yes," assented John, without really knowing 
 what his answer meant. 
 
 "Sorry there isn t room to give you a lift to 
 town," Gibson said, racing the motor and shift 
 ing the gear. As the machine moved away John 
 saw Consuello smile and there was an echo of 
 gladness in his heart. 
 
 But a disconcerting thought crept into John s 
 mind as he watched Gibson s machine disap 
 pear in the traffic. Had she only been kind to 
 him because of an instinctive sympathy, born of 
 good breeding, for his embarrassment there on 
 the lawn? Was she laughing now with Gibson, 
 
SPRING STREET 53 
 
 telling him of her experience with a flirtatious 
 or sickly sentimental cub reporter? Something 
 in the manner of Gibson as he offered his apol 
 ogy caused this suspicion to spring into his mind 
 against her. 
 
 Yes, that was it. She had only pitied him, 
 his awkwardness, his apparent discomfort, his 
 shabby suit, his worn shoes. She had led him 
 artfully into telling her she was beautiful and 
 that he dreamed he cursed himself as he re 
 membered his words, u a rather silly, hopeless, 
 golden sort of dream," of meeting her again. 
 Meet him again? Why, she would probably 
 forget him tomorrow unless she recalled how 
 he had acted and told it as something to laugh 
 over. 
 
 What a fool, what a weak, mawkish, insipid 
 fool he had made of himself! 
 
 He burned with humiliation. Even if she 
 had been sincere, what would she think of him 
 when Gibson told her of his fight at Vernon 
 with Battling Rodriguez? He could see her, 
 in his imagination, assuring Gibson that had she 
 known he was a prize fighter, a brute who 
 fought with his fists for money, she would 
 never have spoken to him. Of course, Gibson 
 would not tell her why he had fought at Ver 
 non. He felt this instinctively. 
 
 He pictured her and Gibson together at all 
 
54 SPRING STREET 
 
 sorts of places, on a yacht cruising around Cata- 
 lina island, on the links at a country club, 
 a ball at the Ambassador, racing along the coast 
 road to Santa Barbara in Gibson s expensive 
 car, at the opera and supper later. Then 
 thought of the patch on his own trousers. Oh, 
 what a fool he had been ! 
 
 When he returned to the office it was after 
 5 o clock he found it deserted except for 
 Brennan and P. Q. Brennan was squatted on 
 the city editor s desk. P. Q. was leaning back 
 in his swivel chair, his feet perched on the 
 desk before him. 
 
 "Well, son, how did you enjoy your after 
 noon in society?" he asked as John handed in 
 the .typewritten sheets given him by Mrs. Ran 
 dolph s secretary. He glanced at the list of 
 guests. 
 
 "I see Gibson s name here Reginald Gib 
 son did you happen to meet him or see him 
 out there?" 
 
 John was startled. He had heard the re 
 porters tell of P. Q. s superhuman ability of 
 knowing, without being told, what his men did 
 out on assignments. What made him ask if 
 he had met Gibson? 
 
 "Yes I saw I met him," he replied. 
 
 "You did, huh? Well, you must have been 
 mixing in proper. I wish I d known Gibson was 
 
SPRING STREET 55 
 
 out there. Brennan, here, has been trying to 
 find him all afternoon. You don t happen to 
 know where he is now, do you?" 
 
 "I saw him leave." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "No, there was someone with him in his car." 
 
 "Who was it?" Brennan asked. 
 
 "Miss Consuello Carrillo," John answered, 
 puzzled by this cross-examination. 
 
 "Good!" exclaimed Brennan, sliding from 
 his perch on the desk and seizing a telephone 
 book. 
 
 "How did you happen to know who it was 
 with Gibson?" asked P. Q., as Brennan disap 
 peared into a telephone booth. 
 
 "I I met her," John said, his puzzled 
 feeling turning to astonishment. 
 
 "Well, well, you WERE mixing in, weren t 
 you?" P. Q. smiled. "Gibson was appointed 
 police commissioner a few hours ago. He s a 
 good man for you to know, because if we re 
 not mistaken he s going to start something 
 that will keep him on the front page for some 
 time to come." 
 
 Brennan came hustling out of the phone 
 booth. 
 
 "She asked if you were here wants to speak 
 to you," he said. 
 
 "To me? Who?" asked John. 
 
56 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Miss Carrillo. I telephoned her place to 
 try to reach Gibson. She said he had just left 
 and asked me if you had returned yet. Get in 
 there and find out if anyone s got to Gibson yet 
 about his appointment as police commissioner." 
 
 Brennan stuck his head in the booth to listen 
 as John lifted the receiver. 
 
 "Hello," he said. 
 
 "Mr. Gallant?" it was her voice. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You see, he did not forget. I did not ask 
 him to make that apology; I only told him I 
 thought he had been forgetful." 
 
 "Yes," said John, realizing she was refer 
 ring to the apology offered him by Gibson. 
 
 "Now that he is a police commissioner he 
 will need you, as a newspaper man, for a 
 friend." 
 
 "Ask her if he has given any interviews yet," 
 Brennan put in. 
 
 "Has Mr. Gibson made a statement con 
 cerning his appointment?" John asked. 
 
 "No, I don t believe he knows yet that he 
 has been appointed." 
 
 "Where is he now?" prompted Brennan. 
 
 "Do you know where he went when he left 
 your place?" 
 
 "No, I m sorry, I don t. Home, I suppose," 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Carrillo," 
 
SPRING STREET 57 
 
 "Mr. Gallant " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Don t think him a a a villain, will you?" 
 
 "Why should I?" 
 
 "You thought him one at the fete this after 
 noon. I m sure you know now that he is not. 
 And remember, we are to see each other again." 
 
 "Yes, indeed." 
 
 "I won t forget. Good-by." 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 "What did she say?" demanded Brennan. 
 
 "She says Gibson doesn t know yet that he 
 had been appointed commissioner and that she 
 supposes he started for home when he left her 
 place." 
 
 Brennan eyed him shrewdly. 
 
 "You seem to know her rather well," he 
 ventured. 
 
 P. Q. said it was too late to get anything 
 Gibson might say if they located him into the 
 last edition for that day. He instructed Bren 
 nan to see Gibson as early as possible in the 
 morning. 
 
 "And suppose you take Gallant along with 
 you. He seems to have got acquainted with 
 Gibson," he added. 
 
 "And Consuello," appended Brennan. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 story that Gibson gave John and 
 Brennan the following morning carried the 
 big black banner headline in every edition 
 Gibson Plans Cleanup Crusade," "Gibson 
 Charges L. A. Police Graft," "New Commis 
 sioner Wants Police Shakeup." Beside the 
 story, which was written by Brennan, were 
 photographs of Gibson glaring into the camera 
 with an upraised fist. "Action stuff," it was 
 called by P. Q. 
 
 Gibson was in his office in a downtown busi 
 ness block when Brennan and John found him. 
 
 "How are you, Gallant?" he asked, smiling 
 and brisk. "Glad to meet you, Brennan. Step 
 right into my office, boys. I suppose you re 
 after a story. Well, I ll give it to you." 
 
 He handed them each a typewritten state 
 ment. 
 
 "Read that through and if you have any 
 questions I m here to answer them," he said. 
 
 Two pages of the statement contained a hot 
 attack on the police department. He charged 
 that the department was disorganized, honey 
 combed with graft, tolerating and protecting 
 vice conditions, inefficient and negligent. He 
 cited the operations of bunko swindlers, gam- 
 
SPRING STREET 59 
 
 biers and bandits and declared that the city 
 was "wide open." 
 
 u The fair name of Los Angeles is being 
 dragged in the mire by grafting politicians, 
 crooks and police grafters," one sentence of 
 the statement read. 
 
 In another page and a half he pledged him 
 self to a crusade to clean up the city, announcing 
 that he had been assured of the support of the 
 churches and various business organizations as 
 well as, he believed, "every self-respecting and 
 upstanding citizen of the city." 
 
 "I intend to hew to the line, let the chips fall 
 where they may," the statement said. "I m in 
 this fight to the finish. Vice, gambling, ban 
 ditry, lewd women and graft must go. With 
 out having received the slightest intimation that 
 the mayor intended appointing me to the board 
 of police commissioners I have been accumulat 
 ing evidence of conditions in Los Angeles for 
 months. I have enough information now to 
 start firing my guns and I call upon the law- 
 abiding citizens of this great city to stand with 
 me in the fight." 
 
 To the statement was affixed the signature, 
 "Reginald Gibson." 
 
 "I suppose, Mr. Gibson," said Brennan, 
 "that everything you care to say now is included 
 in this statement?" 
 
60 SPRING STREET 
 
 Gibson nodded. 
 
 "There is only one question I wish to ask 
 you." 
 
 "Shoot," acquiesced the new commissioner. 
 
 "Have you any intention of entering the race 
 for mayor at the next election?" 
 
 "None whatever," Gibson hammered his 
 fist down on the table. "I have no political 
 aspirations. I am actuated only by a desire 
 on my part and on the part of other citizens 
 and organizations who realize conditions in 
 Los Angeles to restore this city to its place as 
 the great metropolis of the West." 
 
 "I understand," said Brennan. "I only 
 asked that question in fairness to yourself." 
 
 "I m willing to write out a check right now 
 for $1,000 to be given to charity the minute I 
 announce myself as candidate for mayor or 
 for any other public elective office," Gibson 
 declared. 
 
 "No need, Mr. Commissioner," Brennan 
 said. "We d like you to stand for a photo 
 graph, if you have no strenuous objection." 
 
 Gibson smiled. 
 
 "I suppose I ll have to," he said. "How do 
 you want me?" 
 
 The photographer, called in from another 
 room, set up his camera. 
 
SPRING STREET 61 
 
 "One at your desk first, Mr. Gibson," he 
 said. 
 
 Gibson drew a small pocket mirror and 
 looked into it, smoothing back the hair that 
 had irritated John when they first met because 
 it was so perfect. John saw Brennan wink at 
 him. 
 
 "How s this?" asked Gibson, seating him 
 self at his desk, turning toward the camera in 
 his swivel chair and holding a sheet of letter 
 paper as though he had been disturbed by the 
 photographer in the middle of the reading of 
 an important document. 
 
 "Fine, hold it," said the photographer. The 
 flashlight boomed, sending a puff of white 
 smoke into the air. 
 
 "You had better take another, I blinked my 
 eyes that time," said Gibson. 
 
 "Gotcha before you blinked," the photog 
 rapher explained. "Now one standing if you 
 please, Mr. Gibson. Bend over a little. 
 That s it, clinch your fist and raise it up as 
 though you were going to hit someone. That s 
 it. Fine, thank you." 
 
 The flashlight boomed again, filling the room 
 with smoke. 
 
 "I dislike this business of posing for photo 
 graphs," Gibson said. "I suppose it has to be, 
 though." 
 
62 SPRING STREET 
 
 Brennan tipped another wink to John. This 
 time John winked back. 
 
 On their way back to the office John asked 
 Brennan what he thought of Gibson and his 
 statement. 
 
 "It s a story, a good one," said Brennan. 
 "One of the kind that s always good. Wealthy 
 young reformer wants to clean up town. Out 
 to clean up the police department. It s always 
 gone big since Roosevelt did it in New York. 
 Lot of bromides in the statement hew to the 
 line and let the chips fall where they may, fair 
 name of our great city being dragged in the 
 mire and stuff like that, but it ll get over." 
 
 John was somewhat surprised by Brennan s 
 way of answering. 
 
 "And what about Gibson?" he asked. 
 
 "Gibson may be sincere and he may not. 
 He s either a comer or a sap. If he means 
 what he says and goes through with it, he ll 
 have the whole city behind him. If he s just 
 doing a lot of grandstanding or if he s playing 
 someone s political game, that s another thing. 
 Just remember one thing, we may need it some 
 time ; remember what he said when I asked him 
 if he was out to be mayor!" 
 
 John was unwilling to take the skeptical at 
 titude shown by the older reporter. 
 
 "If he really has no idea of running for 
 
SPRING STREET 63 
 
 mayor, what else could cause him to do what 
 he says he will except a sincere desire to keep 
 things clean and straight?" he asked. 
 
 "Well," said Brennan, "some of them are 
 out for glory and some of them play a deeper 
 game. Sometimes it s a girl." 
 
 John thought of Consuello. 
 
 "Maybe he s in love with fair Consuello," 
 Brennan suggested, smiling. "Wants to do 
 something big and glorious to win her." 
 
 "I m willing to give him a chance," John 
 said. "I can t help but think he s sincere. Let s 
 hope so, anyway." 
 
 "Gallant," said Brennan, after they had 
 walked half a block without speaking. "I d 
 give anything in the world to have your faith 
 in mankind. Try and keep it as long as you 
 can. That s the trouble with most reporters. 
 They see so much of the other side of life that 
 they drop into cynicism and that ruins them. 
 You are ready to believe, I am ready to disbe 
 lieve. Keep on believing, Gallant. If you re 
 deceived once, twice, any number of times, keep 
 on believing." 
 
 John was strangely impressed by these words 
 from Brennan. It was a new light on the 
 character of the most interesting man he had 
 ever met. He wondered if years ahead he 
 
64 SPRING STREET 
 
 would be saying the same thing to some young 
 reporter. 
 
 As P. Q. had predicted, Gibson was in the 
 headlines for the remainder of the week. His 
 announcement of a cleanup crusade although 
 apparently a direct slap at the administration, 
 was followed by a pledge from the mayor to 
 support him. 
 
 "What else could the mayor do?" Bren- 
 nan said to John. "He can t very well sit back 
 while Gibson goes ahead in his campaign to 
 clamp down the lid and clean up the depart 
 ment. He would put himself in a position to 
 be attacked for failure to enforce the law. 
 
 "He can t fire Gibson. That would give 
 Gibson a chance to holler that the mayor was 
 afraid of a graft expose and was hand in hand 
 with crooks. If he comes out and fires him as 
 a misguided sensationalist it would be hard 
 to get that across because of Gibson s holler 
 about graft it s a confession of his own poor 
 judgment. Whoever wished Gibson on him 
 certainly got the mayor in a jam. 
 
 "Suppose he goes ahead and supports Gib 
 son, don t you see what that will mean? It 
 means that Gibson will be mayor. Everybody 
 will say, Why didn t our mayor do this before 
 Gibson came along? Gibson will be the un 
 crowned king. Why, unless something upsets 
 
SPRING STREET 65 
 
 him, Gibson will be able to name the next mayor 
 of Los Angeles by simply indorsing the man s 
 candidacy. 
 
 "Gibson may not realize all this, but if he 
 doesn t I ll be badly fooled. Whatever his 
 game is, he has the mayor all tied up right at 
 the start. All he has to do is to go ahead with 
 his program of personally conducted raids and 
 exposes. Then he ll be the most powerful man 
 in Los Angeles. When he is that, we ll know 
 for sure whether he was right or not. It s 
 when a man gets power in his hands that you 
 can tell what he is." 
 
 Two days after his appointment as a com 
 missioner, Gibson demanded the resignation 
 of Police Chief Sweeney. He gave Brennan 
 and John the story, another typewritten state 
 ment, to which was attached his letter to the 
 mayor calling upon him for Sweeney s removal. 
 
 "That s a pretty one," commented Brennan. 
 "Now, if the mayor fires Sweeney, Gibson will 
 be able to name the next chief. If he doesn t 
 let Sweeney go, Gibson will be able to holler 
 that the mayor isn t supporting him." 
 
 John was still reluctant to believe Gibson s 
 moves were as sinister as Brennan viewed them. 
 There were times when, under Brennan s logic, 
 he began to doubt Gibson s sincerity. 
 
 Then Gibson disappeared. For three days 
 
66 SPRING STREET 
 
 he was absent from his office. Brennan and 
 John sought him at his home, his club, without 
 
 success. 
 
 u 
 
 He s up to something," predicted Brennan. 
 "There ll be a story popping when he shows 
 
 U P again-" ***** 
 
 It was Saturday morning when John re 
 ceived a note from Consuello inviting him to 
 spend Sunday afternoon and evening at the 
 ranch home of her father and mother. 
 
 "I am keeping my promise," she wrote. 
 "Would you care to visit with me at the home 
 of my father and mother, Sunday? It is such 
 a delightfully interesting old place. I m certain 
 you will enjoy it. 
 
 "If you find yourself able to accept this in 
 vitation let me know by telephone and we will 
 arrange for me to pick you up when I drive 
 out early in the afternoon. I do hope you 
 
 can come." 
 
 It was signed, "Sincerely, Consuello Car- 
 rillo." 
 
 He found her telephone number listed beside 
 her name. The fact that she resided in Los 
 Angeles while her parents apparently lived out 
 of the city puzzled him. 
 
 "Town house and old country home," he said 
 to himself as he picked up the telephone to call 
 her. 
 
SPRING STREET 67 
 
 "Oh, I m so glad you can go with me," she 
 said. U I have a car. Shall I call for you at 
 two? Or shall I meet you somewhere else 
 you may suggest?" 
 
 He thought of the commotion it would 
 cause in the neighborhood of his home to have 
 her call for him there. 
 
 "Could I possibly meet you at Seventh and 
 Broadway?" he asked, fearing that such a re 
 quest might be considered extraordinary. 
 
 "Seventh and Broadway at two, then," she 
 said. 
 
 A liveried chauffeur was at the wheel of the 
 big touring car in which she met him. It 
 frightened him somewhat to think that such 
 wealth was hers. Curiously, he was relieved 
 when she said: 
 
 "A friend is so kind as to place this car at 
 my disposal every Sunday, so I may make my 
 week-end visits home in comfort." 
 
 Instinctively John felt that it was Gibson s 
 machine. 
 
 As the automobile glided through the city 
 traffic and out to the smooth boulevards of the 
 open country they spoke of Gibson s mysterious 
 absence during the past few days. 
 
 "He told me that business, something very 
 important, called him away," she said. "He 
 promised he would be back some time this week. 
 
68 SPRING STREET 
 
 I suppose whatever has taken him away has to 
 do with his work as a commissioner." 
 
 She wore the same quaintly beautiful white 
 frock that John had so admired when he first 
 saw her at the lawn fete at the Barton Ran 
 dolph home. He saw that her eyes and hair 
 were brown, her lips a coral red, her skin faintly 
 tinted olive. Her features were small and deli 
 cately formed. Her feet were positively tiny 
 and he marveled at the natural curve of the high 
 instep. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, "what do people think 
 of Mr. Gibson as a commissioner?" 
 
 He thought of Brennan s skepticism and the 
 frankly expressed doubt of other newspaper 
 men of Gibson s motives. 
 
 "Generally he has the support of the city," 
 he answered. "There are some, however, who 
 impute a selfish desire for political power to 
 his work." 
 
 "How ridiculous!" she exclaimed, laughing. 
 "Hasn t he told you he has no aspiration to be 
 come mayor or to be rewarded with anything 
 else but the satisfaction of knowing that he has 
 done something for the city?" 
 
 "He has, and I believe him." 
 
 "Why did people doubt? He has told me 
 that it will be a struggle and has been so kind 
 as to ask me to keep faith in him no matter 
 
SPRING STREET 69 
 
 what arises. He knows that he will be attacked 
 viciously by the element he is seeking to drive 
 from the city. I believe in him. I think it is 
 such a splendid thing he is doing. I knew that 
 you would feel the same." 
 
 Brennan s words, "Some of them are out for 
 glory and some of them play a deeper game, 
 sometimes it s a girl," came back to him. If 
 it was for her, to win her commendation and 
 respect, that Gibson was fighting, then, John 
 thought, Gibson was a modern knight-errant 
 riding into battle against the forces of evil, a 
 twentieth century Sir Galahad. And what a 
 "lady fair" to battle for! 
 
 "But let s forget all that for now," she said. 
 "See, we are leaving the city behind us. That 
 is how I always feel when I m on my way home 
 again. The ranch is home to me, you know. 
 I was born there. I do not know what would 
 happen to me if I was unable to return home 
 at least once every week. It takes me away 
 from all the fret and bother of the city." 
 
 John wondered what her "fret and bother" 
 in the city could be except, perhaps, a never- 
 ending round of parties and lawn fetes and 
 social affairs. Why had she to live in the city 
 at all and why wasn t it her machine they were 
 riding in and her chauffeur at the wheel? 
 
 "You ll love my father," she said. "Every- 
 
70 SPRING STREET 
 
 one does. He is such a dear, gentle old soul. 
 He was born on the ranch 72 years age. And 
 mother s grandfather sailed from New York 
 to Nicaragua, crossing over to the Pacific Coast 
 by foot and in the canoes of natives. At San 
 Juan del Sur he was carried out through the 
 surf into boats that took him to the steamship 
 which brought him to San Francisco. Father s 
 stories of the old days in Los Angeles are a 
 treat. 
 
 "Let me tell you one of them. Do you know 
 how Spring street came to be named? Lieut. 
 Edward O. C. Ord for whom Ord street was 
 named was one of the first to make a survey 
 of what is now the city of Los Angeles. At the 
 time Spring street was surveyed he was asked 
 to name it. He was in love with the beautiful 
 Senorita Trinidad de la Guerra, to whom he 
 always referred as Mi Primavera, which is My 
 Springtime. So when he was asked for a name 
 for the new street he replied gallantly, Trim- 
 avera, of course, for Mi Primavera. That is 
 only one of the stories he tells of the romance 
 of old Los Angeles." 
 
 The automobile, traveling out along the La- 
 guna-Bell road, reached a cross-roads shaded 
 by tall and spreading trees. Back from the road 
 John saw an old house that charmed him. It 
 was of whitewashed adobe, two stories in 
 
SPRING STREET 71 
 
 height. Entirely around the second story was 
 a balcony of wood, ascended by an open stair 
 way. Wooden shutters were opened at the 
 windows, the sills of which were two feet in 
 thickness. 
 
 "The old Lugo ranch house," Consuello ex 
 plained, catching his inquiring look. "Don 
 Mario Lugo was a sturdy caballero in old Los 
 Angeles. He had a silver mounted saddle, 
 bridle and spurs that cost $1,500 and he wore 
 an ornamental sword strapped to his saddle in 
 Spanish soldier fashion. 
 
 "He owned the San Antonio rancho and when 
 he was 75 years old he owned 29,000 acres of 
 land. His three sons owned another 37,000 
 acres. Twenty-two thousand acres the 
 Rancho del Chino was granted him by the 
 government. Father remembers him well. 
 
 "How few of us living in Los Angeles now 
 know of the sleepy little old town it used to be. 
 How little we know or seem to care to know of 
 the old days, the days of adventure and ro 
 mance. For me, my father s stories of old 
 times never grow old." 
 
 It was as John thought. She was an "old- 
 fashioned" girl. How refreshing she was, how 
 different from the girls he saw on Broadway. 
 She was the girl he had dreamed of. This "girl 
 of his dreams" had been a vague picture, but he 
 
72 SPRING STREET 
 
 realized now that she was the girl who was be 
 side him. 
 
 He recalled how bitterly he had felt toward 
 her when he left the Barton Randolph lawn 
 fete, how he had cursed himself as a fool for 
 ever having told her she was beautiful. He 
 wondered if Gibson had told her of seeing him 
 in the ring at Vernon, if they had ever spoken 
 of him at all. He could not think of her now 
 as pitying him as he had when he berated him 
 self after first having met her. 
 
 Thoughts of Gibson and Brennan came back 
 into his mind. He believed more than ever 
 that Gibson was sincere. He could not force 
 himself to believe that Gibson would intention 
 ally violate the trust and faith Consuello had 
 placed in him. He knew now that she cared 
 for Gibson, perhaps loved him. There was no 
 doubt that Gibson was in love with her. Bren 
 nan was right in one thing, that Gibson was 
 working to win Consuello s admiration, but he 
 was wrong, as he had confessed was possible, in 
 suspecting Gibson of a greed for power simply 
 for power s sake. 
 
 Where was Gibson, anyway? What was he 
 doing? What would be his next move? Would 
 the mayor remove Chief Sweeney at his de 
 mand? 
 
SPRING STREET 73 
 
 Their machine turned abruptly into a side 
 road, shaded by widespreading walnut trees. 
 
 "We re nearly home," Consuello said. 
 
 On either side were orchard trees. The air 
 was quiet, cool. Hedges of pink Cherokee 
 roses lined the road. The machine stopped be 
 side a stretch of closely cropped lawn. On the 
 wide veranda of the Carrillo home John caught 
 his first glimpse of Consuello s father and 
 mother, seated restfully in porch chairs. He 
 saw both had snow white hair. 
 
 "Here we are there s daddy and mamma," 
 Consuello said, waving to them. 
 
 They started across the lawn to the house, 
 Consuello skipping a few steps ahead of him. 
 He thought her more beautiful than ever before 
 as she danced before him clearly outlined in her 
 white frock against the deep green of the grass. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 TN THE cool of the evening, after dinner, 
 - they sat on the veranda listening to the rem 
 iniscent stories of Consuello s father, the first of 
 the fine old Spanish aristocrats of Southern 
 California John had ever met. Don Ygnacio 
 Carrillo wore a dark blue broadcloth suit with 
 black velvet lapels and cuffs, a spotless, stiffly 
 starched, pleated linen shirt and a loose black 
 silk bow tie. His fluffy white hair contrasted 
 beautifully, John thought, with his skin, tinted 
 a pale amber. 
 
 The gracious hospitality of his hosts, so 
 typical of the pioneers of the early southland, 
 had put John completely at his ease. They had 
 eaten from a solid mahogany table which, he 
 was told, had been brought "around the Horn" 
 in a sailing vessel. 
 
 Consuello curled herself at her father s feet. 
 Her mother, whose grandfather made the ar 
 duous trip across the isthmus which Consuello 
 had described, was the descendant of a New 
 England family who had adopted the pictur 
 esque customs of the Spanish family into which 
 she had married. As she sat with them she 
 wore a finely-spun black lace mantilla, or shawl, 
 around her shoulders. 
 
SPRING STREET 75 
 
 "I promised Mr. Gallant you would tell us 
 stories of the old days in Los Angeles, father," 
 said Consuello. 
 
 "Ah, no, Mi Primavera. I would not care 
 to bore Mr. Gallant with such dusty old tales. 
 He is a lad of today," her father stroked her 
 head as it rested against his knee. 
 
 "Mi Primavera," My Springtime, how well 
 her father s pet name suited her! John won 
 dered why he had not transferred it to her when 
 she told him the story of the naming of Spring 
 street. 
 
 "Do tell us, Mr. Carrillo," he begged. 
 "Consuello has already told me how Spring 
 street was named. Old stories, old homes, the 
 old names of old streets charm me." 
 
 "Old streets old names," said Don Ygna- 
 cio, as if to himself. "Si, I will tell you. Par 
 don an old man if he seems garrulous. 
 
 "What is now San Fernando street, my 
 children, was once the Street of the Maids. 
 Was not that a prettier name? Aliso street is 
 from the Castilian aliso, meaning alder tree. 
 In 1829 Jean Louis Vignes after whom Vig- 
 nes street was named set out a vineyard 
 through which Aliso street now runs. Some 
 one misapplied the word ( aliso to a sycamore 
 tree in front of the Vignes home and that was 
 how the street was given its name. 
 
76 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Broadway was Fort street. J. M. Griffith 
 built the first two-story frame house in Los 
 Angeles between Second and Third on which is 
 now Broadway in 1874. Judge H. K. S. 
 O Melveney built the second. Then it was 
 the choice residential district. 
 
 "I remember that Senor Griffith spoke to me 
 one day. I think it was in 74, telling me that 
 Fort street was destined to become the most im 
 portant business street of Los Angeles. How 
 strange his words seemed to me then ! 
 
 "My friend, George D. Rowan, who brought 
 to Los Angeles the first phaeton seen in our 
 streets, was responsible for the changing of the 
 name of Fort street to Broadway. I remember 
 when he subdivided the block bounded by Sixth, 
 Seventh, Hill and Olive streets and sold 60-foot 
 lots for $600. Ah, if we had only known in 
 those days what a great city Los Angeles was to 
 become ! 
 
 "Late in the fifties O. W. Childs contracted 
 with the city to dig a water ditch 1,600 feet long, 
 18 inches wide and 18 inches deep and the city 
 allowed him a dollar per running foot. In pay 
 ment for the ditch digging he took land, a large 
 part of which was the square from Sixth street 
 to Twelfth street, from Main to Figueroa. 
 When Childs put this property into the market 
 his wife named the streets. 
 
SPRING STREET 77 
 
 "Because of the large number of grasshop 
 pers in the vicinity she called the extension of 
 Pearl street, which is now Figueroa, Calle de 
 los Chapules, or the Street of the Grasshoppers. 
 Three streets she called after the trio of Graces. 
 Faith, Hope and Charity. The street she 
 named Faith is now Flower and Charity street 
 became Grand avenue. And can you imagine 
 why these names were changed? Why, because 
 residents of the two streets objected to being re 
 ferred to as living on Faith and Charity I 
 
 "None of us old settlers placed much value 
 on real estate then. Childs gave to the church 
 the block bounded by Broadway, Seventh, Hill 
 and Sixth. In the boom year of 1887 this block 
 was sold for $100,000 and St. Vincent s college, 
 which had occupied the site, was moved to the 
 corner of Washington and Charity Grand 
 avenue it is now. 
 
 "In those days too, we had a Lovers Lane. 
 It was a narrow road, deep with dust and shaded 
 by willow trees that followed the line of what 
 is now Date street and Main street was then 
 Calle Principal. There are few who recall 
 where Pound Cake Hill was. It was the hill on 
 which now stands the county courthouse at 
 Broadway and Temple. 
 
 "My father often told me of the great horse 
 race between Jose Andres Sepulveda s Black 
 
78 SPRING STREET 
 
 Swan and Pio Pico s Sarco. Don Jose im 
 ported the Black Swan from Australia while 
 Don Pio s horse was a California steed. The 
 race was run along a nine-mile course on San 
 Pedro street in 52. 
 
 "Whoever had money to bet and those who 
 had not were in Los Angeles that day, many 
 coming from San Francisco and San Diego. 
 Twenty-five thousand dollars, 500 horses, 500 
 mares, 500 heifers, 500 calves and 500 sheep 
 were among the stakes put up. The wife of 
 Jose Sepulveda was driven to the scene of the 
 race with a fortune in gold slugs carried in a 
 large handkerchief which she opened to distrib 
 ute $50 gold pieces to her attendants and ser 
 vants to wager. The Black Swan won easily." 
 
 John was carried away by the stories told 
 them by Don Ygnacio. He closed his eyes as 
 the old man spoke and into his mind came the 
 pictures of the Los Angeles of other days, the 
 romance and adventure of the drowsy little 
 town that has become the greatest city of the 
 West. 
 
 A full moon touched the house, the lawn, the 
 trees, with silver. Consuello, too, he saw, was 
 dreaming of the days of long ago. As her 
 father completed the story of the horse race he 
 paused and they sat silent, the spell of remi 
 niscence upon the elder couple and of im 
 agination upon Consuello and John. 
 
SPRING STREET 79 
 
 "It is growing late, Mi Primavera," her 
 father said. "If you are to return to the city 
 tonight you must leave soon." 
 
 Consuello rose and went into the house with 
 her mother. Don Ygnacio and John stood 
 waiting. Finally, breaking a silence of several 
 minutes, the old man spoke. 
 
 "This is the home of my fathers," he said. 
 "All that is left. They counted their land in 
 hundreds of acres. Now only a few acres re 
 main, just as much as you can see. What little 
 is left will go when I go and the Carrillo home 
 will be no more." 
 
 John felt the mood of the elderly aristocrat 
 of other days. He stood silent. 
 
 "Where you stand Pio Pico once took me, as 
 a child, in his arms. Here we danced and sang 
 and loved and lived and here also will I die." 
 
 Consuello and her mother returned and they 
 walked out to the waiting automobile. 
 
 "I have never had such a delightful day," 
 John said to her father and mother as they took 
 their seats in the machine. "I thank you from 
 the bottom of my heart." 
 
 "Come often, my boy, the home of the Car- 
 rillos is always open to a friend of Mi Prima 
 vera," said Don Ygnacio. 
 
 They rode in silence for many miles, the au 
 tomobile humming over the smooth, deserted 
 
80 SPRING STREET 
 
 boulevards almost as bright as day in the moon 
 light. 
 
 Then Consuello spoke. 
 
 "I always hate to leave them there they 
 seem so lonely," she said. 
 
 "You must leave them?" John asked in 
 surprise. 
 
 "Yes," she said, slowly, softly, thoughtfully. 
 
 She offered no explanation. John wondered 
 why it was. He had always thought of her as 
 the daughter of a family financially comfort 
 able, perhaps wealthy. He recalled that there 
 was no automobile or garage at the Carrillo 
 home and that they were riding in a machine 
 some one had put at her disposal. Her name, 
 he knew, as a Carrillo was enough to admit her 
 to such homes as the Barton Randolphs. 
 
 The words of her father "this is all that is 
 left, what you see around you" came back to 
 him. Could it possibly be that they were ac 
 tually poor? 
 
 Because it was late she insisted upon taking 
 him to his home. 
 
 "Sometime," he said as they parted, "I want 
 you to meet my mother." 
 
 "I should like to very, very much," she an 
 swered. "And we must see each other again, 
 
 soon." 
 
 You have already made a dream come true," 
 
SPRING STREET 81 
 
 he said. "I shall never forget your kindness." 
 
 "Do not think of it that way," she said. 
 "We shall be friends, very good friends, I am 
 sure. Good night." 
 
 "Good night and thank you," he said. 
 
 That night he lay awake until past midnight, 
 recalling everything that happened during the 
 day. His thoughts of Consuello gave place to 
 speculation of what had become of Gibson and 
 what would develop with his return in the com 
 ing week. 
 
 Early Monday morning Brennan and John 
 were called to the city editor s desk and P. Q. 
 ordered them to renew their search for Gibson. 
 
 "Drop everything else and don t stop until 
 you find him," he said. "As you say, Brennan, 
 he s up to something and it s up to us to keep 
 our eyes wide open. The mayor is sitting tight 
 on Gibson s ultimatum on Chief Sweeney s res 
 ignation and Sweeney s out this morning with a 
 demand that Gibson co-operate with him and 
 the department in his campaign. Get to work 
 now and find Gibson." 
 
 "I was thinking," said Brennan, "that Gib 
 son s friend, Miss Carrillo, might know where 
 he was. Gallant here should be able to find out 
 what she knows." 
 
 "Miss Carrillo knows no more than we do," 
 John volunteered. 
 
82 SPRING STREET 
 
 "What makes you think so?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "She told me." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Yesterday." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "Gibson told her that important business was 
 taking him away and that he would be back 
 sometime this week." 
 
 "And she has no idea of what he s doing?" 
 
 "None whatever." 
 
 "Well," said Brennan. "That s that. Come 
 on, Gallant, let s be going." 
 
 The first edition of their newspaper carried 
 Sweeney s statement calling upon Gibson to 
 work with him instead of against him and the 
 department in his effort to clean up the city. 
 
 "If Commissioner Gibson has any evidence 
 that Los Angeles is wide open, as he says, he 
 should turn it over to the police department and 
 I ll guarantee that conditions will be remedied 
 before morning," Sweeney s statement read. 
 "The police department is functioning. I ll stay 
 on the job until the mayor removes me. 
 
 "I deny the commissioner s charge that graft 
 exists in the department and that the city is wide 
 open. Let him come out and put his cards on 
 the table, face up. If he has any reason to hesi 
 tate to take me into his confidence, why doesn t 
 he say so. He speaks of the fair name of Los 
 
SPRING STREET 83 
 
 Angeles being dragged in the mire. I claim 
 he is broadcasting that the city is wide open 
 without tangible substantiation of his charge." 
 
 Brennan puffed at his inevitable cigarette as 
 they headed for Gibson s office. 
 
 "She said she had no idea where he is and 
 what he is doing, did she?" said Brennan. 
 "How come you thought of asking her about 
 it?" 
 
 "She mentioned it to me," evaded John, re 
 luctant to relate the details of his conversation 
 with Consuello. There appeared no reason, he 
 thought, to bring her into the situation precip 
 itated by Gibson s disappearance. 
 
 They went over the ground they had covered 
 the week before in searching for Gibson, but 
 were unable to uncover a single piece of infor 
 mation concerning the commissioner s where 
 abouts. At his office his secretary told them 
 that he had not seen nor heard from him since 
 the day he disappeared. 
 
 "Aren t you a bit concerned about his unusual 
 absence?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "No, you see he told me he would be back 
 sometime this week and cautioned me not to 
 seek to locate him," the secretary answered. 
 
 "Wherever he is, he s certainly covered up 
 his tracks well," commented Brennan as they 
 left. 
 
84 SPRING STREET 
 
 "What about Sweeney is he square?" John 
 asked. 
 
 "I don t know anything against the chief, 1 
 Brennan said. "It seems to me he has the town 
 as clean as it has ever been. I think he s 
 straight. I think most of the men in the de 
 partment are straight. Some of them are graft 
 ing there are always a few crooks in any 
 large body of men and the chief has always 
 fired them as fast as he found them. 
 
 "That s what makes me inclined to believe 
 that Gibson may be off on the wrong foot. 
 That and one other thing." 
 
 "What?" asked John, expecting to hear 
 another skeptical dissertation by Brennan on 
 Gibson s motives. 
 
 "Because the mayor and Sweeney are hated 
 by Gink Cummings," said Brennan. "If Los 
 Angeles ever had a boss of the underworld, the 
 Gink is the man. He bosses everything, gam 
 bling, stickups, bookmakers, pickpockets, bunko 
 men, street walking women and dope peddling. 
 
 "He s been out to get Sweeney and the mayor 
 ever since they took office. Whoever the 
 Gink s against you can bet all you have is 
 straight. Until the mayor and Sweeney stepped 
 in the Gink had everything his own way. If 
 the department is as rotten as Gibson says it is 
 then you can blame it on the Gink. Gibson 
 
SPRING STREET 85 
 
 must know him. I ve been wondering why he 
 hasn t come out with a blast about him." 
 
 "Perhaps that s why he disappeared work 
 ing to get Cummings," John suggested. 
 
 "Maybe," said Brennan. "I ve thought of 
 that, too. What I can t understand, though, is 
 why Gibson wants Sweeney fired when the chief 
 is the Gink s worst enemy." 
 
 That afternoon they heard from Gibson. 
 The secretary of the missing commissioner 
 called them by telephone and they hurried to his 
 office. He handed them a sealed envelope ad 
 dressed, "Brennan and Gallant." Brennan 
 tore it open and extracted two sheets of paper. 
 
 At the bottom of one of the sheets appeared 
 Gibson s signature. It was a statement issued 
 by the commissioner for publication and read: 
 
 "I feel that the mayor has had a reasonable 
 amount of time in which to consider my request 
 for the removal of Chief Sweeney. Unless such 
 action is taken by noon tomorrow I will know 
 that the mayor is against me instead of with 
 me in my efforts to clean up Los Angeles. In 
 that event I will endeavor to put before the 
 people of this city satisfactory evidence of my 
 charge that the police department is disorgan 
 ized, inefficient and honeycombed with graft." 
 
 The other sheet was a brief note to Bren- 
 
86 SPRING STREET 
 
 nan and John which was marked "Strictly Con 
 fidential." 
 
 "Don t try to find me," it read. "There is no 
 reason for you to worry about my continued 
 absence. Tomorrow night, if the mayor does 
 not ask for Sweeney s resignation, be at your 
 office at 6 o clock and you will hear from me. 
 I ll probably have a real story for you." 
 
 "What did I tell you?" said Brennan, show 
 ing as much excitement as John had ever seen 
 him give way to. 
 
 Gibson s ultimatum demanding Sweeney s 
 resignation by noon of the next day was printed 
 under another heavy black headline and 
 brought the situation to a crisis. The chief re 
 peated his declaration that he would stay in 
 office until the mayor called for his resignation 
 and the mayor locked himself in his office at the 
 city hall. Only those the mayor sent for, to con 
 fer with concerning the predicament in which 
 Gibson s latest statement had placed him, were 
 admitted to his office. 
 
 The organizations that Gibson had named as 
 standing behind him in his crusade came out 
 with hastily adopted resolutions indorsing him 
 and stating openly that they would consider it 
 as a "hostile" move if the mayor refused to 
 oust the police chief. Principal among these 
 commendations of Gibson was that of the min- 
 
SPRING STREET 87 
 
 isterial association, an organization recognized 
 throughout Los Angeles as determined to keep 
 the city clean and free from political graft and 
 bribery. 
 
 Tuesday morning the mayor took his stand. 
 He announced that he could not accede to Gib 
 son s demand for Chief Sweeney s removal. 
 
 "Commissioner Gibson has failed to furnish 
 me with any evidence to support his charges 
 against Chief Sweeney and the police depart 
 ment," the mayor s statement read. "In the 
 absence of such information, I cannot see why 
 I should ask for Chief Sweeney s resignation. 
 It would be manifestly unfair to remove a man 
 like Sweeney without proof of a sufficient rea 
 son for such action." 
 
 "It s a war now war to the finish," said 
 Brennan, who waited at the city hall until after 
 1 o clock in the afternoon, half expecting the 
 mayor to accede to Gibson s demand at the last 
 minute or to see Gibson appear with evidence 
 against Sweeney to force his removal. But the 
 mayor "stood pat" and Gibson remained away. 
 
 The office was deserted as they waited that 
 night for the call Gibson promised he would 
 make at 6 o clock. They showed Gibson s note 
 to P. Q. when they reached the office with it and 
 he had given them rather unnecessary instruc 
 tions to be on the job. 
 
 "Don t get lost or wander away," he said. 
 
88 SPRING STREET 
 
 "I ve ordered Benton to be here with you and 
 I ll be at home if you want me in a hurry." 
 
 Benton was the staff photographer. 
 
 Brennan covered the top of his desk with 
 cigaret stubs, stood on end in his characteristic 
 way, as the hands of the clock neared 6. 
 
 "I hope Gibson is letting us have this alone 
 didn t tip the other papers," he said. 
 
 Sharply at the appointed time the telephone 
 bell tinkled and Brennan lifted the receiver. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "This is Brennan. Yes, he s 
 here. Where? All right, we ll be right 
 down." 
 
 "He s at his office," Brennan explained and 
 they started away, the photographer trailing 
 them. 
 
 The door of Gibson s office was locked when 
 they reached it. Brennan rapped. 
 
 "Who is it?" they heard Gibson s voice ask 
 from the other side. 
 
 "Brennan and Gallant." 
 
 The key turned in the lock and the door 
 opened. They scarcely recognized Gibson as 
 he stood before them. He wore a peaked cap 
 pulled down over his eyes, a flannel shirt and 
 a well worn suit, spotted with grease and oil. 
 A stubble of black beard covered his face and 
 his hands were black and grimy. 
 
 "Come in, boys," he said, laughing. "Some 
 thing s going to happen before morning." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 IBSON carefully locked the door behind 
 them as they entered and led them to an 
 inner office, the door of which he also locked. 
 The blinds of the window were down in this 
 room and an electric globe over Gibson s desk 
 furnished the only light. 
 
 As the commissioner pulled the cap from his 
 head and seated himself at his desk, motioning 
 them to other chairs, John was astonished by 
 the change in his appearance. His hair, usually 
 so perfectly combed, was tousled and unkempt 
 and his eyes were a trifle bloodshot. He 
 noticed that Brennan was also studying Gibson 
 questioningly. 
 
 "I gave you something of a surprise, didn t 
 I?" said Gibson with a laugh, as he saw the re 
 porters examining him. 
 
 "You certainly did," said Brennan. "I ve 
 been trying to figure out what s coming." 
 
 "No need," said Gibson. "I ll tell you every 
 thing. But before I begin I must ask you to 
 pledge yourselves to secrecy. Not a word of 
 what I am about to tell you must be breathed 
 to a soul until I give permission. I m going to 
 put my trust in you boys and you must also 
 
90 SPRING STREET 
 
 agree to go through with your parts in what I 
 am going to place before you. Is it a go?" 
 
 John waited for Brennan to answer. 
 
 "You can rely on us," Brennan said, and John 
 nodded his assent when Gibson looked to him 
 for confirmation. 
 
 Gibson drew a watch from his vest pocket 
 and glanced at it. John noticed that it was a 
 cheap nickel-plated timepiece instead of the thin 
 gold one he had seen the commissioner wear 
 previously. 
 
 "I ll have to talk fast," Gibson said. "I 
 haven t any time to spare. Every minute counts 
 now and as I tell you my story you ll under 
 stand. Pay close attention because you must 
 grasp the situation thoroughly." 
 
 The last admonition was superfluous. Bren 
 nan and John were on the edge of their chairs. 
 
 "I ll begin at the beginning," he continued. 
 "About a week ago one of the detectives I 
 have employed to help me in my crusade came 
 to me with information concerning a plot to 
 wreck and rob the Southern Pacific passenger 
 train Lark near Los Angeles. He told me 
 that the man planning the robbery was known 
 as Red Mike, an ex-convict with a grudge 
 against the Southern Pacific. He had run 
 across Mike in a Los Angeles street rooming 
 house. 
 
SPRING STREET 91 
 
 "This detective gained Red Mike s confi 
 dence and he wanted him to join with him in the 
 wrecking of the Lark. My detective learned 
 from Red Mike that he planned to throw the 
 Lark into a ditch by placing a derailer on the 
 track at a point in the hills a short distance from 
 the city and to rob the mail car in the confusion 
 of the wreck. 
 
 " Red Mike said he could not carry the thing 
 through himself, that he needed a partner, some 
 one to help him carry away the loot and drive 
 an automobile in which they were to escape over 
 the border into Mexico. My detective told me 
 that Red Mike was desperate and knew his 
 business. 
 
 "When I heard this story I decided to thwart 
 Red Mike myself. I told my detective I would 
 act the part of Red Mike s partner and frus 
 trate his fiendish plot at the last minute so that 
 I could have evidence enough to send him to 
 the penitentiary for life. I outfitted myself in 
 the clothes in which you see me and bought a 
 car so that my disguise as a rent-car driver 
 would be complete." 
 
 Brennan lighted a fresh cigarette, carefully 
 standing its predecessor on end on Gibson s 
 highly polished table. 
 
 "When I disappeared from my office I went 
 with my detective to Red Mike. We had to 
 
92 SPRING STREET 
 
 work carefully so as to get Red Mike s com 
 plete confidence. I have been living with Mike 
 ever since and tonight he means to go through 
 with it. He has everything ready. Last night 
 he took me to where he plans to wreck the 
 Lark and we rehearsed what we are to do. 
 We are to put the derailer on the track, send the 
 train into the ditch and, during the confusion, 
 rob the mail car and make our getaway in the 
 machine. 
 
 "And this is how I have arranged to save 
 the Lark and get Red Mike red-handed. 
 The Southern Pacific superintendent knows all 
 this and will bring the Lark to a stop as close 
 to the derailer on the track as he can. My de 
 tectives will be hidden all around. As the train 
 pulls to a stop they ll close in and everything 
 will be over." 
 
 John gasped at the sheer audacity of the 
 story as it fell from Gibson s lips. He saw 
 Brennan, his eyes glittering, nervously taking 
 deep inhales of tobacco smoke. 
 
 "Now, this is what you are to do," Gibson 
 continued. "You will go with my detectives 
 and see the whole show with your own eyes. 
 You will be the only reporters with them. I 
 am to meet Red Mike at 7 and go with him. 
 You can understand how essential it is that 
 everything goes just as I planned it. If there s 
 a slip-up anywhere it means my life. Red 
 
SPRING STREET 93 
 
 Mike has told me that he ll kill me if he finds 
 that he has been double-crossed. 
 
 "That s all I need to tell you, I think, ex 
 cept that you will meet my detectives outside 
 this building at half past seven. I m doing this 
 to save the lives of the passengers on the Lark 
 and to show the people of Los Angeles that the 
 detectives of the police department, as I have 
 charged, aren t on their jobs. It should con 
 vince them that there is something at least in 
 what I have been saying." 
 
 He glanced at his watch again. 
 
 "It s half past six now," he said. "I must 
 get out of here. Red Mike is waiting for me 
 and I can t let him become suspicious." 
 
 He rose from his chair. 
 
 "By the way, have you boys guns?" he asked. 
 Brennan and John answered negatively by shak 
 ing their heads. He reached into a drawer of 
 his desk and drew out two automatic pistols. 
 
 "My detectives will carry rifles and sawed- 
 off shotguns," he said, handing the pistols to 
 the reporters. "You boys might as well have 
 these." 
 
 He hesitated, a half-smile on his lips. 
 
 "You may need them," he added. 
 
 John saw Brennan look at Gibson with what 
 he thought was unbounded admiration. The 
 commissioner held out his hand. 
 
94 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Well, Brennan," he said. "What do you 
 think of it?" 
 
 "It s a peach," Brennan said, taking Gibson s 
 hand. "And here s luck, Mr. Commissioner. 
 I ll hand it to you, you ve got nerve." 
 
 Gibson smiled again as he turned to John. 
 
 "And you, Gallant?" he asked. 
 
 "I hope " he began. 
 
 "I know you do," Gibson said. "Do you 
 know why I let you and Brennan in on this?" 
 
 Oddly, a thought of Consuello came into 
 John s mind. 
 
 "Well," Gibson explained, "I saw you that 
 night you mixed it with Battling Rodriguez out 
 at Vernon. I knew I could trust any man who 
 took what you got and kept going until you 
 dropped." 
 
 "Thanks," John managed to say. 
 
 Gibson opened the door to his outer office 
 and caught sight of Benton, the photographer, 
 waiting there. 
 
 "What about your photographer?" he asked. 
 
 "We ll take care of him," Brennan gave the 
 assurance. 
 
 "All right, see you later," said the police com 
 missioner, going out and closing the door be 
 hind him. They heard him hurrying away. 
 John looked at his watch. It was twenty min 
 utes to seven. Brennan stood still, watching 
 the door through which Gibson had gone for 
 several minutes and then turned quickly. 
 
SPRING STREET 95 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 "What do you say?" said John. 
 
 "Let s go," Brennan said snapping out his 
 words. "We re in on something big." 
 
 The photographer followed them to the ele 
 vator and down to the street where they waited 
 for Gibson s detectives. 
 
 "What s doing?" Benton asked. 
 
 "Can you work that camera of yours with a 
 load of buckshot whistling by your head ?" asked 
 Brennan. 
 
 "Hot stuff, huh?" Benton asked, eagerly. 
 John saw that the photographer s face actually 
 brightened at the prospect of something out of 
 the usual. Brennan told him, in short graphic 
 sentences, what was before them. 
 
 "Gosh darn!" Benton ejaculated. "Hot dog 
 and sweet puppies!" 
 
 As an outlet for his excitement he danced a 
 queer little jig on the sidewalk, muttering a 
 rhythmic verse as he shuffled his feet. At the 
 termination of each heavily accented line he 
 slapped his right foot down loudly. As he 
 jigged his voice grew louder until John could 
 discern the familiar lines from Kipling: 
 
 "It was Din! Din! Din! 
 
 Ere s a beggar with a bullet through is spleen; 
 
 E s chawin up the ground, 
 
 An he s kickin all around; 
 
 For Gawd s sake, git the water, Gunga Din!" 
 
96 SPRING STREET 
 
 In a few minutes three automobiles, follow 
 ing each other closely, wheeled into the curb. 
 A man in the front seat of the first car motioned 
 to them. 
 
 "Brennan and Gallant?" he asked, brusquely. 
 "Who s that with you?" 
 
 u Our photographer," Brennan explained. 
 
 "All right, get in." 
 
 They clambered into the tonneau and the 
 machine shot away from the curb, followed by 
 the other two. 
 
 "Well, we re on our way," said Brennan, set 
 tling back in the cushions. 
 
 Absent-mindedly Benton resumed his half 
 chant song. 
 
 "You may talk o gin and beer, 
 When you re quartered safe out ere, 
 An you re sent to penny-fights an 
 Alder SHOT-IT " 
 
 The crowds on the streets as the three au 
 tomobiles wove their way through the traffic 
 were that curious mixture of workers leaving 
 late for their homes and pleasure seekers com 
 ing downtown for the first performances at the 
 motion picture theaters, which is such an in 
 teresting spectacle on Broadway, Spring, Hill 
 and Main streets at twilight. In the fading 
 light of the day the electric signs sparkled with 
 less brilliancy than they show when it actually 
 is night. 
 
SPRING STREET 97 
 
 Like some huge disjointed monster with thou 
 sands of glaring eyes the long line of automo 
 biles moved slowly along the streets, only a yard 
 separating them. Street cars formed in an al 
 most solid line along the tracks. Lights in the 
 upper story rooms of the business blocks 
 snapped out, one by one, like the blinking of 
 fireflies. 
 
 John looked into the faces of the throng 
 hurrying along the sidewalks and thought how 
 strange it was that none of them even remotely 
 realized that an attempt to wreck the "Lark" 
 was to be foiled within a couple of hours. The 
 automobiles passed unnoticed in the everlasting 
 flow of traffic. Tomorrow morning, he thought, 
 these people would read of what had occurred 
 and hail Gibson as a hero. The police com 
 missioner, already the most discussed man in 
 the city, would then be accepted unqualifiedly 
 as a crusader not only sincere but courageous. 
 
 It was a great move ! There could be no 
 doubt of Gibson s courage and rightful pur 
 pose now. He was facing death to save others 
 and to defeat an attempted horror. How like 
 a "thriller" it was to be rushing toward such a 
 gripping scene ! 
 
 What if "Red Mike" discovered at the last 
 minute that he had been trapped? Then it 
 would be only a question of the first shot be 
 tween him and Gibson. Suddenly John thought 
 
98 SPRING STREET 
 
 of Consuello. How proud she would be made 
 by Gibson s dramatic coup ! John envied Gib 
 son in that moment which he now pictured, 
 when Gibson would meet Consuello after it 
 was all over. 
 
 The automatic that Gibson had given him 
 dug into his side as he slouched back in the seat. 
 He drew it and put it into his coat pocket. The 
 touch of the cold steel brought home to him 
 that he, too, was to be a participant in the frus 
 tration of the train wrecking. 
 
 Out of the downtown traffic the three ma 
 chines increased their speed. John glanced at 
 his watch. It was a quarter past seven. At 
 eight o clock the "Lark" would pull out of the 
 Arcade station loaded with men, women and 
 children, little suspecting the danger from 
 which they were to be saved. What if some 
 thing should go wrong? Suppose "Red Mike" 
 was already at the scene, making it impossible 
 for Gibson s detectives to surround him with 
 out being seen? 
 
 Night was settling down rapidly. He noticed 
 there was only a quarter moon and realized that 
 the darkness had been a part of "Red Mike s" 
 nefarious plotting. He turned to Brennan, 
 whose tensely set face was lighted for a frac 
 tion of a second by the accelerated burning of 
 his cigarette as he took a deep inhale. 
 
 "I don t like to be a Gloomy Gus, " Bren- 
 
SPRING STREET 99 
 
 nan said, "but what was it General Wolfe said 
 before the battle on the Plains of Abraham at 
 Quebec The paths of glory lead but to the 
 grave wasn t it?" 
 
 John almost resented the inference of "glory 
 seeking" by Gibson, and Brennan s cool way of 
 suggesting that the commissioner might meet 
 his death. Brennan seemed to sense his un 
 spoken exception to what he had said. 
 
 "Oh, don t misunderstand me," he said. "It 
 only popped into my head, I don t know why. 
 And Wolfe, you know, was a braggart who 
 made good. He died on the Plains of Abra 
 ham after distributing Montcalm s army of 
 Frenchmen all over the landscape." 
 
 John blamed Brennan s cynicism for prevent 
 ing him from viewing Gibson as he did. 
 
 At a word from the man beside him the 
 driver of their car slowed down the machine 
 and brought it to a stop. They could hear the 
 creaking of brakes on the other machines fol 
 lowing them as they stopped close behind. 
 
 "Here we are," said the man, leaving the 
 front seat of the car. "Duck that cigarette, 
 Brennan. Remember, no smoking or talking. 
 You boys follow me and do what I tell you. 
 One misstep and you re liable to get the com 
 missioner killed. And you" he turned to Ben- 
 ton "don t you try shooting any pictures until 
 Mr. Gibson gives the word, understand?" 
 
100 SPRING STREET 
 
 John counted fourteen men from the two 
 other machines. They walked silently along a 
 dusty, narrow path breaking off from the road 
 until they reached a point where the steep slope 
 of a hill confronted them. 
 
 "Now, boys, everyone understands what is to 
 be done?" asked the man from the automobile 
 that had carried the reporters and who John 
 realized was in command. 
 
 The men nodded. 
 
 "Then scatter out the way we ve planned it 
 and remember, we close in on them when Gib 
 son gives the signal, not before." 
 
 A queer, nervous feeling gripped the pit of 
 John s stomach as he followed with Benton and 
 Brennan behind the man who led them up the 
 hill as the others branched out in pairs through 
 the brush, spreading out in a semi-circle. 
 
 "They each have their stations," the man 
 told Brennan. "They know what to do." 
 
 Reaching the crest of the hill they swung 
 down the embankment to their right and stop 
 ped behind a clump of bushes. Below them, a 
 hundred feet down, John made out the railroad 
 track. To the left they looked down into a 
 deep gully. On the other side of the track was 
 a deep ravine, dropping abruptly from the 
 roadbed. 
 
 "They ll wait down there," the detective 
 
SPRING STREET 101 
 
 explained, pointing to the gully. "He ll put the 
 derailer on the track so as to throw the cars 
 over to the other side in that ditch." 
 
 He squatted down behind the clump of 
 bushes and the others followed his example. 
 John looked at his watch. It was ten minutes 
 to eight. 
 
 "It s due here at 8:18," said the detective. 
 
 "I d give ten years of my bright young life 
 for a cigarette," said Brennan, sighing heavily. 
 
 The detective produced a thick moist plug of 
 chewing tobacco, gnawed at the corners. 
 
 "Here you are," he said, offering it to the 
 sufferer. 
 
 "Don t, don t," said Brennan, waving it 
 aside. "I d swallow it sure." 
 
 John felt his heart thumping against his ribs. 
 Try as he might he could not stop himself 
 from breathing in quick, short little gasps. 
 This detective and his men were so certain 
 about things. How did they know but some 
 thing might have gone wrong? Perhaps Gib 
 son and "Red Mike" were "shooting it out" 
 along the road somewhere now. He looked 
 again at his watch. It was three minutes to 
 eight. Only seven minutes had passed since 
 they arrived. Incredulous he held the watch to 
 his ear. It was ticking regularly. 
 
102 SPRING STREET 
 
 Benton pulled himself on his elbows to 
 John s side. 
 
 "You may talk o gin and beer, 
 
 When you re quartered safe out ere " 
 
 he began. 
 
 "That s enough of that," ordered Brennan, 
 and Benton s chant stopped. 
 
 The detective raised himself to his knees and 
 held his head high, listening. The roar of a 
 motor being raced as it was switched off came 
 to their ears. 
 
 "That s them," said the detective. "That 
 was Gibson s signal. He was driving and he 
 raced his engine to let us know when they got 
 here." 
 
 They waited for years, it seemed to John, 
 until two dark figures, scarcely discernible came 
 down the tracks toward them and turned into 
 the gully. He saw that Gibson and "Red 
 Mike" were carrying something heavy between 
 them and that "Red Mike" also carried a short- 
 handled sledge hammer. 
 
 He strained his eyes trying to follow the fig 
 ures into the darker shadows of the gully from 
 which they emerged shortly. 
 
 "That s the derailer they re carrying 
 they re going to slap it on the rail," breathed 
 the detective. 
 
 They could hear "Red Mike" grunting as he 
 and Gibson struggled up the side of the road- 
 
SPRING STREET 103 
 
 bed. They saw "Red Mike" adjust the de- 
 railer to the rail and Gibson kneel to hold a 
 spike as it was hammered into the tie by "Red 
 Mike" wielding the sledge hammer. The 
 blows of the hammer sounded sharply on the 
 still night air. They heard "Red Mike" curse 
 viciously as he missed hitting the spike and 
 Gibson jerked his hand away a fraction of a 
 second before the sledge would have smashed 
 it against the rail. 
 
 Four spikes were driven to hold the derailer. 
 Then Gibson and "Red Mike" scrambled back 
 into the gully, their figures hidden in the 
 darkness. 
 
 "All set down there," whispered the detec 
 tive, thus conveying to the others the realiza 
 tion that the derailer was in place to swerve 
 the guiding wheels of the big locomotive of the 
 "Lark" and send it crashing into the ditch, pull 
 ing and overturning the coaches with it. 
 
 The horror of what might happen ter 
 rorized John for a moment. His body tingled 
 and perspiration broke out on his forehead. 
 He closed his eyes. He imagined he would 
 hear the roar of the train as it crashed into the 
 derailer and rolled over the embankment the 
 screams and cries of the dying and injured. A 
 sickening feeling swept him. He was faint. He 
 could hear Brennan breathing deeply, the 
 
104 SPRING STREET 
 
 breath whistling out through his teeth from his 
 lungs. 
 
 "Gosh darn!" Benton gasped, as though he 
 could hold himself no longer. 
 
 John reached for his watch. He was tug 
 ging to pull it from his pocket when the blast 
 of an engine whistle sounded, it seemed, almost 
 beside them. 
 
 It was the "Lark" whistling for a crossing 
 a mile away as it pounded on toward the de- 
 railer, where death and destruction yawned. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 ," as he called them, had al- 
 ways disgusted John. A book wherein 
 the hero overcame the villain by desperate 
 means and won the girl by a single stroke of 
 manly dauntlessness was to him like so much 
 trash. Melodramatic plays he despised. Grif 
 fith s pictures were the only ones in which he 
 could tolerate a "staged" thrill. 
 
 It never came into his mind as he heard the 
 whistle of the u Lark" flying a mile a minute 
 over the rails to what might be a horrible dis 
 aster that here was a real "thriller" exceeding 
 the imagination of any cheap novelist, aspir 
 ing playwright or industrious scenario writer. 
 Later when he rehearsed in his mind what hap 
 pened that night, he realized that in fact truth 
 was often stranger than fiction. Every news 
 paper man eventually comes to the same real 
 ization. 
 
 In striking contrast to his feeling that minutes 
 were hours a few moments before, it seemed 
 only five or six seconds before the headlight of 
 the oncoming train pierced through the dark 
 ness of the night. He felt that it was coming 
 toward them faster than any train had ever 
 traveled. A fear that there had been a mis 
 take and that the engineer could not possibly 
 
106 SPRING STREET 
 
 bring the heavy train to a stop before the loco 
 motive wheels struck the derailer seized him. 
 
 The detective was on his feet, rifle ready to 
 be thrown to his shoulder. Brennan leaped up 
 and John saw that he held the automatic in his 
 hand. 
 
 Then the sound for which they had so anx 
 iously waited came up to them from the track 
 below. They could hear the brakes grinding 
 and shrieking against the wheels of the locomo 
 tive and the coaches. 
 
 The detective dashed through the brush, 
 stumbling and falling almost headlong as he 
 pitched himself down into the gully. Brennan, 
 John and Benton were at his heels. John s 
 right hand gripped the automatic Gibson had 
 loaned him. 
 
 There was a shot, a curse, another shot. 
 Then it seemed to John a thousand shots were 
 fired. He saw the detective throw the rifle to 
 his shoulder and there was a spurt of flame 
 after a quick aim. In a descending circle he 
 saw the flash of guns fired by the other detec 
 tives coming down from the hilltop. He saw 
 Brennan and it surprised him shooting 
 down into the gully "throwing" his shots in the 
 cowboy fashion he had read of. 
 
 He tripped and fell, the automatic flew from 
 his hand. When he got to his feet, slightly 
 stunned by his fall, the shooting had stopped. 
 
SPRING STREET 107 
 
 He ran into the pit of the gully at reckless 
 speed. 
 
 He saw Gibson on his back on the ground, 
 two men kneeling at his side, tearing his shirt 
 from his shoulder. He saw a crimson stain 
 spreading on Gibson s shirt. A few yards away 
 he saw "Red Mike" spilled in a heap, hemmed 
 in by a ring of Gibson s detectives each with 
 a sawed-off shotgun pointed down at him. 
 
 "Where s that damned photographer ?" 
 Brennan demanded. 
 
 "Coming," they heard a voice shout and 
 Benton was beside them, screwing his camera 
 into his tripod as he hurried forward. 
 
 "Gibson?" asked John, panting. 
 
 "He s all right bullet scratch on the shoul 
 der that s all he got Red Mike, I guess," 
 Brennan answered in jerks. 
 
 John looked toward the train. The cow 
 catcher of the locomotive, which stood panting 
 like some frightened, trembling animal, was less 
 than five feet from the derailer! He saw the 
 engineer of the train lift his cap from his head 
 and scratch his forehead with a finger as he 
 contemplated how close his engine had been to 
 destruction. 
 
 Turning he found Gibson on his feet, pale 
 and haggard, his hair tousled, his arm ban 
 daged to his side, posing in the center of a 
 group of detectives for Benton and his camera. 
 
108 SPRING STREET 
 
 The flashlight boomed and a ghastly white 
 light lit up the scene for the briefest fraction 
 of a second. 
 
 He followed Gibson and the detectives to 
 where "Red Mike" lay sprawling on the 
 ground. Electric torches held by other de 
 tectives put the desperado s prone figure in 
 an arc of light. 
 
 Gibson looked down at "Red Mike" in 
 silence. 
 
 The wounded man John could tell that 
 "Red Mike" was fatally wounded turned 
 over on his back, groaning. His face, covered 
 with a stubble of red beard, was drawn in pain 
 and his eyes seemed dulled. Groaning again he 
 lifted his head and his eyes fixed on Gibson. 
 
 "You !" he snarled. 
 
 "You crossed me, you !" 
 
 Then he dropped back into unconsciousness. 
 
 Six of the detectives lifted his limp body and, 
 staggering under the load, started toward the 
 road and the automobile Gibson had driven. 
 They paused only long enough for Benton to 
 snap another flashlight. 
 
 By that time the passengers who, when the 
 train pulled to a sudden stop that was followed 
 by a fusillade of shots, believed it had been 
 halted by bandits had recovered from their 
 confusion and were pouring out of the coaches, 
 swarming toward the locomotive. A stout wo- 
 
SPRING STREET 109 
 
 man, whose short hair straggling to her bare 
 shoulders indicated that she had been prepar 
 ing to retire, screamed and fainted into the 
 arms of a little man who struggled desperately 
 to save her from falling to the ground. Benton 
 set up his camera on the track and his flashlight 
 boomed again as he made a photograph of Gib 
 son standing beside the derailer, the locomo 
 tive in the background. 
 
 With much pointing of fingers and nodding 
 of heads it was whispered through the crowd 
 that Gibson was the man who had prevented 
 the wreck and shot "Red Mike," who had been 
 rushed away to a hospital in the machine in 
 which he and Gibson had driven to the scene. 
 Men and women in various stages of dishabille, 
 unconscious of their appearance, pressed 
 around him, shaking his hand. A girl threw 
 her arms around his neck and kissed him. To 
 John it was strikingly similar to the scene of an 
 averted train wreck he had once inadvertently 
 seen in a motion picture if the girl had been 
 Consuello, dressed, say, in a neat and dashing 
 riding habit or some other altogether inappro 
 priate costume. 
 
 A fat, white-haired man typical bank presi 
 dent, John thought wrote out a check, using 
 the cowcatcher for a desk, and handed it to 
 Gibson with a bow. 
 
110 SPRING STREET 
 
 John, standing near them, saw the check was 
 for $5,000. 
 
 "I cannot accept this for myself, sir," Gibson 
 said. "I am a police commissioner of the city 
 of Los Angeles and if you will permit me to 
 make such disposition of it I will turn it over to 
 some well deserving charity." 
 
 "It s yours do what you want with it," the 
 fat man said. As he walked away John thought 
 that he was fully pleased with himself for hav 
 ing given Gibson the check, that he had paid 
 the man who had saved his life in dollars and 
 cents and what more could he do? 
 
 "Somebody give me a cigarette," he heard a 
 voice plead and, turning, he found himself face 
 to face with Brennan. 
 
 "Quick, someone, that man has a weapon!" 
 a woman shrieked. 
 
 John saw Brennan s automatic protruding 
 from his coat pocket. Brennan, who was talk 
 ing to Gibson, did not notice him take the pistol 
 from him. 
 
 "How did it happen, Mr. Commissioner?" 
 Brennan asked. 
 
 "Come along, I ll tell you as we ride back to 
 the city," promised Gibson, who shook the 
 hands thrust out in the path that was opened 
 for him as he walked through the crowd to 
 ward the road and the waiting automobiles. 
 
 Returning to the city, Gibson told his story. 
 
SPRING STREET 1 1 1 
 
 "Red Mike," he said, did not become suspicious 
 until a second or so before the engineer applied 
 the brakes to the train and then his suspicion 
 seemed born of instinct. At the first sound of 
 the screeching brakes, he said "Red Mike" 
 shot at him and he fired back. 
 
 "I was lucky my first shot got him," Gib 
 son said. "He went down, but he continued 
 firing. He was shooting wild and I wasn t half 
 as afraid of his shots as those my men were 
 raining down from the sides of the hill. 
 
 "I hope," he said, with a touch of regret, 
 "that Red Mike doesn t die. He s a bad one, 
 as bad as they come, and should be put some 
 place where he can t do harm. I hope, though, 
 that he recovers." 
 
 "He hasn t much to live for," Brennan put 
 in. 
 
 "No," said Gibson. "He told me that he 
 had been blacklisted by the railroads because he 
 was an I. W. W. Revenge was as much a part 
 of his motive in attempting to wreck the Lark 
 as robbery. I really believe he might have got 
 away with it if " 
 
 "If you hadn t been there," John completed 
 the sentence for Gibson. 
 
 "Thanks, Gallant," Gibson acknowledged. 
 "Of course, boys, I ll have to talk to the morn 
 ing newspapermen when they find me, but you 
 saw the whole thing for yourselves and you ve 
 
112 SPRING STREET 
 
 got the only pictures made out there where it 
 happened." 
 
 "The A. M. s will get the break on the story, 
 but we ll have the edge on them at that," said 
 Brennan. "It was too late, you know, for us to 
 come out with an extra unless you had per 
 mitted us to tell our city editor what was com 
 ing off." 
 
 They left the automobile when it reached 
 their office. 
 
 "I m on my way home now to get this doc 
 tored up," said Gibson, inclining his head to his 
 bandaged shoulder. "I want a bath and a 
 sound sleep. I haven t had either since I met 
 Red Mike. Good night, boys, see you, to 
 
 morrow." 
 
 As they went into the office to telephone 
 P. Q. what they had seen and what- <- 
 the first edition in the morning, John, feeling 
 certain of a different answer than those he had 
 received in the past, asked Brennan what he 
 thought of Gibson now. 
 
 "He s got nerve, all right," Brennan said. 
 "But " 
 
 "But what?" asked John, wondering what 
 possible criticism Brennan could have in view 
 of Gibson s display of courage. 
 
 "But," said Brennan, "he s a grandstander." 
 
 "A grandstander?" exclaimed John. 
 
 "You said it, after me," said Brennan. "A 
 
SPRING STREET 113 
 
 grandstander, a man who plays to the crowd in 
 stead of playing the game for what it s worth." 
 
 A surge of exasperation went through John. 
 Was this man incapable of ever believing any 
 thing or in anyone? 
 
 "Good heavens, Brennan!" he said, hotly. 
 "He risked his life, didn t he?" 
 
 "I said he had nerve." 
 
 "He did it to save others, didn t he?" 
 
 "Others?" said Brennan sarcastically. 
 "Others? Bosh! He did it to be a hero, for 
 public acclamation, for glory, for power. 
 Others ? Why, don t you see that he risked the 
 lives of all those others you say he saved just 
 to make himself a hero?" 
 
 Brennan s answer, the sarcastic way he gave 
 it, maddened John. 
 
 "Ah, you make me tired," he said in his ag 
 gravation. "What do you want to look at it 
 that way for ? You tell me to keep my faith in 
 men, to believe as much as I can, and then you 
 talk this way." 
 
 Apparently ignoring what John said, Bren 
 nan telephoned to P. Q. 
 
 "Hello, P. Q.," he said. "This is Brennan. 
 Gibson has pulled off a great stunt, great story. 
 The mornings will have the break on it, but we 
 have the only pictures and lots of eye-witness 
 stuff." 
 
 He proceeded to give what even John admit- 
 
114 SPRING STREET 
 
 ted to himself was an accurate account of the 
 attempt to wreck the "Lark" and how Gibson 
 had saved the train and "shot it out" with 
 "Red Mike." 
 
 Hanging up the receiver he looked around 
 to find John standing waiting for him. Light 
 ing a fresh cigarette from the butt of the one 
 he had finished he motioned to John to sit 
 down. 
 
 "Now, Gallant, you listen to me for a 
 while," he said. "You can believe what I m 
 going to say or not, but I m going to tell you 
 a few things. And don t get the idea I m just 
 talking for the sake of hearing myself blatt. 
 
 "Hasn t it ever occurred to you that Gibson 
 didn t have to go through with this business to 
 night at all? When he discovered that Red 
 Mike was going to try to wreck the Lark he 
 could have had him arrested right then and 
 sent him up for a good long stretch. 
 
 "He didn t have to let things go as far as he 
 did. He could have stopped it right there. 
 Why, he actually endangered the lives of every 
 one on that train simply to make a big show of 
 it. There wouldn t have been so much glory in 
 it for him to have arrested Red Mike when 
 he found out what he was planning to do. 
 
 "Sure, he had nerve. He did what few of 
 us would want to do, even if we were forced to. 
 Red Mike got no more than he deserved, but 
 
SPRING STREET 115 
 
 I can t help thinking of him as something of a 
 victim of Gibson s lust for glory and power just 
 the same. A really great man doesn t have to 
 make a display of his courage like Gibson did. 
 A really great man would have been satisfied 
 by the realization that he had prevented a dis 
 aster without endangering the lives of others. 
 
 "That s why I say Gibson is a grandstander, 
 Gallant. Understand, when I say he s a grand 
 stander I don t mean that he isn t sincere in his 
 crusade to clean up the city. He s simply a 
 grandstander in the way he does things and 
 that makes it impossible for him to ever be a 
 truly big man. 
 
 u Grandstanders often make good, but not in 
 the way some of us would like. Oftener they 
 fall down, tripped up by their insatiable desire 
 for public acclaim. Full reward should be 
 given to those who do big things, but they 
 shouldn t do them for the reward. They 
 should work for the satisfaction their accom 
 plishments bring to themselves, within them 
 selves." 
 
 "I saw you shooting at Red Mike yourself," 
 said John. 
 
 "Certainly," said Brennan. "Don t think I 
 class Gibson with criminals like Red Mike. It 
 was either his life or Red Mike s and what 
 choice was there? I confess, though, it was the 
 
116 SPRING STREET 
 
 excitement more than anything else that made 
 me shoot." 
 
 They were silent for a few minutes. 
 
 "Think it over, Gallant," said Brennan, ris 
 ing and putting a hand on John s shoulder. U I 
 may sound like a cynic, but I m not. There s 
 one thing that disgusts me more than anything 
 else and that s selfish hypocrisy. I look for the 
 real things in life and I ve been disappointed so 
 often that I frequently misjudge. 
 
 "Remember we re newspaper reporters. 
 Whatever we think, whatever we feel, about 
 things must be kept to ourselves. It isn t our 
 opinion that people want to read. It isn t how 
 things look to us, but facts, truth, accuracy, that 
 we must write. Opinions we must leave to the 
 readers to form for themselves and it is unfair 
 to give them untrue impressions for them to 
 form their opinions from." 
 
 John carried Brennan s words home with 
 him. Until he dropped off to sleep he thought 
 them over. Perhaps Gibson was a grand- 
 stander, a glory seeker, after all but was he to 
 be blamed if what he sought above all else was 
 the admiration of one like Consuello? 
 
 Gibson s heroism in preventing the wreck of 
 the "Lark" covered the front pages and scat 
 tered throughout the inside pages of the morn 
 ing papers. The whole city talked of him. 
 There were more resolutions of commendation 
 
SPRING STREET 117 
 
 and he was termed the "fighting crusader," the 
 "man of the hour." 
 
 Spread across the front page was a statement 
 issued by Gibson and carried under the head 
 line of "Gibson Hits at Police." In this state 
 ment Gibson again condemned Sweeney as in 
 efficient. 
 
 "If my detectives, working where Sweeney s 
 men ought to be, had not discovered Red 
 Mike s plot the Lark would have been 
 wrecked last night, scores killed, the mail car 
 robbed and Red Mike would have been over 
 the border today," a part of the statement 
 read. 
 
 It was a telling blow to the mayor and Police 
 Chief Sweeney. Gibson was sweeping every 
 thing before him. For the mayor or the chief 
 to have detracted from Gibson s act by hinting 
 that he should have informed the police and 
 caused "Red Mike s" arrest without going 
 through with the plot to the point of assisting 
 in placing the derailer on the track would have 
 been instantly resented as an embittered and un 
 grateful move a cry of "sour grapes." 
 
 During the day John received his first praise 
 from P. Q., who called him to his desk. 
 
 "Brennan tells me that if it had not been for 
 you we wouldn t have been in on Gibson s little 
 party last night," the city editor said. "I told 
 you Gibson would be a man worth knowing. 
 
1 1 8 SPRING STREET 
 
 You re coming along splendidly, Gallant. Just 
 keep it up and practice writing. Read Bren- 
 nan s stuff and study how he does it. I ll give 
 you all the chance you want and there ll be a 
 little more in your pay envelope this week." 
 
 John thanked him and hunted up Brennan. 
 
 "It was mighty kind of you to tell P. Q. that 
 I ve helped you," he said. 
 
 "Forget it," said Brennan. 
 
 "Your story had all the others beaten to 
 death," he said, referring to what Brennan had 
 written of the attempted train wreck. 
 
 "Forget that, too," said Brennan. 
 
 Later in the afternoon he heard from Con- 
 suello. He was considerably surprised when he 
 recognized her voice. 
 
 "I do so want to thank you for what ap 
 peared in your paper about Mr. Gibson," she 
 said. "He tells me that it was the best account 
 of what occurred that appeared in any of the 
 papers." 
 
 "I m sorry," John confessed, "but it hap 
 pens that I did not write a word of it." 
 
 "Really? I thought he said you were there 
 
 "I was, but you must remember I m only a 
 cub. I couldn t be trusted with a big story like 
 that. It was written by our star man. 
 
 "Wasn t it wonderful?" 
 
 "You mean what Mr. Gibson did?" 
 
SPRING STREET 119 
 
 "Yes," before he realized he added, "and I 
 have an idea that to hear you say so means 
 more to him than all that has been written." 
 
 "He has been kind enough to say some 
 thing like that." 
 
 Then she laughed. 
 
 "I suppose," she said, "he wouldn t care very 
 much to have me tell you such things. You 
 wouldn t believe me if I told you that what he 
 said didn t please me, would you?" 
 
 "Well " 
 
 "I won t insist that you answer that." 
 
 "You spoke of wishing to meet mother?" he 
 ventured. "You were so kind Sunday could 
 you would you visit us at home? It s not 
 much but it s home, you know." 
 
 "I ve been waiting for you to say that," she 
 replied. "Make it whenever you wish. I do 
 want to meet your mother." 
 
 "Sunday for dinner?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "At three." 
 
 "At three," she repeated. 
 
 Mrs. Gallant rejoiced with him that evening 
 over the increase in salary P. Q. had promised 
 him. She had learned of Consuello from the 
 talks they had each evening, when John re 
 counted to her the events of the day. 
 
 "I ll do my best to make things nice for her," 
 Mrs. Gallant said when John spoke to her of 
 
120 SPRING STREET 
 
 having invited Consuello for dinner Sunday. 
 "It is so good of her to wish to meet me." 
 
 "Mother," he said, taking her in his arms, 
 "no one can be a friend of mine who is not a 
 friend of yours." 
 
 "Not even Consuello?" she asked him, ban- 
 teringly. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A CCLAMATION of Gibson s frustration 
 ^ of the plot of "Red Mike" to wreck the 
 u Lark" grew in volume the following day. 
 The train wrecker hovered between life and 
 death at the receiving hospital and, during his 
 conscious periods, cursed the police commis 
 sioner incessantly. There was talk of Gibson 
 as a recall candidate for mayor, but he met it 
 with repeated declarations that he had no 
 political ambitions. 
 
 During the morning, at P. Q. s order, Bren- 
 nan and John with reporters from the other 
 papers, besieged the city hall seeking an inter 
 view with, or statement from, the mayor on 
 Gibson s demand for Chief Sweeney s re 
 moval and the situation in general. 
 
 "Nothing to say at all, boys, nothing at all," 
 the mayor said. "If I have anything for you 
 I ll call you." 
 
 Regardless of this promise the reporters 
 camped in the ante-room to the mayor s office, 
 listing those who entered for conference with 
 the city s chief executive officer and speculating 
 on the outcome of the political war. It was 
 John s first sight of the mayor and he consid 
 ered him a rather mild little man, pleasant 
 faced and of an attractive although somewhat 
 
122 SPRING STREET 
 
 easy-going personality. The men with whom 
 he conferred were his political advisers, most 
 of them business men whose names were famil 
 iar to John as interested in civic enterprise. 
 
 While the other reporters were busily en 
 gaged in conversation John saw the mayor s sec 
 retary signal with a nod of his head for Bren- 
 nan to step into another room. With a remark 
 that he was going to the telephone Brennan 
 slipped into the room and John saw the sec 
 retary whisper in his ear. 
 
 At one o clock, an interval between editions, 
 the other reporters went out for lunch. Bren 
 nan and John followed them into the corridor 
 and John saw Brennan wink to him. 
 
 "See you later, boys," Brennan said, "got 
 some stuff I have to get out." 
 
 When they were alone Brennan told John to 
 follow him and they returned to the mayor s 
 office. They were met in the ante-room by the 
 secretary, who ushered them into the room 
 where the mayor was leaning back in a big easy 
 chair, his feet crossed and perched on his desk, 
 and blowing thin clouds of smoke into the air 
 from a slender cigar. 
 
 The secretary closed the door behind them 
 and John heard the lock click shut. The mayor 
 looked at them without changing his position. 
 
 "Who s your friend?" he asked, nodding to 
 John. 
 
SPRING STREET 123 
 
 "John Gallant, Mr. Mayor," Brennan said. 
 "Gallant is helping me on this story. You can 
 trust him as much as you trust me." 
 
 John shook hands with the mayor. 
 
 "As you say, Brennan," he said. "I suppose 
 you have an idea why I sent for you." 
 
 Brennan nodded. 
 
 "Whatever we say here now isn t for publica 
 tion, you understand," admonished the mayor. 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 The mayor puffed at his cigar and gazed up 
 at the ceiling. For fully a minute nothing was 
 said. Then he jerked his feet from the desk, 
 sat upright in the chair and leaned forward. 
 
 "Brennan," he said, "am I a fool?" 
 
 John almost gasped in astonishment at the 
 mayor s question. He was about to smile when 
 he noticed that the faded blue eyes of the mild 
 little man at the desk were glittering with any 
 thing but an amused light. 
 
 "I ve never thought so," said Brennan. 
 
 "Well," said the mayor, leaning back in his 
 chair again, "everyone I ve talked with here 
 today says I am and I was beginning to think 
 they might be right." 
 
 "For appointing Gibson?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "No, for thinking what Lcan t help thinking 
 about him," said the mayor, rising from his 
 chair and beginning to pace back and forth 
 
124 SPRING STREET 
 
 across the room, his hands thrust into his pock 
 ets, the cigar clenched between his teeth. 
 
 They waited for him to continue. 
 
 "Brennan," he said, stopping short in his 
 striding, "you know what I think of you. 
 You ve helped me before and if I m right this 
 time you can help me again and land the big 
 gest story you ever got in your life. If I m 
 wrong, then I am a fool and the sooner I get 
 out of office the better it will be for me and the 
 city." 
 
 He went back to his chair. 
 
 "Do you know what I ve been thinking?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "That Gibson isn t straight," said Brennan. 
 
 "Exactly," said the mayor. "And you can 
 guess who I think is behind him." 
 
 " Gink Cummings," said Brennan. 
 
 "You re right again," the mayor thumped 
 the desk with his fist. "It s the Gink, as sure 
 as I m sitting here. That s what I told those 
 who were here to see me today and everyone of 
 them called me a fool. I may be, but I have a 
 man-sized hunch that I m not." 
 
 "Gink" Cummings, boss of the underworld, 
 behind Gibson? Impossible. It was nothing 
 but a weak attempt at retaliation, John thought. 
 The mayor s advisers were right. He was a 
 fool ! Why did Brennan sit there and listen to 
 such stuff? 
 
SPRING STREET 125 
 
 "Now, get me right," continued the mayor. 
 "I have nothing except a hunch that Gibson is 
 backed by the Gink. I haven t the slightest bit 
 of real evidence to form a basis for my sus 
 picion, but I believe I can see a pretty deep 
 game in this." 
 
 "Go ahead, let s see if you figure it out the 
 way I do," said Brennan. 
 
 "All right," said the mayor. "In the first 
 place, the Gink has been against me, trying to 
 get me ever since I took office, you know that?" 
 
 Brennan nodded. 
 
 "He tried everything he could think of and 
 I ve beat him every time. He knows he can t 
 stay in Los Angeles unless I m out of office. 
 So what s he to do? He gets a man like Gib 
 son, starts this so-called clean-up campaign to 
 get Gibson political power, stages or directs 
 this Lark wreck business and figures I ll quit 
 so that Gibson can slip in here under the guise 
 of a reformer, but really a figurehead, a pup 
 pet, to appease the churches and other organi 
 zations standing for a clean city and law en 
 forcement while the Gink bosses things from 
 behind the scenes. 
 
 "It s been done before. It s an old trick and 
 it works almost every time. Haven t you 
 noticed that Gibson began his attack as soon as 
 I appointed him commissioner and that he has 
 never said a word about the Gink whom he 
 
126 SPRING STREET 
 
 knows just as well as I do is the city s worst 
 enemy? This fellow Gibson is only a mas- 
 querader." 
 
 "That s the way I figured it might be," said 
 Brennan, as the mayor paused, "but there is 
 one obstacle. How did the Gink ever get Gib 
 son? How did Gibson, who seems to have 
 plenty of money and a social position, ever fall 
 into the Gink s hands? What was his mo 
 tive?" 
 
 The mayor smiled for the first time since 
 they entered the room. 
 
 "Ah, Brennan, my boy, that s exactly what 
 everyone asks me," he said. "But I haven t 
 been asleep. When Gibson started all this 
 business I got busy and I know a few things 
 that help a lot. There seems to be plenty of 
 reason for Gibson to be working for the 
 Gink. " 
 
 "How?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "Well," continued the mayor, "I ll only tell 
 you what I know now. Gibson was highly 
 recommended to me when I appointed him; you 
 may be sure the Gink was that careful. But 
 I wasn t the only one who was tricked. There 
 were others, the ones who recommended him. 
 
 "I ve been digging into Gibson s past a little 
 and I find that about three years ago, at the 
 time I was elected, he was broke, flat broke. 
 He had a social position through his family. 
 

 SPRING STREET 127 
 
 His father and mother, who are well known and 
 well respected and who are dead, left him only 
 a little. Three years ago he was in debt and 
 then, suddenly, from some mysterious source, 
 money began to flow into his hands. I don t 
 know where it comes from, but he has it. 
 
 u He paid all he owed and began building up 
 a reputation as a fine young fellow, so that he 
 now has the esteem of men and women and or 
 ganizations that count for much. His motive? 
 Money!" 
 
 "That s a long shot, Mr. Mayor," said Bren- 
 nan, "a long, long shot." 
 
 "I know it," said the mayor. "That s why 
 I called you in here, today." 
 
 "That s all the information you have ?" asked 
 the reporter. 
 
 "That s all I have," the mayor said. "But 
 it s been done before and it seems to me that 
 Gibson isn t so smart that he could make the 
 moves he has alone. You know the Gink. 
 You know how clever he is and how painstak 
 ing and patient he is in everything he does. 
 What do you say?" 
 
 "It s a long shot, but it s worth it," Brennan 
 said. "If you re going through with it you can 
 begin by sitting tight, keeping Sweeney in office 
 and working as hard as you can to get evidence 
 that will break Gibson and the Gink if they 
 are partners once and for all." 
 
128 SPRING STREET 
 
 The mayor rose from his chair and began 
 his pacing back and forth again. He pushed 
 out his short, thin legs to twice the length of his 
 ordinary stride. He tossed the stub of his cigar 
 over his shoulder and it fell at John s feet. He 
 snapped his teeth on the end of a fresh cigar 
 and thrust his hands into his pockets. 
 
 He crossed over to a window looking down 
 on Broadway and his nervousness disappeared 
 as he gazed into the throbbing thoroughfare 
 below him. From where he was sitting John 
 could see that the mayor had a fond look in his 
 eyes as he watched the roaring traffic of the 
 principal street of the great city that had hon 
 ored him by electing him to its highest office. 
 
 Finally he turned and came slowly back to his 
 desk. He stood erect beside it and John saw a 
 look of determination come over the features 
 he had considered so mild and pleasing. 
 
 "By God" he used the name of the Crea 
 tor softly, reverently, as if he were invoking 
 aid from the Almighty "Brennan, I ll do it." 
 * * # * * 
 
 Sunday morning John and his mother pre 
 pared for Consuello s visit to their modest little 
 bungalow home. There was little that he could 
 do to help, as Mrs. Gallant had arranged every 
 thing and spent most of the time in the kitchen 
 preparing the dinner which he saw was to be 
 
SPRING STREET 129 
 
 one of the repasts his father had so often termed 
 a "feast fit for a king." 
 
 u My boy is truly a man now," she said to 
 him. "Do you realize that this is the first time 
 you have ever invited a girl to your home?" 
 
 He laughed as he took her in his arms to pet 
 her. 
 
 "Mother, dearest," he said, "I know what 
 you have been thinking, but you are wrong. 
 Consuello is a wonderful girl and sometimes I 
 cannot understand why she has been so kind to 
 me. She is only a friend, dearest, and you 
 mustn t think that your boy is in love with her 
 or that she is in love with him." 
 
 Mrs. Gallant smiled up to him. 
 
 "You think a lot of her," she said. 
 
 "I do," he admitted. "She has been so very 
 kind. She believes I am helping someone she 
 seems really to care for." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I understand," Mrs. Gallant said. 
 "You run along now and let me finish what I 
 have to do." 
 
 In the living room he picked up the volume 
 of "David Copperfield" he had been reading 
 through for the first time since his father s 
 death. Musing as he turned the pages he 
 thought how thankful he was to his father for 
 having made reading interesting to him. He 
 remembered that the books his father had read 
 to him and had given him to read, books that 
 
130 SPRING STREET 
 
 crammed the small bookcase near the fireplace 
 and filled every shelf and table in the room, 
 were the very best Dickens, Thackeray, Wash 
 ington Irving, Shakespeare, Walter Scott, Ad- 
 dison, and of the later writers, Kipling, O. 
 Henry, Anatole France, Mark Twain, Barrie. 
 
 "If I ever have a boy I will teach him to read 
 as my father taught me," he said to himself. 
 
 Consuello arrived a few minutes before three. 
 He saw through the window the machine in 
 which they had ridden to her father s ranch the 
 previous Sunday draw up to the curb outside. 
 He watched her descend from the tonneau, 
 speak to the chauffeur, who touched his cap, and 
 turn toward the walk leading to the house. She 
 wore the same dainty white dress she wore each 
 time he had seen her and a white, summery, 
 wide-brimmed hat. 
 
 He went out to meet her. 
 
 "You see," she said, "I m not one of those 
 who believe in being fashionably late. What 
 a pretty little place you have." 
 
 His mother met them at the door. She had 
 doffed her kitchen apron and her face was 
 slightly flushed from the heat of the range, he 
 knew as she smiled at Consuello with an ex 
 tended hand. 
 
 "Miss Carrillo, my mother," John said. 
 
 "I m happy to meet you, Miss Carrillo," 
 
SPRING STREET 131 
 
 Mrs. Gallant said. "John has spoken so often 
 to me of you that I really feel I know you." 
 
 "I have been so anxious to meet you to 
 know you," Consuello said. "I, too, feel I 
 know you because he has told me so much 
 about you. I only wish I had been thoughtful 
 enough to have had you with us last Sunday. 
 The next time you must be with us." 
 
 Consuello was unaffected, John thought, in 
 her praise of his mother s dinner. She insisted 
 upon aiding in the removal of plates from the 
 table and for the most part her conversation 
 was with Mrs. Gallant. What delicious salad, 
 she must have the dressing recipe if Mrs. Gal 
 lant would be so kind as to give it to her. She 
 told in details that were meaningless to John 
 of the Spanish dishes her mother prepared, of 
 the barbecue feasts of the old days she re 
 membered as a child. 
 
 He could see that his mother was interested, 
 pleased, and he was relieved that Consuello 
 alleviated the awkwardness imposed by the 
 absence of someone to wait upon them. He 
 left the table once to answer a ring at the door 
 and found Mrs. Sprocket s husband there, 
 coatless and collarless as usual. 
 
 "Is Maude here?" asked Mrs. Sprocket s 
 husband, trying to appear as though he was not 
 peering past John, which he was. 
 
132 SPRING STREET 
 
 John was certain that Mrs. Sprockett s hus 
 band knew as well as he did that Mrs. Sprock- 
 ett was not with them. He had more than a 
 suspicion that Mr. Sprockett, having seen the 
 automobile bring Consuello, had crossed the 
 street out of pure curiosity. 
 
 "No," he said, shortly, an impulse rising in 
 him to add, "and you know it." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Sprockett s 
 husband, humbly. "She didn t say, you know 
 I thought she might have the baby " 
 
 As on the night of his father s death John 
 heard the Sprockett infant, who, he had a vague 
 idea, was the eleventh or twelfth, wailing some 
 where in the Sprockett home. 
 
 "No trouble," he said, shutting the door in 
 the other s face. 
 
 They had been in the living room an hour 
 after dinner when Mrs. Gallant rose. 
 
 "You must excuse me, Miss Carrillo," she 
 said. "There is a neighborly duty I must attend 
 to. Please remain until I return; it won t be 
 long." 
 
 John was rather disappointed that his mother 
 should leave them, but he understood how she 
 was constantly being required for one reason 
 or another by the neighbors. Alone, their con 
 versation took another course. 
 
 "And as things are now, after he has dem 
 onstrated his courage in a way that leaves no 
 
SPRING STREET 133 
 
 doubt, are there still those who are horrid 
 enough to doubt Mr. Gibson?" she asked. 
 
 He was bound by the confidence he had en 
 tered into with Brennan not to reveal any part 
 of the mayor s view of Gibson and his suspicion 
 that the commissioner was the tool of "Gink" 
 Cummings. The mayor, however, had publicly 
 taken his stand of "sitting tight," as Brennan 
 had suggested, and had flatly refused to oust 
 Chief Sweeney. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "Their doubt seems 
 to have been made even stronger by what he 
 did in preventing the wreck of the Lark. 
 
 Her eyes opened in astonishment. 
 
 "How?" she asked. "How can they pos 
 sibly doubt him now?" 
 
 He explained to her Brennan s view that Gib 
 son s frustration of "Red Mike s" plot was a 
 "grandstand play," without mentioning Bren 
 nan. She sat silent for several minutes after he 
 had concluded. Then, raising her head and 
 looking directly at him, she said : 
 
 "Because we are friends I will tell you why 
 I know so certainly that what you say cannot 
 be true. Mr. Gibson and I have known each 
 other since our school days. His father and 
 mother were near and dear to my father and 
 mother. He has been almost like a brother 
 to me. 
 
 "I believe I know him for what he is, a 
 
134 SPRING STREET 
 
 gentleman. I don t think there is anything of 
 his plans in this crusade that he has not told me. 
 He is kind enough to feel that I have his inter 
 est at heart, that I want him to succeed, for his 
 own sake, for the sake of his family and his 
 name. 
 
 "He has no other motive in all this but to do 
 what he has pledged himself to do make Los 
 Angeles a better place to live in. He is purely 
 an altruist. When he has accomplished what 
 he has set out to do he will retire from pub 
 lic life altogether with the satisfaction of know 
 ing he has stood for law and order and de 
 cency, that he has done something for the city 
 in which he lives and which he loves. That will 
 be his only reward, the satisfaction he feels 
 within himself." 
 
 She paused, her eyes downcast. 
 
 "There is one other reward that is, he says 
 it will be a reward that he tells me he will 
 claim if he is successful," she said, softly. 
 
 He knew what she meant and he wondered 
 if she would say it. 
 
 "There is a girl he loves and who believes 
 she loves him," she said. 
 
 So, perhaps, Brennan had guessed it when 
 he speculated, "Sometimes it s a girl." 
 
 "The girl, has she the reward, has it been 
 promised him?" he asked. 
 
SPRING STREET 135 
 
 He saw the tinge of crimson steal into her 
 cheeks. 
 
 "She it has," she answered, softly. 
 
 "I understand now," he said. "I know now 
 why he faced death the way he did. What man 
 would not?" 
 
 This last he spoke quietly, as if to himself. 
 
 "Can you think of him as insincere, as faith 
 less, as selfish, as greedy for power?" she asked. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I ve told you things that are sacred," she 
 said. "I have told you because I regard you 
 as a friend. I liked you from the moment we 
 met " 
 
 "And I said you were beautiful?" he inter 
 rupted. 
 
 She smiled back to him. 
 
 "And you said I was beautiful," she repeated. 
 "But not simply because you said it, but be 
 cause I thought you meant it." 
 
 "I often wonder how I had courage to say 
 that to you and to tell you I dreamed of meet 
 ing you again," he said. "I have often won 
 dered why you have been so kind, why you are 
 interested in me at all. At first I thought it was 
 only only what you might call pity and I re 
 sented it." 
 
 "Why is it we have such thoughts?" she said. 
 "Why must we always impute a misconceived 
 motive?" 
 
136 SPRING STREET 
 
 Because deceit has its place in the human 
 heart, I suppose," he said, and, strangely, he 
 thought of the mayor s regard of Gibson as a 
 figurehead of hypocritical virtue who sold him 
 self for money. How terrible it would be if 
 that were true ! 
 
 As if by mutual unspoken assent they talked 
 of other things, of books, of plays, of life, until 
 Mrs. Gallant returned, apologizing again for 
 her absence. A few minutes later the automo 
 bile which had brought Consuello glided up to 
 a halt in front of the house and, glancing at her 
 wrist watch, she arose. 
 
 "I must be going," she said. "It s my turn 
 now to thank you for a wonderful day, Mrs. 
 Gallant; you will promise to meet father and 
 mother, won t you?" 
 
 "I would be delighted," Mrs. Gallant said. 
 
 They escorted her to the waiting automobile. 
 John imagined he saw Mrs. Sprockett and her 
 husband peering out of the window of the 
 Sprockett house across the street. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE trust that Consuello reposed in him 
 when she told him of her promise to marry 
 Gibson, John held inviolable to the extent that 
 he did not mention it to his mother. It 
 strengthened his belief that Brennan and the 
 mayor were in error in their suspicion that Gib 
 son was linked with the notorious "Gink" Cum- 
 mings and that his clean-up crusade was only 
 aimed to overthrow the administration and 
 make the "Gink" the boss of the city. 
 
 Had he been free to tell the mayor and 
 Brennan that Gibson was striving to accomplish 
 his crusade with the principal motive of win 
 ning the girl he loved, John felt that the sus 
 picion against the police commissioner would be 
 undermined. He could not bring himself to 
 believe that Brennan would deliberately lend 
 himself to the mayor s plan to attack Gibson 
 unless he actually believed that there was some 
 reason to suspect the commissioner. 
 
 There were but few developments in the feud 
 between Gibson and the mayor during the week 
 after Consuello s visit to the Gallant home. 
 Sentiment throughout the city was obviously in 
 favor of Gibson, whose sensational capture of 
 "Red Mike," averting, as it did, the wreck of 
 
138 SPRING STREET 
 
 the "Lark," gave him a strong hold upon the 
 public. The mayor s refusal to remove Chief 
 Sweeney, putting him on record as opposing the 
 commissioner, was generally considered the last 
 defiant move of a man cornered and doomed to 
 defeat. 
 
 Later in the week John was upset by the first 
 dissension that had ever arisen between him 
 and his mother. They were on the porch of 
 their home in the evening when John recalled 
 that he had overlooked asking Mrs. Gallant 
 her opinion of Consuello. As this recollec 
 tion came into his mind, it also occurred to him 
 that his mother had never volunteered to say 
 anything of Consuello after her visit to their 
 home the previous Sunday. 
 
 "Mother, dear," he said, "tell me, did you 
 like Miss Carrillo?" 
 
 He felt that the question was almost un 
 necessary and asked it casually. He was sur 
 prised when she hesitated before answering. 
 Looking up to her, he saw a hint of worry in 
 her expression. 
 
 "She seemed a pleasant girl," she said slowly. 
 
 "Seemed?" he repeated, incredulously. 
 "Why, mother, you speak as if you did not like 
 her." 
 
 "I m sure I would like her if I understood," 
 she said, her eyes upon her needle and crochet 
 work. 
 
SPRING STREET 139 
 
 "Understood?" he gasped. "Understood 
 what?" 
 
 "My dear boy, please do not become irritated 
 by what I say," she said, lifting her head to 
 look at him. "You know I would not hurt you 
 for anything in the world." 
 
 "I know, mother, but I cannot imagine " 
 
 "I know you can t," she said interrupting 
 him. "If you had you would have explained it 
 all to me days ago. Come, don t let us quar 
 rel. I may be foolish to have thought what I 
 have, but you must remember, my boy, that I 
 am a mother and a woman." 
 
 "What under the sun has come into your 
 head to talk like this, mother?" he asked. 
 
 She placed her needlework in her lap and 
 reached over to stroke his head. 
 
 "Don t be cross with your mother, John," 
 she said. "I m sure it s all a misunderstanding, 
 something you can clear away with a few words, 
 and when you do please do not ever hold it 
 against me for having had such thoughts. 
 
 "You know, John, things have changed 
 greatly since I was a girl, but I cannot help my 
 self from having the viewpoint of other days." 
 
 "What is it, mother? Tell me, what is it?" 
 he asked, somewhat impatiently. 
 
 "You won t be cross and hate me?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then I ll tell you. My boy, I cannot un- 
 
140 SPRING STREET 
 
 derstand why Miss Carrillo lives in the city 
 alone and away from her parents." 
 
 He looked at her in amazement. 
 
 "Mother, surely you don t " he began. 
 
 It was incomprehensible, unbelievable. If 
 she had spoken against the name of his dead 
 father John could not have been more startled 
 than by this questioning in his mother s mind of 
 Consuello. 
 
 "I don t think anything," she said, again 
 stroking his head. "But, between you and me, 
 John, there should be not even the slightest 
 misunderstanding. That s why I have spoken 
 to you like this. Probably, if she has not told 
 you, you never thought to ask yourself that 
 question. Perhaps I should not ask it, even to 
 myself, but I am a mother and a woman and 
 it s natural for us to doubt when it concerns one 
 we love." 
 
 "You have no right to misjudge," he said. 
 
 "I don t misjudge, my boy; I only wait for 
 your answer." 
 
 It flashed into his mind that he could not an 
 swer, could not tell her why Consuello lived in 
 the city, but it did not cause him to waver. 
 Consuello s words, "Why must we always im 
 pute a misconceived motive?" the question she 
 had asked when they had discussed those who 
 doubted Gibson s sincerity, and his answer, "Be 
 cause deceit has its place in the human heart, I 
 
SPRING STREET 141 
 
 suppose," came back to him. He could not, 
 however, imagine deceit in his mother s heart, 
 and he knew that the seed of suspicion in her 
 mind had been cultivated into an ugly weed of 
 doubt by some one else. This thought calmed 
 the indignation which was surging through 
 him. 
 
 "Mother," he said, "I do not know why she 
 lives alone in the city. She has never told me 
 and I have never asked. I did not consider it 
 my business. Not for a moment has a shadow 
 of doubt entered my head. Can t you see 
 can t you tell by looking at her? 
 
 "She may be with friends. She may be study 
 ing. She may be working. Whatever she is 
 doing, you nor I have no reason to let an evil 
 thought about her stay with us for a moment." 
 
 For several minutes they said nothing. Then 
 Mrs. Gallant broke the silence. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, "was that Miss Car- 
 rillo s automobile that brought her here, Sun 
 day?" 
 
 "Oh, mother!" he exclaimed, exasperated. 
 
 "I m sorry, John. I only thought you might 
 tell me." 
 
 "I don t know and I don t care," he said, 
 coming to his feet. "Mother, this is all fool 
 ishness rank foolishness. Here you and I 
 sit quarreling over things that are none of our 
 business. I never thought it of you. I never 
 
142 SPRING STREET 
 
 thought you could think such things, let alone 
 breathe a word about them. I never " 
 
 "John, John," said Mrs. Gallant, pleadingly, 
 "don t, don t!" 
 
 U I can t believe it s you," he said, angrily. 
 "Some one has been putting these infernal 
 thoughts into your head some gossiping, 
 scandal-loving, evil-thinking " 
 
 "My boy!" 
 
 He stopped and the anger that had surged 
 so swiftly slowly left him left him ashamed 
 that he had given way to his temper, ashamed 
 that he had spoken so sharply to the one he 
 loved more than any one in the world, and who, 
 he knew, loved him as no one else would ever 
 love him. 
 
 Her head was bowed in her hand, her arm 
 resting on the side of her chair. He went to 
 her and dropped on his knees at her feet. 
 
 "Mother, dearest," he said, softly, "please, 
 please don t cry. I was a brute. I shouldn t 
 have spoken to you the way I did, but I was 
 angry. Please, no misunderstanding must come 
 between us. You are everything in the world 
 to me, mother, and I trust you, believe in you." 
 
 "I only wanted to know for your sake," 
 she said. 
 
 "I know, mother, I know. That is what you 
 have always done thought of me first. But, 
 
SPRING STREET 143 
 
 don t you see, mother, she is nothing more than 
 a friend to me. And she has been kind, so very 
 kind and good, and I know she is only the sweet, 
 dear girl I believe her to be. If you had only 
 been with us when we went to her home, 
 mother. If you only knew her as I know her, 
 and you re going to. You re going to know 
 her and like her." 
 
 "Yes, yes, my boy. I know I will. But, 
 John, there is so much evil in this world, so 
 much that we cannot understand, so many dis 
 appointments, so many cruel things, so much 
 wickedness, and I only think of you, my boy 
 only of you. I could not bear to have you care 
 for some one and then be " 
 
 "I know, mother, dearest, I know," he said, 
 petting her hands. "Now, we ll forget all about 
 it, won t we? You ll not let doubt come into 
 your mind again, will you? Don t be over 
 cautious in your care over me, mother. And 
 don t think I m in love. I do think she is sweet 
 and kind and beautiful, and I thought you would 
 like her because she is is is what I would 
 call an old-fashioned girl." 
 
 "Old-fashioned girls are scarce these days," 
 said Mrs. Gallant. "I do so hope she is all 
 that you believe her to be." 
 
 "And I am forgiven for the things I said in 
 haste, tonight?" he asked. 
 
144 SPRING STREET 
 
 She kissed his forehead. 
 
 "And you ll forgive your foolish old mother 
 who loves her boy so?" 
 
 She rose and moved toward the door. 
 
 "You ll be coming in soon?" she asked. 
 
 "In a little while, mother," he said. "It s 
 such a wonderful evening I m going to enjoy it 
 for a few minutes more." 
 
 Alone, John speculated on Consuello s rea 
 son for living in Los Angeles while her parents 
 remained at home on the ranch. The prob 
 ability that she worked in the city became 
 stronger in his mind when he thought of how 
 her father had spoken to him of their reduced 
 circumstances, the fact that but little remained 
 of the vast estate once owned by the Carrillo 
 family. He was reasonably certain that the 
 automobile which Consuello told him was placed 
 at her disposal by a "friend" was owned by Gib 
 son, and that the long friendship between the 
 two families, combined with privilege permitted 
 by their engagement to be married, made it 
 possible for her to accept such accommodation. 
 
 How unlike his mother it had been for her 
 to question Consuello s mode of living! He 
 excused her suspicion for two reasons first, 
 that the doubt had been put into her mind by 
 some one else and, second, because her great 
 love for him had carried her too far. 
 
 The mockingbird that had warbled on the 
 

 SPRING STREET 145 
 
 night of his father s death began its song in a 
 tree near by. As he listened, meditative, he 
 saw Mrs. Sprockett glide across the street to 
 the Sprockett house, returning from one of her 
 unceasing visits to other homes than her own. 
 His instinctive dislike for Mrs. Sprockett 
 caused him to blame her for creating suspicion 
 
 against Consuello in his mother s mind. 
 
 ***** 
 
 During the following week John learned the 
 answer to his mother s question of why Con 
 suello lived in Los Angeles, away from her 
 parents, the inquiry that had provoked him to 
 anger because he took it as an insinuation 
 against Consuello s character. 
 
 Consuello called him one morning by tele 
 phone. 
 
 "Have you an hour or so to spare, today?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "It all depends " he began. 
 
 "I know you are a busy man," she said, "but 
 I thought you would like to see something in 
 teresting. It s a surprise I have been saving 
 for you." 
 
 He had a premonition that she was about to 
 give him the answer to his mother s question. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. She laughed before 
 she replied: 
 
 "Oh, it would spoil it all to tell you now. 
 Didn t you hear me say it was a surprise? I 
 
146 SPRING STREET 
 
 want you to come out to an address I will give 
 you if you say you are able to get away from 
 your office." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "This afternoon, as close to two o clock as 
 you can make it." 
 
 "May I call you in a few minutes and give 
 you my answer?" he asked. "You see, I must 
 have the permission of my city editor if I 
 leave the office except on newspaper business." 
 
 "I ll wait for your answer," she said. 
 
 P. Q. gruffly gave him permission to go off 
 duty at one o clock. He hurried back to the 
 telephone and told her that he would be able to 
 see her. She gave him an address in Holly 
 wood. 
 
 "You will be stopped at the door," she told 
 him, "but tell whoever stops you that you are 
 the gentleman I am expecting and there won t 
 be any further difficulty. I ll look for you at 
 two, then." 
 
 When he reached the address she gave him, 
 shortly before two o clock, John s first feeling 
 was that he had misunderstood the directions 
 she had given him. Before him, inclosed by a 
 high fence over the horizon of which he could 
 see the tops of queer structures, stood the ram 
 bling studio of the Peerless Pictures, Inc., one 
 of the largest motion picture producing con 
 cerns in the capital of filmdom. At one side of 
 

 SPRING STREET 147 
 
 a large open gateway, near an oddly shaped 
 sentry box, was a fat, red-faced man tilted 
 back in a kitchen chair. 
 
 The man was eyeing him as he approached 
 the gateway. 
 
 "Hey, just a minute, son, where do you think 
 you re going?" the man shouted, turning his 
 head to glare at the intruder. 
 
 "Inside," John said. 
 
 "Well, you don t say Hey, there, just a 
 minute !" this last as John, who had a secret 
 delight in baiting officiousness, continued toward 
 the gateway. 
 
 "Who do you think you want to see in there ?" 
 demanded the guard. 
 
 "I don t THINK I want to see anyone; 
 Miss Carrillo sent for me," said John, wonder 
 ing if this would be the password and feeling a 
 thrill go up his backbone at the thought he 
 might be at the wrong place. 
 
 "What s your name?" 
 
 "Gallant John Gallant." 
 
 "Why didn t you say so in the first place? 
 What do you think I am, a mind reader? The 
 clairvoyants are all east of Main street, son, 
 all east of Main street. Keep right on going, 
 you ll find her on stage number three." 
 
 His heels crunched into the finely-graveled 
 driveway as he walked in the direction pointed 
 out to him by the guard, who condescended to 
 
148 SPRING STREET 
 
 leave his chair for the purpose of guiding him. 
 He passed two huge barn-like structures and 
 found the third designated in large white let 
 ters, "Stage No. 3." A superstructure of 
 black cloth and laths was built out from the 
 doorway at right angles to the stage building, 
 a precaution, he later learned, against daylight. 
 
 It was his first visit to a motion picture 
 studio. He had no interest in pictures or the 
 people who played in them. His father, from 
 whom he inherited his love for books and the 
 better class of spoken drama, had always re 
 garded motion pictures as almost a profanation 
 of art. Once he had noticed an advertising 
 poster of a well known star referred to as a 
 "man s man," wearing a shirt open at the neck, 
 sleeves rolled to the elbows, riding trousers and 
 shiny leather puttees, endeavoring desperately 
 to appear like a combination of Sandow and a 
 Northwest Mounted Police officer. He had 
 had the satisfaction of hurling a rock to mar 
 the "virile" face as it looked down defiantly at 
 him from the billboard. 
 
 He had always imagined that all motion pic 
 ture scenes were photographed in the open, on 
 roofless stages, and the idea that Southern 
 California s perpetual sunlight gave the best 
 service for this purpose he believed to be the 
 reason that Los Angeles was the principal pro 
 ducing point of the world. It surprised him 
 
SPRING STREET 149 
 
 when he realized that the barn-like structures 
 were inclosed stages. 
 
 Was Consuello a screen player or had she 
 some other work connected with the production 
 of pictures, designer, scenario writer, director, 
 art expert? Or was she only at the studio as a 
 visitor, inviting him to be with her because 
 some particular star was playing or some es 
 pecially interesting scene being staged? 
 
 Entering the cloth and lath superstructure 
 he found himself in pitch darkness. Unable to 
 see his hand before his face he stopped to ac 
 custom his. eyes to the absence of any light. A 
 voice spoke out of the dark: 
 
 "Do you wish to see anyone?" it asked. 
 
 "Miss Carrillo," he answered, having an un 
 canny feeling as he spoke to someone he could 
 not see and yet whom he know was close at 
 hand. 
 
 "Miss Carrillo is on the set was she expect 
 ing you?" the voice asked. 
 
 "She told me to be here and to mention that 
 she was expecting me," he said. 
 
 "This way, then, please." 
 
 He turned in the direction from which the 
 voice came and walked slowly, cautiously, until 
 his feet encountered steps. He mounted the 
 steps with a strange feeling that he was about 
 to fall on his face. 
 
 Reaching the top step he felt himself on a 
 
150 SPRING STREET 
 
 level floor. Shafts of light, escaping from 
 between tall objects before him, invaded the 
 darkness. A stringed orchestra was playing 
 something soft, plaintively sweet. He rec 
 ognized the music as Schubert s "Serenade." 
 He stumbled over a sawhorse and his guide 
 turned upon him with a quick admonition to be 
 more careful. Except for the music there was 
 not a sound. 
 
 Turning past one of the tall dark objects, 
 which he afterward discovered were painted 
 canvas scenery, he halted at a signal from the 
 man who was leading him and who continued 
 to go forward on tiptoes, a muffled curse escap 
 ing him as a board squeaked under foot. John 
 named his guide "Mr. John J. Silence " in his 
 mind. 
 
 Before him two arc lamps threw a bluish 
 white light on a set representing the interior of 
 a finely furnished room. Between the lamps 
 were two cameras which were being cranked by 
 two tall young men in khaki trousers and leath 
 er puttees who wore the peaks of their caps 
 turned backward like children playing "fire 
 man." Near the cameras a man with horn- 
 rim spectacles sat in a canvas chair, a man 
 uscript in his hand. Scattered about were a 
 dozen men and women, poised tensely, as if 
 they were afraid to move a muscle. To 
 the left was the orchestra, a violin, cello and 
 
SPRING STREET 151 
 
 bass viol. Why, thought John, do bass viol 
 players always have that far-away, woebegone 
 look on their faces as they saw at their 
 instruments? 
 
 From where he stood it was impossible for 
 John to see what was before the cameras. He 
 strained his eyes in a vain attempt to identify 
 Consuello as among those standing behind the 
 lamps. He saw his guide speak to one of the 
 figures a man and then turn to signal to him 
 violently and silently to approach, pressing his 
 forefinger to his lips as a final admonition to 
 be quiet. 
 
 u Mr. John J. Silence bids me approach," 
 John said to himself. 
 
 He tiptoed forward. A board creaked under 
 his foot. It could not have had more effect if it 
 had been a pistol shot. Instantly all except the 
 cameramen turned on him quickly. He 
 imagined little arrows darting at him from 
 their eyes, those little arrows cartoonists use 
 to illustrate a fixed stare by one of their sub 
 jects. Never had he seen such a look of min 
 gled pain and exasperation as crossed the face 
 of "John J. Silence." He stood stock-still, fear 
 ful that if he made another sound they would 
 pounce upon him and tear him limb from limb 
 while "John J. Silence," completely overcome, 
 writhed in agony on the floor. 
 
 By carefully testing the flooring each time 
 
152 . SPRING STREET 
 
 before he put his full weight on his foot, he 
 managed to reach a point behind the cameras 
 without having that battery of aggravated eyes 
 turned upon him again. Now no one favored 
 him even with a turn of the head. He saw 
 that Consuello was not in the group. The man 
 in the canvas chair spoke, softly, appealingly. 
 
 "Now, Miss Carrillo, you think of how 
 happy you two were together days that are 
 never to be again he s gone gone forever 
 that s it tears come up in your eyes he s 
 (deep voice) gone, (deeper voice) gone, (very 
 deep) g-o-n-e." 
 
 Risking those reprimanding eyes again, John 
 stepped to one side to enable himself to see 
 around the man who was in front of him, block 
 ing his view of the set. 
 
 He saw Consuello, a strange, sad Consuello, 
 her face ghastly pale under the bluish white 
 light, her naturally beautiful features hidden 
 under a mask of paint and powder, but Consu 
 ello, just the same. Heavy tears that brimmed 
 from her eyelids coursed down her cheek, 
 sparkling in the glare of the lamps. Her 
 thickly rouged lips trembled; the fingers of one 
 of her hands, pressed tightly in her lap, beat 
 wildly on the back of the other beneath it. 
 
 She was seated in a large plush chair facing 
 the cameras. She wore an evening gown and 
 
SPRING STREET 153 
 
 her hair was arranged in a high coiffure that 
 
 made her look taller, older. 
 
 , "Cut!" commanded the man in the horn-rim 
 
 glasses. "That was splendid, Miss Carrillo, 
 
 splendid." 
 
 The cameras stopped grinding. Consuello 
 r o s e laughing. The orchestra stopped 
 abruptly. She came toward them, touching 
 lightly at her cheeks with a tiny handkerchief. 
 
 "It seems a shame to dry such perfectly real 
 tears," she said. 
 
 Then she saw John and came to him, her 
 hand outstretched. As if they were controlled 
 by a single mind and impulse the heads of every 
 one in the group turned to him. 
 
 "I m so glad you got here," she said. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 CO THAT was your surprise for me," he 
 ^ said, taking her hand. 
 
 She smiled, a strange and, to him, an unnat 
 ural smile, made so by the rouged lips and 
 painted face. Had it not been for the sound 
 of her voice he would have doubted if the girl 
 before him, still holding his hand while the 
 others scrutinized him, was Consuello. 
 
 "Speak, or I won t know it s you," he said. 
 
 "Were you really surprised?" she asked. 
 
 "Beyond words," he assured her. 
 
 She turned to the man with the horn-rim 
 spectacles. 
 
 "That is all?" she inquired. 
 
 "All for today, Miss Carrillo, thank you," 
 she was answered. "Tomorrow at 2, same 
 costume, but on the other set." 
 
 "Come," she said, turning to John. "We ll 
 have tea and a talk as soon as I return to to 
 normalcy that was Mr. Harding s way of ex 
 pressing it, wasn t it?" 
 
 She led the way across the floor, along a 
 twisting and turning path, through furniture, 
 furnishings and an accumulation of "props" to 
 the door. As they stepped out into the day 
 light again her face was more unlike the face 
 
SPRING STREET 155 
 
 of the Consuello John knew than it had been 
 in the half gloom inside. 
 
 They crossed a narrow asphalt-paved road 
 to a long two-story building. 
 
 "I won t be long," she said, opening the door 
 to the section in which her dressing room was 
 located. "When I m ready the maid will call 
 you. Will you wait here?" 
 
 "Don t hurry," he said. "I ll be right here 
 where you left me." 
 
 While he was waiting "John J. Silence" 
 emerged from the door of the stage building. 
 John frowned, pressed his forefinger to his lips 
 in the signal for silence that he had received 
 inside. "John J. Silence," grinning, tiptoed 
 away with ludicrous gestures. 
 
 In twenty minutes the maid called John to 
 the door, holding it open for him as he en 
 tered. 
 
 "This way, please," she said, taking the lead. 
 
 A dozen steps brought them to a door 
 marked with Consuello s name. John paused at 
 the threshold while the maid entered, return 
 ing in a moment to hold the door open for him 
 again. As he stepped inside she went out into 
 the corridor, closing the door after her. 
 
 John found himself in a tiny room with 
 brightly designed wallpaper, matted rugs, a 
 wicker chaise longue, wicker glass-topped table, 
 wicker tea wagon and wicker chairs, all dec- 
 
156 SPRING STREET 
 
 orated in a gay colored chintz. The heavy 
 curtains at one side of the room parted, and 
 Consuello the real Consuello again stood 
 before him attired in a tailored suit gorgeous in 
 its simplicity, setting off a dainty real biche lace 
 and batiste blouse. 
 
 "Well?" she said, as if she had been waiting 
 for him to speak. 
 
 "I ll say it again you re beautiful," he said. 
 
 The same half credulous look that she had 
 given him when he told her she was beautiful 
 that day they met for the first time at the Bar 
 ton Randolph lawn fete came into her eyes. 
 
 "I did not mean to ask you that," she said. 
 
 "I know," he returned, "but you are, and I 
 couldn t help saying so." 
 
 She took a chair near the tea-table and he 
 seated himself in the chair that was opposite 
 to her. 
 
 "I meant, what do you think of me now?" 
 she explained, pouring the tea into absurdly 
 small cups, one of which she handed to him. 
 
 "It was a surprise," he said. "I ll confess to 
 you now that you puzzled me. I could not 
 understand why you were well, exiled in the 
 city during the week. I imagined you were 
 either with friends as a sort of a permanent 
 guest or studying." 
 
 "You never thought of me as working?" she 
 asked. 
 
SPRING STREET 157 
 
 "Yes," he admitted, "I have, but I could not 
 picture you in any employment I could think of. 
 It was impossible to think of you as a stenog 
 rapher or a school teacher or a nurse or a 
 shop girl." 
 
 "All because you met me at a lawn fete 
 a society affair," she concluded. 
 
 "No. All because well, all because you 
 are you." 
 
 Was that a glint of pleasure he saw for the 
 briefest fraction of a second in her eyes? 
 
 "I asked you to come out here this afternoon 
 because I knew that you would find it out some 
 day, probably tomorrow or the next day, or 
 next week, and I wanted you to know that I 
 had not tried to keep it from you," she said. 
 "I want you to know, too, from me, why it is 
 I m here." 
 
 She paused and he waited for her to continue. 
 
 "I entered picture work because well, 
 frankly, we that is, father, mother and I are 
 alone in the world and poor," she said. "Really, 
 honestly poor. The last that we could afford 
 to spend from the little we have left was spent 
 on my education. Father insisted. 
 
 "Once, and it was not so many years ago, our 
 family was wealthy like other California fami 
 lies that received land grants. But father the 
 dear that he is like so many of his friends, 
 thought little of business or the future and 
 
158 SPRING STREET 
 
 slowly our land was sold until now only a few 
 acres of what we once had remain only the 
 few acres of the home you visited. 
 
 "Of course, I was fortunate. My family 
 name gave me entrance anywhere and still 
 does, although there are those who think I 
 have desecrated that name and who feel that 
 because we are in reduced circumstances we 
 have simply ceased to be. 
 
 u So when I was old enough to realize ex 
 actly what conditions were and what we faced 
 I was determined to do something. It was a 
 friend who was kind enough to believe and tell 
 me that I had talent for acting who first inter 
 ested me in motion picture work. And, not 
 to tire you with long, boresome details, I was 
 lucky. Somehow it was not difficult and I am 
 now receiving enough to keep us comfortable 
 without encroaching, as I said, on what little 
 father has left. 
 
 "There, you have my story," she concluded, 
 settling back in her chair. 
 
 "And the work, do you like it?" he asked. 
 
 "I do like it," she replied. "And, besides, 
 what else could I do? You have said yourself 
 that I could never be a stenographer, a school 
 teacher or a nurse or a shop girl." 
 
 "You could be anything," he hastened to 
 explain, "from a shop girl to a to a a 
 queen." 
 
SPRING STREET 159 
 
 "That s better," she concurred, smiling. 
 
 "Those tears you shed back there before the 
 camera, who were they for?" 
 
 "For the man I loved in the story," she 
 explained. "I was emoting as they call it 
 over his death. The inspiration was provided 
 by the orchestra you heard playing. My di 
 rector thinks it s wonderful that I can shed 
 tears whenever he asks me to. He says it s 
 a relief not to have to substitute drops of gly 
 cerine or hold a raw onion under his leading 
 woman s nose to bring about the required lach 
 rymal effect. To be able to cry easily before 
 the camera, he says, is the supreme test, be 
 cause to shed real tears you must have imagi 
 nation and imagination is everything." 
 
 "And how do you do it?" 
 
 "There are plenty of causes for tears in life, 
 far too many, don t you think?" she said. 
 "When my director calls for tears I simply 
 think of one of the many pictures I have seen 
 of starving children, an empty stocking at 
 Christmas time, a homeless kitten, an orphan 
 baby." 
 
 "Don t you ever think of the story and cry 
 because you are carried away by the imagina 
 tive sorrow of the death of the man you love?" 
 
 "No," she said, laughing. "How can 1? 
 Most of the time I m really glad not in the 
 story, of course that he s out of the picture. 
 
160 SPRING STREET 
 
 The publicity man always refers to me as a 
 star of the emotional type and writes yards 
 upon yards of stuff about how I actually live 
 the part I am playing. My imagination doesn t 
 carry me that far, though, and if imagination 
 is everything, as my director says, the publicity 
 man should be the greatest actor living." 
 
 "I don t pay much attention to pictures, but 
 I can t remember ever having seen your name 
 or photograph in the advertisements," he said. 
 
 "Have you ever noticed the name of Jean 
 Hope?" 
 
 "Often.". 
 
 "That is the name I took when I had ad 
 vanced far enough to be featured. It was sug 
 gested to me by the publicity man, who insisted 
 upon it being short and snappy, as he said, 
 something that would be easy to remember and 
 easy to put into type. Of course, I am not 
 obscured to my friends, who all know that 1 
 am Jean Hope. Only once have I had to be 
 positively firm with the publicity man and that 
 was when he wanted to make me the subject of 
 a newspaper story that society girls, as he 
 called them, were intent upon becoming motion 
 picture actresses. That, for the sake of my 
 friends, I simply had to refuse." 
 
 "I think," he said slowly, "that the name 
 your father calls you is the prettiest of them 
 all." 
 

 SPRING STREET 161 
 
 u Mi Primavera?" 
 
 "Yes, does anyone else call you that?" 
 
 "Only father," she said. "That is his pet 
 name for me My Springtime. 
 
 "You know," he said, "the story you told 
 me of the naming of Spring street; how Ord, 
 the surveyor, named it for his sweetheart, 
 whom he called Mi Primavera, is incomplete. 
 Tell me, if you know, did he eventually marry 
 the beautiful Senorita Trinidad de la Guerra?" 
 
 "I have often wondered that, myself," she 
 said. "Whether they were married or not 
 what a gallant, romantic thing it was for him 
 to do." 
 
 "And how few know the story!" he added. 
 
 "What dreams he must have had for the 
 upbuilding of that street he named for the one 
 he loved," she said. "I imagine he little 
 thought it was to become a business street, that 
 he thought of it always as lined with quaintly 
 beautiful Spanish homes, shaded and quiet, 
 with couples strolling along it at twilight and 
 rest and contentment everywhere." 
 
 "That was his dream," he agreed. "The 
 dream of a practical man a surveyor and a 
 soldier." 
 
 "And after all," she said, "is it as you said 
 once that it is only in books and plays that 
 dreams come true?" 
 
 Her chin resting in her hand, she gazed out 
 
162 SPRING STREET 
 
 the small chintz bordered window of the room, 
 preoccupied. He noticed the daintiness of her 
 profile, the placid sweetness of her face in 
 repose. 
 
 The silence was broken by a rap on the door 
 that startled him. 
 
 "Come in," she called. 
 
 The door opened and on the threshold stood 
 Gibson, the smile he had meant for her fading 
 from his face. 
 
 For a moment he paused, his hand still on 
 the knob of the door, as if he hesitated to 
 disturb them. Then, with the appearance of 
 putting whatever thoughts he might have had 
 from his mind, he strode in. 
 
 "Well!" he exclaimed. "This is a surprise. 
 How are you, Gallant? Haven t seen you 
 since the night we had our little engagement 
 with Red Mike, who, I have just been told, 
 will recover." 
 
 "I m so glad to hear that," said Consuello. 
 
 "And so was I," Gibson said. "No, no, Gal 
 lant, stay where you are. I ll sit here." 
 
 John had risen to offer Gibson the chair op 
 posite Consuello. He sought a way of reliev 
 ing the embarrassment he for one, felt when 
 Gibson made his unexpected entrance. 
 
 "Miss Carrillo has revealed herself to me 
 as Jean Hope," he explained. "Until this 
 
SPRING STREET 163 
 
 afternoon I had no idea she played in pic 
 
 tures." 
 
 Was it because she too, felt it necessary to 
 make some explanation that she said: 
 
 "You see, I realized that Mr. Gallant would 
 eventually learn about it and I wanted to sur 
 prise him myself." 
 
 "I m proud of my Consuello," Gibson said, 
 patting her hand and speaking to John. "She 
 is famous really, truly famous far more, 
 I m afraid than you or I will ever be, Gallant. 
 Still, she deserves it, and we don t that is, I 
 don t, at least. She is so famous that I find 
 it difficult to keep myself from becoming jeal 
 ous of her." 
 
 "Jealous of my good luck?" she asked, smil 
 ing. 
 
 "No, no; jealous of the admiration that is 
 showered upon you and those who give it. You 
 can understand why, can t you, Gallant?" 
 
 While Gibson seemed absolutely frank and 
 to have put the question only incidentally, John 
 had a feeling that it was something more than 
 a mere interrogation. He scanned Gibson s 
 face for a trace of a betrayal of his purpose in 
 putting the question to him. 
 
 "Easily," he replied. 
 
 "You are both more than kind to me," Con 
 suello said. "Come, now that we three are 
 
164 SPRING STREET 
 
 together, let s talk of what you re doing, Reg 
 gie. It s far more interesting. I ll call for a 
 fresh pot of tea." 
 
 She pressed a button in the wall and a maid 
 responded. 
 
 There s little more that is new," Gibson 
 said. "The mayor is still standing pat, al 
 though I have reason to believe that he is 
 feeling the pressure brought on him by those 
 that are supporting me, because he refuses to 
 remove Chief Sweeney. Most of the men who 
 are his advisers are dropping away from him. 
 His policy in the face of my attack apparently 
 dissatisfies them. I am waiting for one of 
 them to swing over to my side and tell exactly 
 what his position is." 
 
 John remembered the interview Brennan 
 and he had had with the mayor, and in his 
 mind, as vivid as it was when it occurred, he 
 saw the mayor solemnly pledge himself to 
 seek to establish what he suspected that Gib 
 son was in league with "Gink" Cummings. 
 
 "What will be your next move?" he asked. 
 
 "I have promised to clean up Los Angeles 
 and I mean to go through with it," Gibson re 
 plied. "With the mayor taking the position 
 he has, it s plainly up to me to carry on de 
 spite his opposition. I ll go ahead with my 
 plans to drive gamblers, crooks, bandits and 
 
SPRING STREET 165 
 
 women of the underworld from the city and 
 in doing so the people will be convinced that 
 I am in the right and blame the mayor for his 
 obstinacy in refusing to work with me. 
 
 "The big difficulty will be to get men to 
 assist me. I have the private detectives I have 
 employed, but I doubt if I can use them in 
 making raids. Of course, Sweeney will see 
 that I don t get any police officers to carry out 
 my orders, which leaves only the district at 
 torney and the sheriff from whom I can ask 
 assistance. I have been informed that the 
 sheriff is ready and willing to place a number 
 of his deputies at my command and they will 
 probably be the officers who will carry out my 
 orders. 
 
 "The fact that I am compelled to use deputy 
 sheriffs, who are county and not city employes, 
 in my crusade will have its effect, demonstrat 
 ing conclusively that the mayor does not intend 
 to assist me in any way in doing what is his 
 duty to keep Los Angeles clean." 
 
 "Surely, you re not going to take your life 
 in your hands again?" asked Consuello. John 
 perceived that she was sincerely concerned for 
 Gibson s safety. 
 
 "My dear Conny," he said patting her shoul 
 der, "the danger will be slight. I can t expect 
 to have things done and only sit back in my 
 office letting others do it." 
 
166 SPRING STREET 
 
 "But promise me that you will not take any 
 needless chances," she pleaded. 
 
 "You have my promise," he said. Then, 
 turning to John, he added: "You see, Gallant, 
 how it is. If I ever turn and run away from 
 danger, you will know I am only keeping a 
 promise." 
 
 "I don t believe there is any one who ques 
 tions your courage," John said. 
 
 "It s good of you to say that, Gallant," Gib 
 son acknowledged. "Now, suppose we hear 
 what you have to say. Tell us, what are you 
 newspaper men saying about this rumpus be 
 tween the mayor and me? What do you think 
 of what I m doing? Have you any sugges 
 tions?" 
 
 John hesitated before answering. What he 
 had heard the mayor say to Brennan was con 
 fidential. Even had he been at liberty to tell 
 it he doubted if he would have disclosed it, 
 for Consuello s sake. 
 
 "There is one thing upon which the re 
 porters are speculating," he said. 
 
 "What s that?" asked Gibson. 
 
 "They are wondering when you will launch 
 your attack in a new direction." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "By hitting at Gink Cummings." As John 
 mentioned the "Gink s" name he watched 
 Gibson s face closely to discover the effect it 
 
SPRING STREET 167 
 
 had upon the commissioner. He thought af 
 terward that Gibson had expected him to refer 
 to Cummings and that he had been, if any 
 thing, a trifle too well prepared to answer. 
 
 "I thought so," Gibson said. "Well, let me 
 tell you something, Gallant. I ll make things 
 hot for the Gink mighty soon. But, you 
 must remember, the Gink is only the effect 
 and not the cause of the trouble. The cause 
 is the failure of the mayor and Sweeney to 
 keep the lid down in Los Angeles. Cummings 
 is only powerful through the weakness of the 
 mayor and the chief. If they were on the job, 
 Los Angeles wouldn t be big enough for such 
 a man as Gink Cummings." 
 
 "Why don t you come out and say so?" John 
 asked, feeling reassured, however, by Gibson s 
 announcement that the "Gink" was not to be 
 overlooked. 
 
 "It s another case of where actions speak 
 louder than words, " the police commissioner 
 said. "Cummings isn t afraid of what someone 
 says is going to happen to him. He s a veteran. 
 He s heard that kind of talk before. So have 
 the people of Los Angeles. What he is afraid 
 of and what the people of the city want is 
 action." 
 
 "And who is this man, Gink Cummings?" 
 put in Consuello, who had been listening in 
 tently to the conversation between the two men. 
 
168 SPRING STREET 
 
 " Gink Cummings, my dear," said Gibson, 
 u is the boss of the element I hope to drive out 
 of Los Angeles. He rules like a king over 
 burglars, gamblers, pickpockets, bandits, swin 
 dlers and crooks of every description." 
 
 John took advantage of an opportunity. 
 
 "It s true, is it not, that the mayor and Cum 
 mings are enemies?" 
 
 "Yes, that s true, but they re political ene 
 mies," Gibson said. "The trouble is, how 
 ever, that the mayor is afraid of Cummings. 
 And so is Sweeney. They don t seem to have 
 the courage to go after him." 
 
 "Why don t they take this Gink person and 
 put him in the penitentiary?" asked Consuello. 
 
 Gibson laughed. 
 
 "That appears to be an impossibility," he 
 said. "They have tried it time and again, but 
 each time he was too clever for them." 
 
 "Of course," smiled Consuello. "It was 
 silly of me to have asked such a question. I 
 confess I m a perfect ignoramus about such 
 things." 
 
 A few minutes later they left the studio, 
 Gibson offering to convey John to his home 
 in his automobile. 
 
 "As often as I can I call for Consuello and 
 take her to her home," he explained. "We 
 are both so busy these days we have little 
 other time in which to see each other. I m 
 
SPRING STREET 169 
 
 glad I saw you this afternoon, Gallant, and 
 you may want to know that it won t be long 
 before I ll have some more real news for you." 
 
 As the automobile carried them toward his 
 home, John thanked Consuello again for hav 
 ing invited him to the studio. 
 
 "I don t believe I would have discovered 
 that you are Jean Hope for a long time," he 
 said. "From now on I ll never miss one of 
 your pictures." 
 
 "I have yet to view with complacency the 
 scenes in which she is in the arms of another 
 man," laughed Gibson. 
 
 After dinner that night he led his mother 
 to the porch, telling her he had news for her. 
 He was glad that he was able to answer her 
 questions concerning Consuello, although he 
 believed the unpleasant occurrence of a few 
 nights before was completely a thing of the 
 past, to be forgotten. 
 
 "Mother," he said, smiling, "I discovered 
 today what keeps Miss Carrillo in the city dur 
 ing the week." 
 
 Mrs. Gallant regarded him expectantly. 
 
 "You did?" 
 
 "Yes, she is working." 
 
 Mrs. Gallant smiled, as though the infor 
 mation given her by her son relieved a hidden 
 anxiety. 
 
 "And what does she do?" she asked. 
 
170 SPRING STREET 
 
 "She is in pictures," he answered. 
 
 The smile faded from Mrs. Gallant s face. 
 
 "In pictures!" she exclaimed. "Then she is 
 an " 
 
 "An actress," he supplied. "She invited me 
 out to her studio and told me all about how it 
 was while we had tea in her dressing room. 
 Why, mother! What s the matter? Mother!" 
 
 Mrs. Gallant had risen from her chair, a 
 strange, disconsolate expression upon her face, 
 and had gone back into the house. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A STONISHED even more than he had 
 / ^ been when she first questioned the pro 
 priety of Consuello s living alone in the city, 
 John hurried into the house after his mother 
 and found her in a chair beside a table in the 
 living room, her head buried in her arms. 
 
 "Mother!" he exclaimed, anxiously. "What 
 is wrong? Are you ill? Don t, mother, don t 
 cry. Speak to me, speak to me." 
 
 She did not answer. He stepped forward 
 quickly and lifted her face between his hands, 
 tenderly. He saw that her eyes were filled 
 with tears. 
 
 "Please," she said, drawing back her head. 
 He dropped his arms to his sides. "Please, I 
 must be alone," she said. 
 
 "Tell me, tell me, what is it?" he begged. 
 
 Rising a trifle unsteadily to her feet she 
 walked past him to the door. He wheeled as 
 she was about to step out of the room and 
 caught her in his arms. 
 
 "Mother, dearest," he pleaded, "what is it? 
 Is it because you do not approve? Is it so 
 terrible that she must work to live and that 
 she plays in pictures? Surely, you can t think 
 wrong of her?" 
 
172 SPRING STREET 
 
 Slowly she nodded her head. He stepped 
 back in amazement. How could she possibly 
 think such things? 
 
 "I had hoped, because she was a friend of 
 yours, that she would be what you thought 
 her," Mrs. Gallant said, tremulously. 
 
 "Why, mother, what are you talking 
 about?" he gasped. "She is my friend and 
 there is nothing to make me think that she is 
 anything but what I believed her to be, a dear, 
 kind friend." 
 
 Mrs. Gallant clasped her hands at her waist 
 and straightened her shoulders. 
 
 "She dared dared to receive you alone in 
 her dressing room," she said. "John, don t 
 you understand what that means? Don t you 
 know how wrong it was? Do decent girls do 
 such things? An actress! I ve heard enough 
 about them. An actress who allows herself to 
 be kissed and held in men s arms! An asso 
 ciate of " 
 
 He raised his hand quickly. 
 
 "Mother!" he expostulated, "you can t say 
 that. You can t, you can t." 
 
 For a moment they stood facing each other 
 and an expression of despair crossed her fea 
 tures as she whirled around and left the room. 
 John stood stunned until he heard the door 
 of her bedroom close. With a heavy sigh he 
 threw himself into a chair and bowed his head 
 
SPRING STREET 173 
 
 in his hands, staring distractedly at the design 
 in the rug under his feet. 
 
 Until far into the night he sat there, think 
 ing, thinking, thinking. Mingled exasperation 
 and perplexity racked his brain and finally he 
 attempted to collect his thoughts and reason it 
 all out. It was ridiculous, he thought, and yet 
 so serious. Gradually he came to study the 
 entire situation from the viewpoint of his 
 mother and by doing so he came to a solution 
 of the difficulty. His heart softened toward 
 her and he found an excuse for her antipathy 
 for Consuello. 
 
 Primarily, he understood his mother s great 
 love for him, her desire to protect him, guard 
 his happiness and assure his success in life 
 was the cause for the unreasonable attitude she 
 had taken toward the girl who had been so 
 kind to him. Perhaps his mother still clung 
 to her hastily-formed idea that he was in love 
 and that his undisciplined heart" the de 
 scriptive words were fresh in his mind from 
 his reading again of "David Copperfield" 
 would lead him into trouble. 
 
 And then he easily comprehended her aver 
 sion to motion pictures and those who played 
 in them, insupportable by facts as it was. The 
 strict, narrow training she had received as a 
 girl had nurtured in her an abhorrence of pub 
 lic performers, particularly actors and ac- 
 
174 SPRING STREET 
 
 tresses, whom she regarded without exception 
 as libertines. This misconception had been 
 increased by the scandalous and equally slan 
 derous stories that had reached her ears con 
 cerning motion pictures and the life led by 
 those engaged in the producing of photoplays 
 in Hollywood. 
 
 The faults of one or two who became in 
 volved in scandal of some sort she gave to all. 
 Because a motion picture actress, as human 
 as any other woman and as liable to imperfec 
 tion, sought a divorce in the courts she in 
 stantly, in Mrs. Gallant s mind, became an im 
 moral character. A motion picture actor at 
 tacked by a blackmailer because of his wealth 
 and prominence, was adjudged guilty of what 
 ever wrong of which he was accused. It was 
 an unfair and unjust attitude common to thou 
 sands of women as wholesome in character, as 
 kindly and merciful in disposition and as 
 saintly to those who loved them and were loved 
 by them, as Mrs. Gallant. 
 
 In his unsuspecting delight in being able to 
 explain to his mother why Consuello lived 
 apart from her parents, he had completely 
 overlooked her foible in disliking motion pic 
 ture players simply because they were mem 
 bers of that profession. Likewise he had for 
 gotten precaution by telling her that Consuello 
 had received him in her dressing room. He 
 
SPRING STREET 175 
 
 had been unable to tell her that Consuello, al 
 though she enjoyed work and had a pride in 
 it, had entered the pictures to provide for her 
 aging parents. The confidence, as he regarded 
 it, that Consuello had placed in him in in 
 forming him that she and Gibson were engaged 
 to be married, he could not, he felt, reveal. 
 
 He pondered for a time over a disconcerting 
 thought that possibly it had not been proper 
 after all, for Consuello to have allowed him 
 to see her in her dressing room, alone, without 
 having previously mentioned to Gibson her in 
 tention of doing such a thing. It had been ob 
 vious that Gibson was genuinely surprised 
 when he found John with her. He finally 
 dismissed any apprehension created by this 
 thought by recalling Consuello s apparent 
 guilelessness. 
 
 He fatigued his brain in a vain endeavor to 
 decide upon some means of overcoming his 
 mother s prejudice. Setting aside the fact 
 that he wanted them to be friends, to know 
 and find in each other the things he admired 
 in them, the principle of the whole affair con 
 cerned him. He remembered how different 
 his father had been, how tolerant, how ready 
 to withhold adverse judgment of a person until 
 both sides of the story had been heard. 
 
 Weary, unhappy, disconcerted, he went to 
 his bedroom and puzzled over his problem 
 
176 SPRING STREET 
 
 until he fell asleep. Mrs. Gallant had com 
 posed herself, somewhat severely, when he saw 
 her in the morning at breakfast. There was 
 a trace of haggardness in her face that told 
 him she, too, had spent a restless night. 
 
 u Mother, dear," he said, holding her in his 
 arms before he left for work, u you know how 
 much I love you." She seemed to yield a little 
 in response to his tenderness. 
 
 "I know, my boy," she said, "and you must 
 realize how much I care for you." 
 
 "Oh, I do, I do," he said, "you have always 
 been a wonderful, wonderful mother to me. 
 Remember, nothing must come between us." 
 
 Her severe aspect, which, he knew, she as 
 sumed to compose herself, disappeared and 
 the love that she bore him as her first and only 
 son shone in her eyes as she kissed him when 
 he left. It was like the kisses she had given 
 him when he was a grammar school boy. 
 
 Later in the day John met an old friend 
 whom he had almost forgotten. It was the 
 scrawny youth with the twisted nose and the 
 husky voice who had been a second in his 
 corner the night he fought Battling Rodriguez 
 to get money to pay for his father s funeral. 
 He remembered the youth as Murphy when 
 he met him lounging at the counter of a cigar 
 stand at the entrance to one of Spring street s 
 
SPRING STREET 177 
 
 most celebrated saloons, which now was con 
 verted into a soft drink and lunch establish 
 ment and which was frequented by men who 
 loitered in and around it for the associations 
 it held for them and the memory of other 
 days. 
 
 Murphy, a brown paper cigaret drooping 
 from the corner of his mouth, hailed him as 
 he passed. 
 
 "If it ain t da Gallant kid!" he said, speak 
 ing from beneath the visor of his cloth 
 cap, pulled tightly around his ears. They 
 shook hands. 
 
 "Hello, Murphy, what have you been doing 
 since the night that Mexican nearly killed 
 me?" asked John, feeling somehow that he 
 owed the second something for the care 
 he had taken of him after he had staggered 
 from the ring, bruised and battered. 
 
 "Oh, da same old stuff, da same old stuff," 
 Murphy replied. "Haven t been doin any 
 more fightin , have ya?" 
 
 "No," said John, with a laugh, "the beat 
 ing the Battler gave me was enough. You 
 know, it s a good man who knows when he 
 has had enough." 
 
 "Ya didn t seem to know when ya had 
 enough da night ya mixed it with da Battler," 
 said Murphy. "Ya took a beltin 1 that night 
 and came up for more as long as ya could," 
 
178 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Let s step inside; I ll buy you a drink of 
 whatever they have," John invited. 
 
 Over steins of near-beer which Murphy 
 drank with a wry face John learned that 
 Battling Rodriguez had fought himself to the 
 top and was now boxing main events at 
 Vernon, at the American Legion stadium in 
 Hollywood and occasionally in San Francisco 
 and San Diego. He told Murphy that he 
 was working on the newspaper, endeavoring to 
 develop himself into a reporter. 
 
 They were about to leave and had turned 
 away from the bar when there was a scuffle 
 of feet at the front door. John was startled to 
 see a number of men rush in and form a line 
 across the front of the long room. 
 
 It flashed into his head that the men were 
 bandits. One of them, he saw, had a gun in 
 his hand. But this suspicion was quickly 
 routed from his mind when one of the men, 
 apparently the leader, stepped forward and 
 shouted a command: 
 
 "Get in the corner, there, you birds, you re 
 pinched," he ordered. 
 
 John recognized the men as deputy sheriffs 
 and for a moment he was nonplussed. Then 
 he stepped forward to explain there was no 
 cause for them to arrest them. 
 
 "In the corner, I said, in the corner," 
 
SPRING STREET 179 
 
 shouted the foremost of the deputies, pushing 
 John back. "Get over there or I ll put you 
 there, see!" 
 
 John "saw." He stepped back into the 
 corner of the room which the deputy indicated, 
 joining a group of a dozen men herded there 
 by the other deputies who swept through the 
 "saloon." Murphy, beside him, whispered 
 in his ear : 
 
 "Don t get excited, kid, it s nuttin ; just 
 another phoney pinch, dat s all." 
 
 "But what for?" asked John. 
 
 "Loiterin around a handbook joint. You ll 
 be squared, kid, you ll be squared. Stick with 
 me and you ll come out on top; ten bucks 
 to the good." 
 
 One of the deputies marched up to the 
 corner, pushing a young fellow before him. 
 
 "Tried to duck out the back door," the 
 deputy explained to his brother officers. He 
 shoved his prisoner into the group in the 
 corner. "I guess that s all of them. Let s 
 get them out of here. Come on, you birds, 
 out the door; step lively and no funny busi 
 
 ness." 
 
 Murphy was at his side as they walked out 
 into the street, guarded on each side by the 
 deputies. A motor truck was backed up to 
 the curb and in it were fifteen or twenty men, 
 young and old, laughing and smoking. A 
 
180 SPRING STREET 
 
 crowd of men and women, spectators to the 
 raid, thronged the sidewalk on either side. 
 
 John stepped to the side of one of the de 
 puties. 
 
 "Listen, old man," he said. "I m a re 
 porter." 
 
 The deputy stepped back in mock surprise. 
 
 "You don t say so!" he exclaimed. "A 
 reporter, eh? Well, you ain t nobody, see! 
 Why, one of your pals we got in there told 
 me he was the sheriff s nephew. Another 
 one tried to bull me that he was one of Gib 
 
 son s men." 
 
 "Gibson!" exclaimed John. Then it dawned 
 on him; this was one of the police com 
 missioner s "personally conducted" raids, his 
 first attack on "Gink" Cummings, without a 
 doubt. 
 
 "Yes, Gibson," said the deputy. "What 
 about it?" 
 
 "Is this one of Gibson s raids?" he asked. 
 
 "You guessed it," snapped the deputy. 
 "Now, get along there. Hop on that truck 
 with the rest of the gents and see if you can t 
 get consolation from the sheriff s nephew and 
 the bird that tried to bull me he was working 
 for Gibson." 
 
 "But I am a reporter," protested John. 
 "You ll find out soon enough." 
 
SPRING STREET 181 
 
 "Don t get gay!" threatened the deputy. 
 "Don t get gay!" 
 
 John scrambled on the truck. 
 
 "Come right along, brother, join our party," 
 said a red-faced man in a brown check suit 
 and a greasy derby hat, who reached down 
 to help John up. 
 
 The truck was now crowded with stand 
 ing men. Three of the deputies swung them 
 selves up on the back of it to act as a rear 
 guard. Murphy squirmed through the tightly 
 packed load until he reached John s side 
 again. 
 
 "Listen, kid," he said in his husky voice. 
 "If you want to find out something about dis 
 game, just keep your trap shut and do what 
 Tim Murphy tells you. Get me? I was tipped 
 to dis raid but I didn t know it was coming so 
 soon or I d got ya out of it, see? It s a phoney, 
 see. There s ten bucks in it for ya if ya go 
 through with it like I tell ya, see?" 
 
 "What are you talking about, Murphy?" 
 John demanded. 
 
 "I know what I m talkin about and don t 
 you forget it," Murphy said. "Just do what 
 I tell ya, will ya?" 
 
 "All right," he agreed. 
 
 The truck turned to the left at First and 
 Spring streets and struggled up the grade at 
 
182 SPRING STREET 
 
 First west of Broadway, backing into the 
 curb in front of the central police station. By 
 the time they were leaving the truck John had 
 decided to "go through with it," as Murphy 
 had suggested. It would be an adventure, at 
 least, and Murphy s repeated assertions that 
 it was u a phoney" invited investigation. He 
 knew that a word to Kenyon, the police re 
 porter for his paper, would get him out of his 
 trouble, but he concluded he had nothing to 
 lose and perhaps something to gain by follow 
 ing Murphy s whispered instructions. 
 
 Herded into an alley-way leading back to 
 the desk sergeant s room were, John estimated, 
 more than 150 other men and boys, arrested 
 like himself and evidently brought to head 
 quarters in other trucks. In this crowd he 
 learned that every place along Spring street 
 where it was suspected that a handbook on the 
 races at Tia Juana was being operated had 
 been raided simultaneously by squads of dep 
 uty sheriffs detailed to the command of Police 
 Commissioner Gibson by the sheriff. Over 
 the heads of the crowd he caught a glimpse of 
 Gibson himself surrounded by Kenyon and 
 the other police reporters. He saw Gibson 
 pose for a photograph with the crowd of men 
 he had arrested as a background. Once, he 
 thought, he had a glimpse of Brennan in 
 conversation with Police Chief Sweeney. 
 
SPRING STREET 183 
 
 "Have ya got ten bucks on ya?" asked 
 Murphy. 
 
 "Why?" he asked. 
 
 "Dat s da bail," explained Murphy. 
 
 "I ve got it," he said. "Have you yours?" 
 
 "Murphy s always got his bail money wid 
 him," the twisted nose youth grinned. "Re 
 member, now, stick wid me." 
 
 "Right-o," said John. 
 
 "Gwan!" Murphy made the word the acme 
 of disgust. "If I hadn t seen ya mix it wid 
 de Battler I d bust ya for dat," he said. Evi 
 dently "right-o" w r as not a w r ord calculated to 
 win in Twisted Nose s vocabulary. 
 
 Slowly, like a line of theatergoers approach 
 ing the box office, the crowd worked its way 
 toward the desk sergeant s counter, where two 
 police officers were booking the prisoners, re 
 ceiving $10 in bail from each and handing 
 them a receipt for the money. Murphy and 
 John finally reached the counter. 
 
 "Murphy Tim Murphy," said John s com 
 panion, stepping up to the desk and speaking 
 before the desk sergeant asked him his name, 
 as if it was an old ceremony which he knew by 
 heart. 
 
 "Murphy Tim Murphy," repeated the 
 officer at the huge book. "If no one was 
 looking, Murphy, I d slip you out the back 
 door for having a name like that." 
 
184 SPRING STREET 
 
 Murphy handed over his $10 in bail, re 
 ceived his receipt slip and stepped to one side 
 to wait for John. 
 
 "Gallant John Gallant," said John, follow 
 ing Murphy s lead. 
 
 "Ten bucks," said the desk sergeant. 
 
 M No, I mean what am I arrested for?" 
 
 "Oh, you re particular, are you? Well, it s 
 loitering in a gambling resort and playing the 
 handbook. I suppose you ll ask for a jury 
 trial?" inquired the officer, with pretended 
 politeness. 
 
 He produced his $10 and was given a re 
 ceipt. Murphy tugged at his arm. 
 
 "Come on," he whispered. "Da sooner we 
 get back da better." 
 
 John followed him out into the street. 
 Turning to the right, Murphy walked rapidly 
 down First street toward Broadway, his arm 
 hooked to John s. 
 
 "Now, Murphy," he said, "tell me what s 
 this all about what are you going to do?" 
 
 "Well, listen, kid, and I ll spill it to ya," 
 Murphy said, talking as they walked. "Dis 
 raid was all a phoney, get me?" 
 
 "A phoney?" 
 
 "Ya, a phoney! Fixed, framed, phoney, 
 see ? I get my orders da other day. A friend 
 o mine tips me. He steers me dat de hand 
 books are goin to be pulled and if I m pinched 
 
SPRING STREET 185 
 
 for me to go through with it and there ll be 
 ten bucks in it for me." 
 
 "How?" asked John, impatiently. 
 
 "I ll get my ten bucks from da boss for 
 bein a good little boy and gettin pinched, 
 see? It s dis way: Dis new commissioner, 
 Gibson, wants to make a big play, get me? 
 He wants to do a grandstand on da book 
 makers and de Gink s for him, see?" 
 
 "The Gink ?" exclaimed John. " Gink 
 Cummings?" 
 
 "Sssh, not so loud, not so loud," cautioned 
 Murphy. 
 
 "You mean to tell me that the Gink is help 
 ing Gibson?" John demanded, coming to a 
 standstill. 
 
 "Come on," said Murphy, tugging at his 
 arm. "I didn t say dat, did I? All I said 
 was dat da Gink was for him pulling the 
 bookies. Search me, why. I figures it dat da 
 Gink has split with da bookies and is out to 
 teach em to behave." 
 
 "Then this raid was just what Cummings 
 wanted?" 
 
 "Dat s it. If it wasn t we wouldn t be get- 
 tin our ten back and ten on top of it. I was 
 steered to hang around a bookmaking joint 
 for a few days so dat when Gibson and his 
 deputies come there would be somebody to 
 get pinched, see?" 
 
186 SPRING STREET 
 
 "And were all those other men tipped to do 
 the same thing?" 
 
 "Sure. Dey got a few suckers but de bunch 
 was all in on the know." 
 
 "But how did the Gink know beforehand 
 that the raid was going to be made?" 
 
 "Say," expostulated Murphy, "ask me some- 
 pun easy, will ya? Da Gink knows every 
 thing before it happens, see? If he didn t 
 he wouldn t be da Gink, dat s all." 
 
 A thrill went through John. He was "in 
 on the know," as Murphy had put it. What 
 a discovery he had made ! What would Bren- 
 nan say when he told him? What would the 
 mayor say? And what would Gibson say? 
 
 They were back before the place in which 
 they had been arrested. Murphy turned, guid 
 ing John by the arm with him. 
 
 "Now keep your trap shut and let me do da 
 talkin , see?" he admonished as they went 
 through the swinging doors. 
 
 Inside things were exactly as they had been 
 before the raid, except that there were twice 
 as many in the long room. John recognized, 
 the red-faced man in the brown check suit 
 and the greasy derby hat who had helped 
 him on to the truck as he stood at the bar, a 
 glass of near-beer in front of him and chat 
 ting with the bartender, who was pulling on his 
 white coat again. 
 
SPRING STREET 187 
 
 Murphy led him to the back room and 
 rapped on a door. 
 
 "Come in," a voice called. 
 
 Murphy opened the door and entered, beck 
 oning to John with a jerk of the head to fol 
 low him. 
 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 room was small and dark, the only 
 light coming from an electric lamp over an 
 old-fashioned, battered roll-top desk that com 
 pletely filled the wall at one end. Between 
 John and Murphy and the desk was a scarred 
 oak table behind which sat a thin-faced man, 
 an unlighted cigar protruding from a corner 
 of his mouth. 
 
 "Shut the door," said the man, without re 
 moving the cigar. 
 
 John closed the door. 
 
 "Who s this with you, Murphy?" the man 
 snapped out his words and eyed John keenly. 
 
 "He s all right, Slim," Murphy replied. 
 
 "Sure?" asked "Slim," quizzically. 
 
 "I ain t gonna let anybody fool you or me, 
 am I, Slim?" 
 
 "Not if you want to stay alive," returned 
 "Slim." "Was he picked up in the raid, too?" 
 
 "He was wit me all through it," said Mur 
 phy. 
 
 "All right, then, I ll take your word for it, 
 Murphy," said the man behind the desk. 
 "But remember, if he s a stoolie, you re the 
 bird that s going to get it." 
 
 "Don t I know?" Murphy assured him. 
 
SPRING STREET 189 
 
 "Where s your tag?" asked "Slim." 
 
 Murphy produced the receipt for his bail 
 money and tossed it on the table. u Slim" ex 
 amined it and then, without looking up, asked : 
 
 "And where s yours?" 
 
 John noticed Murphy s almost impercep 
 tible jerk of his head. He drew his bail receipt 
 from his pocket and tossed it on the table as 
 Murphy had done. Holding the slip of paper 
 in both hands "Slim" examined it closely, 
 looked up inquiringly at John, and then reach 
 ed into his pocket, bringing forth a thick roll 
 of bills. He snapped the rubber band from 
 the roll and extracted from it four bills. Re 
 turning the roll to his pocket he divided the 
 four bills equally and pushed them across the 
 table. 
 
 Murphy took two of the bills and John 
 reached out his hand for the other two. As 
 his fingers touched the bills, "Slim s" hand 
 closed down on them. 
 
 "Just a minute," he heard "Slim" say. His 
 nerves jerked tight as he looked down into 
 the thin, hard face of the man in the chair. 
 For two or three seconds they looked into 
 each other s eyes. Then "Slim" spoke. 
 
 "You re on the square with Murphy and 
 me?" he asked. 
 
 John nodded his head. "Slim" still held 
 his hand on the bills. 
 
190 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Say it," he demanded. 
 
 "I m on the square with you," John said. 
 
 "Slim" released his hand. 
 
 "All right, beat it now and forget you ever 
 saw me," he said. John and Murphy left the 
 room, each with two $10 bills. The red- 
 faced man with the greasy derby winked at 
 John as they passed him. They hurried 
 through the afternoon crowd in Spring street 
 until they were a block from the saloon. 
 
 John was the first to speak. 
 
 "Murphy," he said, "who is this man, 
 Slim ?" 
 
 " Slim s da right-hand man for da Gink. 
 He s one of da few birds da Gink will trust. 
 And he s one hard-boiled guy, believe me." 
 
 "Whose money was that he paid us?" 
 
 "Well," Murphy replied, " Slim gets his 
 jack from da Gink. 
 
 "Are you sure of that?" 
 
 "Say, whatcha think Slim is, a Christmas 
 tree?" 
 
 "Now, let me get this right," said John. 
 "The Gink knew this raid was coming off. 
 He arranged with you and most of the others 
 who were arrested to be at the places to be 
 raided so that Gibson s men would have a 
 crowd to take to central station. Then each 
 of those who were arrested and who were 
 in on the know, as you say, were given the 
 
SPRING STREET 191 
 
 $10 they put up for bail and $10 extra for be 
 ing on hand to be arrested. Is that it?" 
 
 "Dat s it." 
 
 "And you figure that the Gink wanted 
 Gibson s raid to be a success because the Gink 
 has split with the bookmakers and wants to 
 make trouble for them?" 
 
 "Dat s da way I dope it," Murphy as 
 sented. 
 
 "And we forfeit our bail and forget all 
 about it?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "If any more of these framed-up raids are 
 made, will you know about it?" John asked. 
 
 "Sure, dey always fix it for us regular guys." 
 
 "Well, Murphy," said John, halting at a 
 corner, "I m going to ask you to do something 
 for me. If you find out that anything like 
 this is going to happen again, will you let me 
 know about it?" 
 
 "Sure thing; where can I get ya?" 
 
 John gave him the number of the reporters 
 telephone at his office. In exchange Murphy 
 gave him the address of his room, in East 
 Third street. 
 
 "You won t forget?" cautioned John as they 
 shook hands. Murphy promised him again 
 and they separated after John had thanked 
 him for letting him "in on the know." 
 
 He hurried back toward the office, stopping 
 
192 SPRING STREET 
 
 only to buy the late edition of his paper. 
 Across the top of the front page, in big, heavy 
 black type, was the headline: "Gibson Leads 
 Big Spring Street Raid." Under this and 
 above the story of the raid was another "head" 
 which read: "Commissioner Says He s After 
 Gink Cummings; 200 Arrested." The photo 
 graph of Gibson standing near the men ar 
 rested in the raid, which John had noticed 
 him posing for, occupied a four-column space. 
 
 At the office P. Q. greeted him with a scowl. 
 
 "Well, where have you been all afternoon?" 
 the city editor demanded. 
 
 "I was picked up in Gibson s raid," John 
 replied. 
 
 "What s the big idea?" 
 
 "I didn t have any idea of getting arrested. 
 And I think I ve discovered something big." 
 
 "What do you mean, big?" Then John 
 told him the story of his experience from be 
 ginning to end, producing the two $10 bills 
 as evidence. He related all that Murphy had 
 told him and how Murphy had promised 
 to tell him in advance of a repetition of the 
 occurrence. 
 
 P. Q. listened to him attentively, whistling 
 softly when he had finished. 
 
 "Do you think Murphy is right in believ 
 ing that the Gink s only motive was to make 
 trouble for the bookmakers?" he asked. "Per- 
 
SPRING STREET 193 
 
 sonally, I doubt if the Gink would play into 
 the hands of Gibson like that even if he was 
 fighting the bookmakers, providing, of course, 
 that he has reason to fear Gibson." 
 
 Before John could reply Brennan appeared 
 and the whole story was related to him. 
 
 "Your friend, Murphy, is off on the wrong 
 foot," Brennan said. "Don t you know what s 
 happening? The Gink is playing Gibson s 
 game and Gibson is playing his just like the 
 mayor suspects. Someone has told Gibson that 
 people are wondering why he doesn t start 
 after the Gink. So what does he do? He 
 arranges with the Gink to put on a grand 
 stand raid in Spring street and Cummings fixes 
 it with your friend, Murphy, and the others 
 to submit to arrest, paying their bail money 
 and adding $10 to it to compensate them for 
 their trouble, and Gibson is able to make a 
 big showing. 
 
 "Don t you suppose that the Gink would 
 realize that the minute he tried doing what 
 your friend Murphy thinks, some one of the 
 bookmakers would get wise to it and holler?" 
 
 "That s my idea of it," put in P. Q. 
 
 John was astounded at Brennan s revelation. 
 Clearly Brennan s view of the case was more 
 reasonable, more logical, than that given him 
 by Murphy. He remembered having told 
 Gibson when they met in Consuello s dressing 
 
194 SPRING STREET 
 
 room that newspapermen were questioning 
 why he did not attack "Gink" Cummings and 
 he remembered Gibson s answer that he was 
 about to make such a move. 
 
 "By George, Gallant," exclaimed Brennan, 
 "your little experience this afternoon is liable 
 to turn the town over, if I m not mistaken. 
 That s why Gibson came out with a statement 
 after the raid denouncing the Gink and 
 claiming that he had gone right into the 
 Gink s territory to demonstrate to the peo 
 ple that he was out to get Cummings. It s a 
 frame-up from start to finish. The Gink s 
 smart enough to know that Gibson couldn t 
 carry through his plan to overthrow the ad 
 ministration unless he made some pretense of 
 opposing him and so he fixes up this raid." 
 
 "The question is, What are we going to do 
 with what we have?" commented the city 
 editor. "Do you suppose Murphy would come 
 through with an affidavit?" 
 
 "Not unless we furnished him with pro 
 tection," said John. 
 
 "As it stands," said Brennan, "we have 
 Gallant s story and only our conclusions as to 
 what was back of it all. We haven t quite 
 enough yet. For example, this fellow Slim, 
 who paid you the money may be the Gink s 
 right-hand man, all right, but how are we going 
 
SPRING STREET 195 
 
 to prove it? And, besides, all we know is 
 that Gallant and Murphy were paid off. We 
 don t actually know that anyone else received 
 their bail money back and $10 on top of it. 
 
 "This information that Gallant has brought 
 in satisfies me beyond all doubt that the may 
 or s right in suspecting that the Gink is back 
 of Gibson. But, before we shoot, it seems to 
 me that we ought to have a little more stuff. 
 We ve got to show that Gibson and the Gink 
 are actually working together." 
 
 "Brennan s right," P. Q. concurred. "Your 
 story is dynamite, Gallant, but we need a fuse 
 to explode it. We had better sit tight and if 
 it occurs again be in on it so that we can get 
 something to show beyond all doubt that Gib 
 son is a faker and a tool of the Gink. In 
 the meantime, Gallant, you keep in close touch 
 with your friend Murphy." 
 
 "What about putting it up to Gibson and 
 seeing what he has to say?" John suggested. 
 
 "What about it, Brennan?" asked P. Q. 
 
 "That wouldn t get us anywhere," said 
 Brennan. "And if Gibson is playing the 
 Gink s game it would only warn him that we 
 have reason to suspect him and they d be so 
 careful we d never have a chance to upset 
 them. Your idea is the best, P. Q. Sit tight 
 for a while and see what happens next." 
 
196 SPRING STREET 
 
 John told the story of his experience in 
 Gibson s raid on the Spring street bookmakers 
 to two other persons, the mayor and the pub 
 lisher of the paper that employed him, Cyrus 
 W. Phillips, known fraternally to his men as 
 the "chief." He was accompanied to the pri 
 vate office of the publisher by P. Q., who in 
 formed him that his discovery of what could 
 be regarded as evidence that there was an 
 alliance between Gibson and "Gink" Cum- 
 mings had brought the situation to a point 
 where orders were to be given by the "chief," 
 who supervised the policy of the paper. 
 
 Mr. Phillips, a keen-eyed, energetic man, 
 who unselfishly bestowed the credit for the 
 success of his newspaper on the men who 
 worked under him, listened to John s story 
 with interest. It was John s first meeting 
 with the "chief," for whom even Brennan, 
 with all his skepticism, had a profound re 
 spect and the rapidity with which the publisher 
 gave his decision won his admiration. 
 
 "The policy of this paper has been to keep 
 out of politics," he said, "but this young man s 
 story, with what it undoubtedly suggests, 
 brings us face to face with the duty we have 
 always endeavored to fulfill, that is, to attack 
 graft and corruption wherever we find them. 
 We have no pledge to support either the 
 mayor or Commissioner Gibson and we are 
 
SPRING STREET 197 
 
 only for the one who is doing the right thing 
 in the right way. 
 
 " Gink Cummings and men of his type 
 we regard as a menace to Los Angeles against 
 whom every effort should be made. If Gib 
 son is a masquerader in league with Cummings 
 he must be exposed. If this is only an attempt 
 at political retaliation by the mayor we must 
 condemn it. 
 
 "We have indisputable evidence that the 
 raid was framed by Cummings, but whether 
 he acted to make trouble for the bookmakers 
 or to enable Gibson to make a big showing 
 we do not know. The more logical view to 
 take is that there may be an alliance between 
 Gibson and Cummings, improbable as it may 
 appear. But we must not pre-judge nor act 
 hastily. 
 
 "Commissioner Gibson has the support of 
 the churches and the business men of Los 
 Angeles. If he has deceived them and is only 
 a tool for Cummings, he is the most infamous 
 imposter that the city has ever known and it 
 would be a big thing for us as well as a great 
 deed in behalf of the city if we are able to 
 expose him. On the other hand, if Gibson is 
 really what he claims to be and what his sup 
 porters believe him to be, he is working for the 
 betterment of Los Angeles and is entitled to 
 our unqualified support. 
 
198 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Consequently, we must keep our eyes open. 
 We must work to establish beyond all doubt 
 Gibson s sincerity or duplicity. What we do 
 must be fair and fearless and with only one 
 object, the welfare of the city of Los Angeles." 
 
 "Would it be advisable to let the mayor 
 hear Gallant s story?" asked P. Q. 
 
 "Only with the distinct understanding that it 
 is not to be used by him for any purpose what 
 soever and that we are taking a strictly neu 
 tral position on it, even inclining to the view 
 that it does not necessarily indicate that Gib 
 son and Cummings are in a conspiracy," the 
 publisher replied. "I can say this much to 
 you, I admire the mayor for having made an 
 enemy of Gink Cummings." 
 
 As they left his office the "chief" shook 
 hands with John. 
 
 "P. Q. tells me you have not been with 
 us long," he said. "The information you have 
 obtained for us is very important and you did 
 well. I want you to feel that you know me 
 now and that I am very glad you are with us." 
 
 He visited the mayor s office in company 
 with Brennan to whom P. Q. had imparted 
 the publisher s instructions. The mayor s sec 
 retary ushered them into his office immediately. 
 He greeted them both warmly and opened 
 the conversation with a question directed to 
 Brennan. 
 
SPRING STREET 199 
 
 "What do you make of Gibson s raid yes 
 terday?" he asked. 
 
 "We ll answer that by telling you some 
 thing mighty interesting," said Brennan. "Gal 
 lant here has some information that will knock 
 your eye out." 
 
 Once again John told his story, from be 
 ginning to end. As he related it the mayor 
 sat upright in his chair, listening so intently to 
 every word that the fire at the end of his 
 cigar died out and the ash dropped unnoticed 
 on his coat front. When John concluded the 
 mayor bounced out of his chair, circled his 
 desk and seizing him by the hand exclaimed: 
 
 "My boy, you ve done it!" 
 
 John s story seemed to have rejuvenated 
 him. He shook hands with Brennan, went 
 back to his desk, sat down, bounced up again, 
 wasted five matches in a vain attempt to re 
 light his cigar and then chose a fresh one 
 from a box he took from a drawer. 
 
 "I know that fellow Slim who paid you 
 the money," the mayor went on. "His name 
 is Gray and he IS the Gink s right-hand man; 
 has been for years. It almost made me be 
 lieve Gibson might be straight when he con 
 ducted that raid yesterday. I was beginning 
 to wonder if I wasn t mistaken, after all, but 
 now I m convinced for once and all that he is 
 the Gink s man. I m willing to wager my 
 
200 SPRING STREET 
 
 life that he and Cummings arranged for that 
 raid yesterday because they knew that people 
 were beginning to ask themselves why he 
 didn t get after the Gink. 
 
 "What a shrewd pair they are ! I ve got 
 the fight of my life on my hands now and you, 
 my boy" to Gallant "have done something 
 for me I ll never forget. Brennan, what are 
 you going to do with this evidence?" 
 
 Brennan explained how the matter had been 
 presented to the publisher of their paper and 
 related what the "chief" had said to John 
 and P. Q. He cautioned the mayor that 
 John s story was not to be used by him or 
 revealed to anyone. 
 
 "Trust me," assured the mayor. "But can 
 I rely upon you boys to keep me in touch with 
 what develops?" 
 
 "We will tell you everything we are per 
 mitted to disclose," promised Brennan. "In 
 return for what information we give you we 
 will expect you to furnish us with what infor 
 mation comes into your hands." 
 
 "Agreed," said the mayor. 
 
 Brennan and John rose to leave. The 
 mayor came from behind his desk and with his 
 arms around their shoulders walked with them 
 to the door. There he chuckled, and, leaning 
 toward them, said: 
 
SPRING STREET 201 
 
 "Boys, I guess your old Uncle Dudley isn t 
 such a so-and-so kind of an old fool after all, 
 is he?" 
 
 From the city hall John and Brennan, by 
 previous arrangement, sought out Murphy, 
 whom they found at the East Third street 
 rooming house, the address of which he had 
 given John. His room was cheaply furnished 
 and the walls of it decorated with prints of 
 boxers, sporting life notables, knockout fight 
 pictures and photographs of shapely bathing 
 beauties in one-piece suits. He appeared sur 
 prised when the two reporters entered as he 
 opened the door. 
 
 "Murphy," said John, "this is Brennan, a 
 friend of mine. We want to have a little talk 
 with you." 
 
 "Glad to meet a friend of da Gallant kid," 
 Murphy said, shaking hands with Brennan. 
 He reached into a drawer and brought out a 
 quart bottle of whisky which he placed on a 
 table with a single glass into which he poured 
 a generous portion. 
 
 "Drink up, gents, and do your stuff," he 
 invited. 
 
 John did the talking. He explained to 
 Murphy that he and Brennan were newspaper 
 men and that he had told Brennan of their 
 experience in the raid and their meeting with 
 "Slim" Gray. 
 
202 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Hey, back up," Murphy interrupted. "Let 
 me get ya straight. Are you birds plannin 
 to show Slim and the Gink up?" 
 
 "Murphy," said John, "can we trust you?" 
 
 "I went da limit for you, didn t I?" asked 
 Murphy, looking at John. 
 
 "You did," agreed John, remembering how 
 Murphy had vouched for him to "Slim" Gray. 
 "That s why we re here now. We figure you 
 can help us and if you do we ll see that you 
 are taken care of." 
 
 "You re straight with dat?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "Well, do your stuff, then, do your stuff !" 
 
 At a nod from Brennan, John placed the 
 whole situation before Murphy, explaining 
 every part of it carefully. 
 
 "Now, what we want you to do is this," 
 he said. "We want you to find out everything 
 you can about what the Gink is doing and 
 let us know as soon as you learn it." 
 
 Murphy listened without interrupting until 
 John had finished. 
 
 "Do you know what ll happen to me if de 
 Gink finds I m peachin on him?" he asked. 
 
 "We have an idea " John began. 
 
 "An idea!" Murphy exclaimed, contemp 
 tuously. "Well, I got more than an idea, see? 
 
SPRING STREET 203 
 
 I know what d happen to me, see? I get my 
 head kicked in, see?" 
 
 "We ll promise you that for every piece of 
 information you give us you ll get enough 
 money to make it worth your while," put in 
 Brennan. 
 
 "Dat s straight?" asked Murphy, turning 
 to John. 
 
 "That s straight," John assured him. 
 
 They left a few minutes later with Mur 
 phy s pledge, given with an oath worded far 
 stronger than the customary legal one, to act 
 as their informant and to keep secret every 
 word they had told him. 
 
 "De Gink s no pal of mine, see?" said 
 Murphy as they left his room. "I m wise 
 enough to know that he d cross me in a minute, 
 see?" 
 
 The interrogative "see?" that Murphy used 
 to punctuate his sentences was invariably ac 
 companied with a gesture of his hand that 
 resembled a baseball umpire s gesture in call 
 ing a runner safe at a base more than any 
 thing John could think of. 
 
 Before dinner that night Mrs. Gallant 
 handed him an envelope which she said she 
 received in the afternoon s mail. It was ad 
 dressed to him and opening it he found that 
 it was a note from Consuello. 
 
204 SPRING STREET 
 
 "My dear Mr. Gallant," he read, "could 
 you and your dear mother accompany me 
 home Sunday for dinner? I can arrange to 
 call for you and bring you home in the car. I 
 would be delighted to have you with me and 
 am anxious for father and mother to meet 
 Mrs. Gallant. Cordially, Consuello Carrillo." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 SINCE the night Mrs. Gallant had gone 
 weeping to her room after John told her 
 that Consuello played in motion pictures, the 
 girl had never been mentioned by either of 
 them. John refrained from speaking of her 
 because he decided that until he found some 
 way to overcome the prejudice his mother 
 held it would only cause unpleasantness. 
 There had never been a night following that 
 when Mrs. Gallant had displayed her disap 
 proval of Consuello that John had not 
 racked his brain to decide how he could eradi 
 cate his mother s intolerant attitude and bring 
 her to know and appreciate Consuello for 
 the girl she was. 
 
 At times he was annoyed by his mother s 
 bigotry which gave her, in Consuello s case, 
 an unreasonableness that amounted almost to 
 fanaticism and embittered the natural sweet 
 ness of her character and disposition. His sus 
 picion that her condemnation of photoplays 
 and everyone connected with them was being 
 fostered by someone else had been substan 
 tiated by an incident which occurred shortly 
 after the night she had turned her back on 
 Consuello. 
 
 That Mrs. Sprockett, "from across the 
 
206 SPRING STREET 
 
 street" as John always thought of her had 
 interrupted one of the evening chats he always 
 had with his mother. His impulsive dislike 
 of Mrs. Sprockett caused him to leave her 
 alone on the porch with his mother while he 
 retired to the living room to read. The win 
 dow to the porch was open. 
 
 "Isn t it terrible?" he heard Mrs. Sprockett 
 say. "They tell me that she had been married 
 three times and smokes cigarettes right in front 
 of everyone. Women like her are a disgrace 
 to a nation and we mothers should do some 
 thing, I tell you." 
 
 From further snatches of the conversation 
 John learned that Mrs. Sprockett was re 
 ferring to a motion picture actress who had 
 been given a decree of divorce that day. 
 
 "I told my Alma at dinner, tonight, that 
 she had better not let me catch her sneaking 
 off to the picture show," Mrs. Sprockett con 
 tinued. Alma, John knew, was the oldest 
 of Mrs. Sprockett s daughters. "What are 
 things coming to when girls wear their skirts 
 above their knees and bob their hair and 
 think nothing of taking up with the first man 
 they meet? When you and I were girls, Mrs. 
 Gallant, we would have been locked up if we 
 had attempted such performances. 
 
 "I tell you we owe it to our children to 
 crush these creatures that set such wicked ex- 
 
SPRING STREET 207 
 
 amples. And Mr. Sprockett agrees with 
 me in every word I say." 
 
 As far as John knew, Mrs. Sprockett s hus 
 band had never, never disagreed with her 
 for good and sufficient reasons. He had 
 recalled how Mrs. Sprockett s husband trailed 
 her from house to house in the neighbor 
 hood evenings while the Sprockett baby wailed 
 for attention. 
 
 He drew Consuello s note from his pocket 
 while he and his mother were in the living 
 room after dinner and read it again. He 
 debated in his mind what he should do and 
 finally handed it to his mother without a word. 
 Mrs. Gallant adjusted her spectacles and read 
 the note through slowly. John studied her 
 face and he imagined he saw her lips trem 
 ble slightly. 
 
 She evaded meeting his eyes as she handed 
 the note back to him. He waited for her 
 to speak, but she was silent and he realized 
 with a sinking feeling that her attitude toward 
 Consuello had not changed. He determined, 
 however, to dispose of the matter quickly. 
 
 "Well, mother," he said. "How shall I 
 answer her?" 
 
 "It was very kind of her to include me but 
 under the circumstances, John, I " 
 
 "Very well, mother." 
 
 "But, my boy " 
 
208 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Don t let me stop you from going and 
 please don t let it harden your heart against 
 me." 
 
 "Mother, are you sure you re not making a 
 sad mistake in letting your heart harden 
 against her?" he could not resist saying. 
 
 Her lips trembled and her handkerchief 
 went to her eyes. Leaving his chair he crossed 
 to where she was sitting and put his arm 
 around her. 
 
 "There, mother, we must not let anything 
 come between us," he said, tenderly. "It s all 
 right, mother; it s all right!" 
 
 The next day, Saturday, he telephoned to 
 Consuello early in the morning, soon after 
 he reached the office, in order to catch her be 
 fore she left for the studio. 
 
 "I was just about to call you," she said. 
 "Did you get my note?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I m so sorry, but it will be impossible for 
 me to get home, tomorrow. My director in 
 sists that we go out on location in the morning. 
 You understand, don t you?" 
 
 "Certainly," he replied. He had decided to 
 tell her that his mother was ill and unable to 
 accept her invitation. His relief was beyond 
 words when he discovered that it would be un 
 necessary for him to fabricate an excuse for 
 
SPRING STREET 209 
 
 Mrs. Gallant, although he realized it was only 
 postponing the time when he should be com 
 pelled to prevent Consuello learning of his 
 mother s harsh judgment of her. 
 
 "I was so anxious that we should have a 
 perfect day together, your mother, yourself, 
 father and mother and I. But we can ar 
 range it for some other time, can t we?" 
 
 "I m sure we can." He felt justified some 
 how in taking this optimistic view. 
 
 "And I wanted to ask you, would you 
 care to come out with us on location, tomor 
 row? We have several scenes to do and 
 I m sure you will find it interesting." 
 
 "It would be wonderful." 
 
 "If you can be at the studio at nine?" 
 
 "I ll be there." 
 
 "And you ll explain how it is to your mother 
 and tell her how sorry I am, won t you?" 
 
 "She ll understand." He felt he was not 
 trifling as much with truth in that answer. 
 
 Carrying out a conclusion he reached during 
 the day, John did not tell his mother of his 
 conversation over the telephone with Con 
 suello. He told her only that he would be 
 away most of Sunday, permitting her to de 
 duce that he had accepted Consuello s invi 
 tation and had made some explanation of her 
 absence. 
 
 A dozen automobiles were in line along 
 
210 SPRING STREET 
 
 the driveway of the Peerless studio when 
 John arrived promptly at nine o clock, the 
 following morning. Consuello had evidently 
 told the guard at the gate that she was ex 
 pecting him. It was only necessary for him 
 to mention his name. 
 
 "Miss Carrillo asks that you be directed to 
 her dressing room," the gateman said. 
 
 With one exception the automobiles were 
 already occupied. John recognized the cam 
 eramen with their equipment piled in one of 
 the cars. In another he discerned his guide, 
 "John J. Silence," and in another he caught 
 a glimpse of the sad-eyed bass cello player, 
 his huge instrument beside him. 
 
 As he left the driveway to cross to the 
 dressing room building he saw Consuello com 
 ing toward him. She wore the dainty white 
 "old fashioned" dress, as John had named 
 it in his mind, that she had when they first met 
 at the Barton Randolph lawn fete. She was 
 Consuello and yet because of her facial "make 
 up," she was the girl he had seen before the 
 camera on the occasion of his first visit to the 
 studio. 
 
 "They re waiting for me," she explained as 
 John met her. "You ll ride with us." 
 
 She led him to the first automobile in the 
 line. In the front seat, beside the driver, was 
 
SPRING STREET 211 
 
 the man with the horn-rim glasses whom 
 John recognized as her director. They took 
 seats in the tonneau and he shook hands with 
 the director whom Consuello introduced as 
 "Mr. Bonwit." Heading the caravan of ma 
 chines their car started out of the driveway. 
 
 U I wanted Reggie Mr. Gibson to come 
 with us," she explained, "but he had other 
 engagements, something to do with his work, 
 and could not get away. He promised to 
 join us later. I am anxious to hear what 
 he has been doing and what you think of 
 it. I know all about his raid on those places 
 in Spring street." 
 
 His part in the raid with the suspicion it 
 directed against Gibson as an ally of "Gink" 
 Cummings returned to him. Principally be 
 cause of the faith Consuello had in Gibson 
 he had been unable to convince himself that 
 the commissioner was in league with Cum 
 mings, despite the arguments advanced by 
 Brennan and the attitude taken by the publish 
 er of his newspaper, a view that did not reject 
 the possibility that Gibson was a masquerader. 
 
 "He told me that what you said about news 
 paper men wondering why he did not attack 
 Gink Cummings caused him to decide to make 
 the raid," she w 7 ent on. "You may not be 
 lieve it, but he respects your judgment and 
 
212 SPRING STREET 
 
 has a great deal of admiration for you and 
 the man who works with you, Brennan, isn t 
 it?" 
 
 Passing the outskirts of the city the ma 
 chines took them through a district being built 
 up with pretty little bungalows of varied colors 
 and architecture. 
 
 "I often wonder," she said, "whether the 
 people who live in these houses ever realize 
 what Mr. Gibson is trying to do for them. 
 They seem so apart from the hurry and 
 scurry of life; they see so little of the evil he is 
 trying to save them from. They read of him, 
 perhaps, and commend him in their minds 
 for what he is doing and let it go at that. 
 I don t suppose they ever feel they owe him a 
 personal debt of gratitude." 
 
 "It is a common fault to hold aloof and 
 think little of danger until it strikes home to 
 you," John said. "And yet I envy them for 
 what they do not know, for what they do 
 not see, for their self-content." 
 
 Leaving the city behind, the automobile 
 swung on to a boulevard leading toward the 
 hills. She explained to him the purpose of 
 their trip. 
 
 "It is what we call a retake, " she said. 
 "The scenes we will do today were done 
 several weeks ago, but the photography did 
 not satisfy Mr. Bonwit. We will do them 
 
SPRING STREET 213 
 
 over again, resurrecting the sweetheart you 
 saw me mourning so sadly for back on the 
 interior set. They are the scenes in which 
 he asks me to marry him and in which I plight 
 my troth, as the title writer insists upon de 
 scribing it." 
 
 "Perhaps that s why Mr. Gibson isn t with 
 us," suggested John. 
 
 "It may be," she laughed. "He saw the 
 original scenes played and pretended to be 
 madly jealous of the leading man." 
 
 The "location" on which the cameras were 
 trained for the scenes enacted by Consuello 
 was idealistic as an outdoor setting. Shasta 
 daisies, primroses and stalks of purple and 
 white larkspur, in riotous profusion, gave 
 splotches of bright color that stood out 
 vividly against the bosky green. Stately, 
 restful trees gave bounteous shade. A brook, 
 tumbling down the hillside, gurgled over clean, 
 white stones and sand. 
 
 There was a lengthy conference between the 
 photographers and Bonwit, the director, rel 
 ative to the light effects. Oblongs of white 
 cloth tacked on a wood framework, which 
 John learned were used to reflect and deflect 
 the sun s rays, were shifted from one spot 
 to another and back again until the camera 
 men were completely satisfied. 
 
 The sad-eyed bass viol player with his com- 
 
214 SPRING STREET 
 
 panions, the violinist and the cellist, occupied 
 folding chairs several yards to the right of the 
 cameras, where they were protected from 
 the sun in the shade of a tree. "John J. 
 Silence," whom John discovered was an as 
 sistant director, made countless trips to and 
 from the automobiles for things that every 
 one seemed to have forgotten and left in the 
 machines. 
 
 John had never seen such precaution ex 
 ercised. It was fully an hour before Con- 
 suello and her sweetheart in the photoplay be 
 gan rehearsing. He was a young fellow, with 
 smooth black hair that John considered al 
 most as perfect as that of Gibson, which had 
 irritated him when he first met the police com 
 missioner. And, as John had also thought 
 of Gibson, the actor playing opposite Con- 
 suello was too immaculate. 
 
 First, Consuello and the actor came slowly 
 toward the cameras, hand in hand, a typical 
 pair of straying lovers, so affected by each 
 other s presence that they spoke only with their 
 eyes, sidelong glances of ardent devotion. 
 Then they stood still, facing each other, their 
 profiles toward the cameras, he holding her 
 hands down to her sides, telling her of his 
 love for her while she hung her head. As 
 he finished she lifted her face, smiled, and he 
 clasped her to his breast, looking up as if he 
 
SPRING STREET 215 
 
 was thanking his Creator for giving her to 
 him. 
 
 They held that pose for what John thought 
 was an unnecessarily long time, and that was 
 all of the first scene. John was happy to note, 
 for a reason he neglected to define, even to 
 himself, that Consuello seemed relieved as she 
 drew back from the actor s arms. They re 
 hearsed it a dozen times before Bonwit and the 
 cameramen decided it could be done no better 
 and then the cameras clicked. 
 
 Next there was a pretty little scene, without 
 much action, in which Consuello and her 
 "sweetheart" were seated beside each other 
 with a background of flowers. John deduced 
 that obstacles had evidently risen to the mar 
 riage, as the "conversation" was serious and 
 inclined to be tearful. During this scene the 
 three-piece orchestra, by this time coatless and 
 collarless, played the most plaintively sad 
 piece, John thought, that he had ever heard. 
 The bass viol player s face was almost funereal 
 as he gazed abstractedly up into the branches 
 of the tree above him. The scene ended with 
 the actor looking soulfully into the eyes of his 
 betrothed. 
 
 When scene number two had been photo 
 graphed, "John J. Silence" amazed John by 
 suddenly shouting "Eats!" and dashing to 
 ward the automobiles, A large wicker ham- 
 
216 SPRING STREET 
 
 per was lifted from one of the cars and car 
 ried to a clear space near the cameras. Con- 
 suello seated herself in a canvas chair near 
 John, who sat cross-legged at her feet. They 
 were apart from the others, who formed 
 a group under another tree. From the hamper 
 "John J. Silence" brought them two small 
 baskets, covered with snow-white napkins, con 
 taining sandwiches, a piece of pie, a slice of 
 cake, ripe olives, salted almonds and paper 
 cups, which, at Consuello s suggestion, John 
 filled with water from the stream. 
 
 U I don t blame him," remarked John as 
 they settled down to enjoy the basket luncheon. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Gibson," he said. 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 "For hating that make-believe sweetheart of 
 yours," he answered. 
 
 "But he is only only as you said make- 
 believe," she said. "He has the sweetest little 
 wife and two of the darlingest children you 
 ever saw. He probably is thinking of them 
 while he s holding me in his arms and pledg 
 ing undying love. Whenever he has to shea 
 tears he thinks of the time the baby had 
 pneumonia and nearly died." 
 
 "Make-believe," he repeated. "My friend 
 Brennan whom Gibson spoke to you of- 
 says that life is all make-believe; that we all 
 
SPRING STREET 217 
 
 play at make-believe some of us rightfully, 
 but most of us wrongfully." 
 
 Subconsciously he thought of Brennan s in 
 dictment of Gibson as a fraud and a dishon 
 est "make-believe," a consummate actor in the 
 role of a villain in real life. 
 
 "I m often inclined to believe it," she said 
 slowly. "Perhaps that s why life is some 
 times a huge joke and sometimes nothing but 
 sadness and disillusionment. We play our 
 little game of make-believe and strut around 
 proudly, making ourselves, as well as others, 
 think that we amount to something and then 
 comes death, like a curtain; the footlights go 
 out and where are we? Who thinks of us 
 then?" 
 
 "Only the few who have loved us with all 
 our faults and vain deceit and make-believe," 
 he replied. 
 
 A series of "close-ups," were photographed 
 after lunch. Consuello went into the actor s 
 embrace again to permit a "close-up" of his 
 fervent expression of love and thankfulness 
 as he looked upward to the sky. John didn t 
 mind the repetition of this scene. He thought 
 of the actor s wife and two babies, especially 
 the one who was his father s "tear provoker." 
 There was another in which Consuello, her 
 head inclined, admired the fresh crisp beauty 
 of a bouquet of daisies. She lifted her face 
 
218 SPRING STREET 
 
 to gaze with a faraway look past the cameras, 
 apparently registering longing for her absent 
 sweetheart. John followed. her gaze and dis 
 covered it was fixed on the woebegone coun 
 tenance of the bass viol player, whose mel 
 ancholy seemed to be increased by his dim 
 realization that he was the object on which 
 she concentrated in her abstract mood. 
 
 In a third "close-up" the actor registered 
 the deepness of his love by thrusting his chin 
 forward and staring unblinkingly over John s 
 head. It was an effective piece of facial ex 
 pression, John thought, as the actor s eyes 
 were as soft as a fawn s. Photographs of 
 Richard Barthelmess and John Barrymore in 
 similar poses came back into John s mind. 
 
 John and Consuello were beside each other 
 again on the return trip to the studio. 
 
 "I expect Reggie will be there waiting for 
 us," she said. u We have a dinner engagement 
 and I will have to dress at the studio. I m 
 sorry that he and you and I cannot have din 
 ner together, we have so much to talk about." 
 
 "You have been kind enough," he said. "I 
 have enjoyed myself thoroughly and I would 
 be intruding if I occupied any more of your 
 time." 
 
 "Intruding?" she repeated, with a rising in 
 flection of her voice. "Why, it was kind of 
 you to be with me." 
 
SPRING STREET 219 
 
 "But you must remember " he began. 
 
 "Remember?" 
 
 "Yes, remember there is someone else who 
 should be considered." 
 
 "Oh, Reggie s glad that he has a substitute 
 for trips like this and I ve told you that he 
 respects your judgment," she said. 
 
 Gibson was in his two-seated car at the en 
 trance to the studio when they arrived. They 
 left their machines at the gateway to meet 
 him. 
 
 "Again?" he asked as they met. "You two 
 certainly find each other interesting." 
 
 He smiled as he spoke, but a queer feeling 
 went through John as he realized that Con- 
 suello had failed to tell Gibson that she had 
 invited him to be with her. 
 
 "I m acquainting Mr. Gallant with the pro 
 cess of picture making," Consuello said. How 
 ever she received Gibson s salutatory remark 
 she gave no hint of her feeling in the tone of 
 her voice. 
 
 "When are you going to show her through 
 a newspaper office, Gallant?" Gibson was still 
 smiling. Consuello replied before John could 
 speak. 
 
 "Whenever you and I can find time, I m 
 sure," she said. "You ll excuse me for a 
 moment; I must hurry along so I won t keep 
 
220 SPRING STREET 
 
 you waiting long, Reggie. And Mr. Gallant, 
 I ll arrange for a car to take you home." 
 
 She hurried away, skipping toward the 
 dressing room building. Unconscious of each 
 other, Gibson and Gallant watched her until 
 she disappeared from their sight. When they 
 turned toward each other simultaneously, John 
 had a peculiarly embarrassed feeling, as if he 
 had been caught doing something which he had 
 no right to do. 
 
 Gibson s smile was confusing. 
 
 "A wonderful, wonderful girl," he said, 
 drawing a finely embossed cigaret case. 
 
 "Yes," said John, instinctively apprehensive 
 of making a more enthusiastic concurrence. 
 
 "A whole-hearted, dear, unsuspecting girl," 
 said Gibson, without offering the cigaret case 
 to John. 
 
 u Yes." 
 
 "A girl who makes a friend of everyone she 
 
 meets." 
 
 Wasn t that "everyone" emphasized a trifle? 
 
 "A girl a man would do almost anything 
 for." He was still smiling. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "By the way, Gallant, has she told you we 
 are engaged to be married?" 
 
 John hesitated and chose to keep the confi 
 dence she had placed in him. 
 
 "No," he said. "You ARE to be congratu- 
 
SPRING STREET 221 
 
 lated." He had a secret satisfaction in stress 
 ing the "are." 
 
 Gibson lighted his cigarette. 
 
 "I just thought I d tell you," he said and 
 John thought or was it his imagination? 
 that Gibson s set smile flattened a little at the 
 corners. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 T TNDER Brennan s patient tutelage John 
 ^ progressed rapidly, learning thoroughly 
 the rudiments of newspaper reporting in its 
 two branches, news gathering and writing. P. 
 Q. occasionally gave advice which John knew 
 came from a man who took a secret pride in 
 supervising the remarkable metamorphosis of 
 a "cub" into a well trained reporter. It was 
 the gossip of newspaper workers that P. Q. 
 excelled in the training of his reporters whom 
 he handled with the tact of a psychologist and 
 the care of a manager of a baseball team for 
 his players. Nothing gave him more pleasure 
 than to develop a "cub" into a star and there 
 were dozens of star men throughout the coun 
 try whom he brought to the top and who still 
 thought him the "greatest of them all." 
 
 Brennan was one of the star men who broke 
 into newspaper work under P. Q. Between P. 
 Q. and his star reporter there was a peculiar 
 relationship which John studied with interest. 
 When Brennan performed some especially 
 clever piece of work the city editor treated 
 him as though it was unnecessary for him to 
 give any praise or commendation. When 
 Brennan disappointed him, which was seldom, 
 
SPRING STREET 223 
 
 P. Q. would berate him with the same caustic 
 fervor that lashed a stupid, thick-headed re 
 porter to a point of self-abnegation that gave 
 him thoughts of suicide as the only way out 
 of his misery. 
 
 The praise Brennan received from P. Q. 
 came to him in a roundabout way and the star 
 reporter drank it in as eagerly as a "cub," 
 knowing as he did it that it was a "master" 
 who praised. P. Q. would summon some of 
 fending reporter to his desk and after scolding 
 him would laud Brennan to the skies. 
 
 "If you had only one-tenth the sense that 
 Brennan has there might be some hope for 
 you," the city editor would say. "Brennan is 
 a real newspaper man, a real reporter. I 
 wouldn t trade him for any dozen men in the 
 country. Watch Brennan, read the stuff he 
 writes and study the way he does things if you 
 want to become a reporter." 
 
 These words, P. Q. knew, would get back 
 to Brennan, who would cross-examine the re 
 porter to get every word of the city editor s 
 commendation. Yet between them, except for 
 rare occasions when they went out to lunch to 
 gether, there was a "strictly business" attitude 
 that was deceiving. Brennan s loyalty to P. 
 Q. was only rivaled by the city editor s covert 
 admiration for him as a reporter. Several 
 times John overheard wordy altercations be- 
 
224 SPRING STREET 
 
 tween P. Q. and Brennan in which the city 
 editor would threaten to discharge him and 
 Brennan would reply with a threat to resign, 
 but nothing ever came of these quarrels and 
 they were forgotten within an hour after they 
 occurred. 
 
 From Brennan John received precious bits 
 of advice. 
 
 "Never argue with a city editor," Brennan 
 warned him. "It s useless. Don t ever, no 
 matter how friendly he is, get familiar with 
 one of them. It s ruinous." 
 
 Gradually John learned Brennan s story. 
 An Englishman by birth and a university man, 
 Brennan was a rancher in Alberta for a year 
 before he joined the Royal Northwest Mounted 
 Police. He had been everywhere and seen 
 everything. He became a reporter under P. 
 Q. in a Middle West city, and his first training 
 received, he became restless again. He went 
 to Central America to participate in a revolu 
 tion and then to the South Sea islands. For 
 a time he had been in China, Japan and India, 
 and Kipling s verse was given its proper swing 
 when he recited it. He was a fast, hard boxer 
 and John had to extend himself to hold his 
 own when they sparred for exercise at Blake s 
 gymnasium. 
 
 "Something of a soldier; something of a 
 dreamer; something of a poet but only a 
 
SPRING STREET 225 
 
 newspaper man," he once described himself, 
 adding a few seconds later, "Oh, forget it," 
 as though he was ashamed to soliloquize about 
 himself. 
 
 To John he was unstinted in his laudation 
 of P. Q., whose eccentricities he knew so well. 
 
 "P. Q. has always believed that a hungry 
 reporter is the best reporter," Brennan told 
 John. "He swears that a reporter works twice 
 as well when he is hungry as when he is well 
 fed. He says a person can t help but become 
 somewhat soggy mentally when his stomach is 
 full, while an empty stomach makes a keen 
 brain. That s why he never has breakfast 
 until after the first edition is away. He prac 
 tices what he preaches." 
 
 Assigned to work as Brennan s "leg man," 
 the newspaper term for understudy, John be 
 came acquainted with the men in Los Angeles 
 who appear almost daily in the news. He met 
 Le Compte Davis, Paul Schenck, Joe Ford, 
 Dick Kittrelle, Al MacDonald, W. I. Gilbert, 
 Frank Dominguez and Jud Rush among the 
 lawyers; the district attorney and his staff of 
 deputies; "Bud" Hill, the county counsel; po 
 lice detectives, deputy sheriffs, private detec 
 tives, city and county officials, federal agents 
 and a host of others, including such pictur 
 esque characters as Martin Aguirre, court bai 
 liff, former sheriff and one-time warden of San 
 
226 SPRING STREET 
 
 Quentin; Charlie Sebastian, whom the re 
 porters declared unanimously was a capable 
 chief of police, despite his faults; Billy Wong, 
 representing the Bing Kong Tong of China 
 town, and "Cap" Gillis, Chinatown "lookout" 
 and undying friend of the police reporters. 
 
 Le Compte Davis they met in his turret-like 
 office room in the Bryson block, examining a 
 tattered book under a microscope. He learned 
 that Davis had a private library of more than 
 8,000 volumes and was one of the rare old 
 book lovers of the city. His office room was 
 stacked with books he had purchased, several 
 of which were to be sent to England to be 
 handsomely bound by hand. On the wall were 
 several oil paintings, one of which Davis 
 bought at an auction for $75 and which he 
 had been offered more than $1,000 for. 
 
 "Sometimes Le Compte Davis disappears in 
 the middle of a busy day and scouts are sent 
 out to look for him," Brennan told him. "In 
 variably they find him at some bookstore, paw 
 ing over a recent purchase of old^books, or in 
 some second-hand store where he picks up 
 rare and costly things for a few dollars. 
 
 "He s such a shark on books that whenever 
 he goes into a bookstore the proprietor details 
 a clerk to follow him around. When Le 
 Compte takes a book from a shelf, examines it 
 and returns it to its place, the clerk takes the 
 
SPRING STREET 227 
 
 book down and immediately doubles the price 
 of it. 
 
 "He would rather get some old book that s 
 listed in his catalogue as valuable for a few 
 cents than win the most important law case." 
 
 The offices of Davis and his partner, Jud 
 Rush, who was once a cowboy in California, 
 were picturesque in themselves because of the 
 furnishings, as quaint and dusty as those pic 
 tured by Dickens. The furniture was mid- 
 Victorian, the rugs and carpets worn by the 
 feet of countless clients, and a musty odor of 
 old books and papers permeated the air. It 
 was like stepping back fifty years to enter the 
 waiting room. 
 
 "I don t know whether Le Compte realizes 
 it," Brennan said, "but it s good psychology 
 for him to keep his office as it is. It suggests 
 stability, dignity, soundness. A person feels 
 like he is entering the office of secure, reliable, 
 established lawyers when he comes in here. It 
 has twice the effect of entering a bright, shiny, 
 new office, smelling of varnish and neatly 
 kept." 
 
 Frequently Brennan and John lunched with 
 Paul Schenck and his partner, Dick Kittrelle, 
 at a little eating place in West Second street 
 frequented by lawyers, newspaper men, police 
 officers, deputy sheriffs and others who were 
 thrown into contact daily in the making and 
 
228 SPRING STREET 
 
 gathering of news. There Schenck would dis 
 course on psychiatry and psychology, his two 
 hobbies, talking of "phobias" and "complexes 1 
 and maintaining that everyone in the eyes of 
 others has a touch of insanity. 
 
 "I believe, with Le Compte Davis, that the 
 two things that a successful lawyer must have 
 are tact and an instinctive knowledge of psy 
 chology," Schenck would tell them. 
 
 They were interesting days for John. He 
 heard the "inside" stones of famous murder 
 cases, municipal upheavals, political battles, 
 celebrated trials and notable "beats" scored by 
 reporters in the history of newspaper work in 
 Los Angeles. He saw behind the scenes and 
 what he learned made a distinct impression on 
 his receptive brain. He was surprised to find 
 that most of those he met, whom Brennan 
 described as the "head-line boys," shared Bren- 
 nan s skeptical viewpoint, rejoicing as he did 
 when their doubts were overcome and their 
 faith in their fellow men re-established. 
 
 These men differed on the question of Gib 
 son s sincerity in his "clean up" crusade. Some 
 of them believed him to be an altruist, while 
 others, without evidence to support their views, 
 regarded him with suspicion. The opinion of 
 the skeptics was that Gibson was either a plain 
 "glory-seeker" or, despite his denials of the 
 reports to that effect, a potential candidate for 
 mayor. 
 
SPRING STREET 229 
 
 "He knows that no man can become mayor 
 of Los Angeles unless he has the support of re 
 spectable citizenry, represented by the churches 
 and business and civic welfare associations, as 
 well as the women s clubs," one of them said. 
 "After he is elected mayor he may break his 
 pledges to these organizations, but as soon as 
 he does he s through." 
 
 Late one afternoon, two weeks after his 
 last meeting with Consuello and Gibson, Bren- 
 nan and John were gossiping at the office, spec 
 ulating on Gibson s next move. 
 
 "He ll pull another stunt soon," Brennan 
 declared. "When he does it s up to us to dig 
 in and find out what s behind it. If we can get 
 a little more evidence like that you stumbled 
 on to when he raided the Spring street book 
 makers, we ll be on the trail of the biggest 
 story that s broken here in years." 
 
 "Isn t there a chance that he s straight?" 
 asked John, still unable to believe that the 
 man Consuello had such unfailing faith in was 
 the man Brennan suspected him to be. 
 
 "If he is it won t be the first time I ve been 
 wrong," said Brennan, "but it will be the big 
 gest jolt I ever got, let me tell you that." 
 * * * 
 
 They received no word from Murphy until 
 nearly a month after Gibson s spectacular 
 Spring street raid. He appeared at the office 
 
230 SPRING STREET 
 
 late one afternoon with the information that 
 he had "hot stuff" concerning "Gink" Cum- 
 mings. 
 
 He declared that Cummings had ordered 
 that all crime stop immediately in the city. 
 
 "Da Gink has passed out da word dat da 
 boys gotta lay off," said Murphy. "He gives 
 orders dat there s to be no rough stuff until 
 he says so." 
 
 "You mean that the Gink is closing up the 
 town?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "Dat s what I say," replied Murphy. "He 
 says there ain t to be no stick-ups, no gamblin , 
 no bootleggin , no pocket pickin , no house 
 jobs, no bunko stuff, no nothin and dat goes. 
 Da first bird dat tries workin is gonna be run 
 outa town, see?" 
 
 "Where do you pick up that information, 
 Murphy?" Brennan asked. 
 
 "Well, da Gink don t tell me poisonally, 
 see? But I gets it straight, see? Da stick- 
 ups, da sure-thing guys, da dips, everybody 
 gets orders to lay off, see?" 
 
 Brennan whistled softly. 
 
 "What s the Gink got up his sleeve now, 
 I wonder?" he said. 
 
 "Soich me," said Murphy. 
 
 "Are they obeying the Gink s orders?" 
 
 "I ll say they are!" asserted Murphy. "All 
 the gamblin places are closed and everybody 
 
SPRING STREET 231 
 
 stopped doin business, see? Even da girls 
 is behavin and only enough dope to keep da 
 boys goin bein peddled, see?" 
 
 "I see,! said Brennan, "but it s got me. I 
 can t figure out what his game is." 
 
 With P. Q. approving the cashier s voucher 
 for the money, Murphy was paid $25 for the 
 information he gave Brennan and John, who 
 told him to watch the situation in Spring street 
 closely and report to them often. 
 
 The information furnished by Murphy that 
 "Gink" Cummings had ordered that crime be 
 stopped in Los Angeles was substantiated by 
 the developments of the following week. The 
 crime wave that had been sweeping the city, 
 as it had the nation, came to an abrupt halt. 
 During the week only one holdup was reported 
 to the police and prohibition officers were sur 
 prised to find that bootleggers had stopped 
 their work. There were no burglaries, gam 
 bling, picking of pockets, bunko swindling or 
 handbook betting. The traffic in narcotics, 
 police and federal officers reported, was the 
 lowest in years. 
 
 Police Chief Sweeney and the mayor were 
 baffled by the sudden stop of crime and frankly 
 admitted their bewilderment to Brennan and 
 John. 
 
 "It s beyond me," said the mayor. "All 
 w r e can do is wait and see what happens. They 
 
232 SPRING STREET 
 
 are up to something big, that s a certainty, but 
 I can t figure it out." 
 
 Then, after peace and quiet had reigned in 
 the city for ten days, Gibson issued a state 
 ment claiming that he and the forces support 
 ing him, including his investigators and detec 
 tives, had done what the mayor and Chief 
 Sweeney were unable to do, stopped crime in 
 Los Angeles. 
 
 "I call the attention of the citizens of Los 
 Angeles to the fact that within the past ten 
 days there has been less crime in the city than 
 in years," Gibson s statement read. "There 
 has been but one holdup, no burglaries, no 
 violence, no banditry and no open gambling, 
 bootlegging, thievery or trafficking in narco 
 tics. 
 
 "My investigators report that the lid is 
 down tight, solely and exclusively because 
 Gink Cummings, the notorious boss of the 
 underworld, and his gang of crooks know that 
 I mean business and that those behind me are 
 in the fight to a finish for a clean city. 
 
 "I am gratified, of course, to find that the 
 crusade is having its effect and that Los Ange 
 les is beginning to enjoy the protection to 
 which it is entitled, although the entire situa 
 tion discloses the deplorable state of ineffi 
 ciency in the police department and the fail- 
 
SPRING STREET 233 
 
 ure of Chief Sweeney and the mayor to en 
 force the law." 
 
 Brennan smiled broadly when he read the 
 Commissioner s latest proclamation. 
 
 "That modest, shrinking violet we hear of 
 so often is a shrieking braggart alongside of 
 our grand young crusader," he remarked. 
 "What a dumb-bell I was not to have seen 
 what was coming!" 
 
 John realized that Brennan believed he had 
 discovered the reason for "Gink" Cummings 
 order to close the city to crime and unlawful 
 ness. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" he asked. 
 
 "It s a mighty slick trick," explained the 
 star reporter. "Don t you see how it works? 
 Cummings, wanting everyone to believe Gib 
 son really has the ability to close up the town, 
 gives orders for the bandits and crooks to 
 lay off, as Murphy put it. Then Gibson 
 comes out and claims credit for closing up the 
 city. The Gink and Gibson planned this 
 stunt together; otherwise, how did Murphy 
 happen to find out about it? And what was 
 the Gink s reason for closing the town if it 
 wasn t to give Gibson a chance to claim the 
 credit?" 
 
 "Still, there s a chance that it was only a 
 coincidence, that the Gink had some other 
 
234 SPRING STREET 
 
 reason to call his men off and that Gibson, 
 believing that he really had frightened Cum- 
 mings and his gang, took advantage of an op 
 portunity and claimed the credit for it," sug 
 gested John. 
 
 Brennan inhaled deeply on his cigaret be 
 fore answering. 
 
 "Gallant," he said, u you really don t think 
 it happened that way, do you? Don t let your 
 credulousness put you on the wrong track. 
 Who do you suppose it was who told Gibson s 
 investigators that it was his crusade that was 
 closing up the town? Remember, the Gink 
 is the mayor s enemy and he isn t going to do 
 anything unless it s against the mayor. He 
 simply passed out the word he was afraid of 
 Gibson to give Gibson a chance to claim the 
 glory." 
 
 The mayor and Sweeney, as well as P. Q., 
 who knew that Murphy had given Brennan 
 and John advance information regarding the 
 ceasing of crime, agreed with Brennan that 
 Gibson and the "Gink" had framed the whole 
 affair. 
 
 Gibson s announcement that the ebb of the 
 crime wave was the result of his crusade 
 brought renewed expressions of commendation 
 and pledges of support from organizations 
 and individuals lined up behind him. Churches, 
 women s clubs, civic and business organiza- 
 
SPRING STREET 235 
 
 tions, groups of citizens and prominent men 
 and women of the city were outspoken in their 
 praise of the police commissioner, hailing him 
 as the "man of the hour." A well known 
 minister addressed a mass meeting at his 
 church, his subject being "Police Commissioner 
 Gibson s Remarkable Success and the Disgrace 
 of Having a Mayor Who Fails to Do His 
 Duty." Other preachers delivered sermons 
 extolling Gibson, one of the sermons being ad 
 vertised as "A Modern Crusader Against 
 Graft, Booze, Boodle and Sin." 
 
 Accepting every invitation, Gibson spoke 
 at churches, mass meetings, clubs and lunch 
 eons of business men s organizations. Bren- 
 nan declared that the commissioner was show 
 ing signs of weakening on his vow that he 
 would not become a candidate for mayor un 
 der any circumstances. 
 
 "You mark my words," he said to John. 
 "Some of these days Gibson will announce 
 himself as a candidate. He ll say that he has 
 been persuaded that he would be failing to 
 perform his full duty unless he heeded the call. 
 He ll excuse himself from his stand that he 
 had no political ambitions by saying that when 
 he undertook his crusade he had no thought 
 of ever becoming a candidate." 
 
 "What about the $1,000 he told us he d give 
 to charity the moment he announced himself 
 
236 SPRING STREET 
 
 as a candidate for any public office?" asked 
 John. 
 
 "We ll see that he turns it over to the Chil 
 dren s hospital if it s the last thing we do," 
 said Brennan, smiling. 
 
 At a moment when he was the most con 
 spicuous man in the city, Gibson disappeared. 
 Brennan and John joined the reporters of 
 other Los Angeles newspapers in a night and 
 day search for the missing commissioner, but, 
 as it had been when Gibson disappeared before 
 he foiled "Red Mike" in his attempted wreck 
 of the "Lark," no trace of him could be found. 
 
 Gibson had not been missing for more than 
 twenty-four hours before a tidal wave of crime 
 swept the city. In a single night there were 
 a score of robberies, holdups, burglaries and 
 bandit raids. The gamblers and handbook 
 agents resumed their business, women were at 
 tacked on the streets, bootleg liquor flowed 
 like a river and pickpockets victimized a dozen 
 men and women. The sudden resumption of 
 unlawfulness, far more severe than it had ever 
 been, caught the police unprepared and only 
 a few arrests were made. 
 
 Brennan and John sought out Murphy. 
 
 "Da Gink has canceled his orders and told 
 da boys to go to it strong," Murphy told them. 
 "He gave da word da day after this bird Gib 
 son ducks out." 
 
SPRING STREET 237 
 
 "Two and two make four," commented 
 Brennan. "Gibson goes out of town and Cum- 
 mings gives orders to his gang to open up. 
 Another slick trick. Gibson will come back in 
 a few days and the Gink will call them off 
 again. Result, the people will believe that 
 Gibson is the only man to keep the lid down 
 in Los Angeles, that as soon as he leaves crime 
 begins and as soon as he returns it stops. Oh, 
 what a smart pair they are!" 
 
 John took time to analyze the situation and 
 decided that the coordination of the moves of 
 Gibson and "Gink" Cummings was more than 
 a series of coincidences. He accepted, for the 
 first time without reservation or qualification, 
 the theory that there was an alliance between 
 the commissioner and the underworld boss. 
 The realization shocked him and he felt a 
 hate for Gibson, the deceiver, surge through 
 him. But he knew that this hate was engen 
 dered more by the fact that Gibson was mis 
 leading Consuello than that he was a political 
 Judas, betraying his city for "Gink" Cum 
 mings stolen silver. 
 
 In the midst of the excitement caused by 
 Gibson s disappearance and the outbreak of 
 crime, while fears were being expressed in 
 some quarters that the commissioner had met 
 with foul play at the hands of Cummings 
 "bashers," John heard from Consuello. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 f I S HEY had luncheon together in a cozy 
 " booth of a sweet shop in Broadway. 
 Consuello accepted his invitation to luncheon 
 when she telephoned to him that she was 
 downtown and wished to see him. Her first 
 question over the phone was whether John had 
 learned anything concerning Gibson s disap 
 pearance. 
 
 "I m downtown for an hour or so and 
 thought you might have heard something about 
 Mr. Gibson," she said. 
 
 To P. Q. he explained that he might be 
 away from the office for lunch longer than 
 usual. 
 
 "An angle concerning Gibson s disappear 
 ance that may develop something," he said, 
 hoping it would be sufficient. 
 
 "What is it?" demanded the city editor. 
 
 "Well, Miss Carrillo you remember Gib 
 son s friend called me and I invited her to 
 have lunch with me," John answered. 
 
 "Hop to it," said P. Q. 
 
 Consuello was in sport costume, silk knit 
 jacket, saucy white hat, white skirt, shoes and 
 hose; a trim, dainty figure, cool and refreshing. 
 He had a curious feeling that their meeting 
 was somewhat clandestine. 
 
SPRING STREET 239 
 
 "I thought you knew where Gibson went, 
 but I refrained from calling you to ask," John 
 said after they were seated in the booth. 
 
 "Why didn t you?" 
 
 "I didn t want you to become involved in 
 this business." He almost said, "This mess." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "If I had called you and you had told me 
 where Gibson was, the other reporters would 
 not rest until they found out my source of in 
 formation and you would be brought into the 
 whole affair," he explained. 
 
 "I understand," she said. "Truly, though, 
 I am beginning to worry. He gave me no hint 
 that he even intended leaving the city and that 
 is what puzzles me. Tell me, do you think 
 there is any reason to fear that anything has 
 happened to him?" 
 
 "It s very improbable," he assured her. His 
 conviction that Gibson and "Gink" Cummings 
 were allied caused him to have no apprehen 
 sion concerning the commissioner s safety. 
 "He ll be back in a few days." 
 
 "I do hope so," she said. "He is making 
 such a success, isn t he?" 
 
 "Yes." He was reluctant to give the affir 
 mation. He conquered an impulse to tell her, 
 to warn her, that it was more than probable 
 Gibson was not the man she believed him to 
 be. He wondered what she would say if he 
 
240 SPRING STREET 
 
 told her what had caused him to turn against 
 Gibson. 
 
 "I am very, very proud and happy," she 
 said. "If anything should happen to him I 
 don t know what I would do." 
 
 The potentiality of the words, "If any 
 thing should happen to him," struck home 
 hard on John. 
 
 "It would be terrible," he said, avoiding 
 her eyes. 
 
 "He has been so considerate, so good," she 
 said. "I feel that I owe him so much I can 
 never repay." 
 
 A decision flashed into his brain as she 
 spoke. If the time ever came when enough 
 evidence was obtained to expose Gibson, he 
 would go to the commissioner and plead with 
 him to renounce Cummings, for her sake. 
 There might yet be a chance to save Consuello 
 from the disillusionment that was approaching. 
 The fearfulness of Gibson s perfidy was almost 
 incomprehensible. 
 
 "I m certain he does not think so," he said. 
 
 "Do you know what he is planning for me 
 now?" she asked, and then, before he at 
 tempted to reply, she added, "He plans to re 
 store the wealth of the Carrillos." 
 
 Her eyes sparkled as she spoke and she 
 looked to him for his approval. 
 
 "Oil has been struck within a mile or so of 
 
SPRING STREET 241 
 
 our ranch," she explained. "They have asked 
 father to sell or lease and Reggie has taken 
 charge of it for us. Father has placed the 
 whole business in his hands; he has so much 
 confidence in him. He gave him an option on 
 the ranch property and Reggie hopes to dis 
 pose of it for enough to bring back our lost 
 fortune to us. Isn t it wonderful?" 
 
 "It certainly is," he agreed. "The discov 
 ery of oil is the only get-rich-quick proposition 
 that is above reproach. A person can be pov 
 erty stricken one day and a millionaire the 
 next and no one suffers by his quick acquisi 
 tion of wealth. Oil is a treasure of nature be 
 stowed by fate and it is needless for me to add 
 that I hope that fate is good to you." 
 
 "It s all so complicated and technical that I 
 cannot grasp it and father never was a business 
 man. That is why Reggie is handling it for 
 us," she said. "A new well is being bored 
 only a few hundred yards from the ranch and 
 everything depends upon whether oil is struck 
 there. If they find oil it is almost certain that 
 there is oil on our place. If no oil is found, 
 then, of course, the value of the ranch dimin 
 ishes." 
 
 "Oil, like gold, they say, is where you find 
 it," John said. 
 
 "And so is happiness where you find it," 
 Consuello said. "That is what comforts me. 
 
242 SPRING STREET 
 
 Money does not necessarily bring happiness. 
 Even if it turns out that no oil is found I can 
 still be happy. I am happy now and why 
 should I let anything like the loss of wealth, 
 that never came to me, disappoint me?" 
 
 Their luncheon finished, they walked to the 
 street, where John found that the automobile 
 placed at Consuello s disposal by Gibson he 
 was certain of that now was waiting for her. 
 
 "Back to the studio and work again," she 
 said. "I m so glad we were able to meet, to 
 day. I have enjoyed it more than you know. 
 When Reggie returns we must arrange a din 
 ner party the three of us. And before long 
 you and your mother must come out to the 
 ranch. I haven t forgotten that." 
 
 Her parting words brought back to John 
 the bitter thought of his mother s intolerant 
 prejudice against Consuello as he returned to 
 the office. 
 
 He stopped at the city editor s desk to tell 
 P. Q. that his meeting with Consuello had 
 failed to develop a single clew to Gibson s 
 whereabouts. 
 
 "Nothing doing," he reported. 
 
 "What do you mean, nothing doing?" asked 
 P. Q. Then he added: 
 
 "Gibson showed up about an hour ago." 
 
 "He s back?" asked John. 
 
SPRING STREET 243 
 
 Back again," confirmed the city editor. 
 "Says he only went away to rest up. Claims 
 he went some place where he received no word 
 from Los Angeles and didn t know crime had 
 opened up again." 
 
 "What s he going to do about it?" 
 
 "Oh, he came through with just about what 
 was expected," said P. Q. "Said he d get right 
 to work and put a stop to it. Blamed it all on 
 the mayor and Sweeney. Says it s further 
 proof that the police department is rotten." 
 
 The last edition that night carried the ban 
 ner-line, "Gibson Returns to Stop Crime 
 Wave." 
 
 Brennan and John sought Murphy, but be- 
 ng unable to locate him, had dinner downtown 
 and continued their search during the evening. 
 An hour before midnight they met him as he 
 was returning to his room. 
 
 "Well, what s the word?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "I got what you re lookin for," Murphy 
 said. "Da Gink has called off da boys again, 
 iie passes out da word dat dere s to be nuttin 1 
 doin tonight, tomorrow night or until he says 
 go. " 
 
 "When did he give these orders, before or 
 after Gibson came back?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "After," replied Murphy. "And there ll be 
 nuthin doin , see?" 
 
244 SPRING STREET 
 
 "All right, Murphy. Keep on the lookout 
 and drop in tomorrow and we ll fix you up for 
 this." 
 
 "I gotcha," said Murphy. 
 
 "Three and three make six," said Brennan 
 to John as they left Murphy at the door of 
 his rooming house. "Gibson goes away and 
 the Gink opens things up, Gibson comes back 
 and he shuts down again. That s how they 
 make it appear that they are enemies and that 
 Gibson is the only man who can keep the town 
 closed." 
 
 That night the crime wave stopped as sud 
 denly as it began. There was not a robbery, 
 holdup or ordinary theft reported to the police. 
 The same order that prevailed when the 
 "Gink" first decreed a "lay-off" prevailed and 
 Gibson issued a triumphant statement to the 
 reporters for the first editions in the morning. 
 
 "It demonstrates what little fear bandits and 
 crooks have for the police under Chief Swee 
 ney," a part of the statement read. "It shows 
 that the administration is so inefficient and cor 
 rupt that law and order must be enforced by 
 citizens instead of by the officials whose duty 
 it is to keep the lid down in Los Angeles." 
 
 Another avalanche of resolutions praising 
 Gibson followed the publication of this state 
 ment. The mayor was hotly condemned for 
 his failure to remove Chief Sweeney at Gib- 
 
SPRING STREET 245 
 
 son s request and the commissioner was hailed 
 as a man whose very name was enough to in 
 timidate criminals and whose presence in the 
 city was enough to keep outlawry and banditry 
 at a minimum. One prominent citizen de 
 manded that the mayor resign and that Gibson 
 be appointed in his place by acclamation. 
 
 Brennan, John and P. Q. held another con 
 ference with the publisher. It was decided 
 that while the evidence before them John s 
 experience in the Spring street raid and Mur 
 phy s information concerning "Gink" Cum- 
 mings moves in opening and closing the city 
 while Gibson was in and out of it was enough 
 to convince them all that there was an alliance 
 between Cummings and the commissioner, they 
 lacked sufficient ammunition to "break" the 
 story and expose the perfidious plot. 
 
 "Just a little more information, boys, some 
 thing to show meetings between Gibson and 
 Cummings or communications between them 
 and we ll be ready to open fire," said the pub 
 lisher. 
 
 A week later Gibson summoned Brennan 
 and John to his office. 
 
 "How are you, boys?" he asked smiling. "I 
 called you up here because I have something to 
 give you." 
 
 He handed them a slip of paper. It was a 
 check his personal check for $1,000. The 
 
246 SPRING STREET 
 
 space where the name of the recipient should 
 apprear was blank. 
 
 "This means " began Brennan. 
 
 "It means that I m a candidate for mayor," 
 said Gibson. "Remember, I promised you 
 I d donate $1,000 to charity the minute I be 
 came a candidate for any public office. What 
 shall it be?" 
 
 "The Children s hospital," said Brennan. 
 
 Gibson seated himself at his desk and wrote 
 in the name, blotted it carefully and tossed it 
 toward them on the table. 
 
 The formal announcement of Gibson s can 
 didacy, which he gave to Brennan and John 
 immediately after turning over to them the 
 check for $1,000, made out to the Children s 
 hospital, followed the lines foretold by Bren 
 nan when he predicted the commissioner s en 
 try in the mayoralty race. 
 
 He declared he became a candidate at the 
 persistent urging of organizations and individ 
 uals who had convinced him that he would 
 deliberately evade a duty and service he owed 
 the city if he refused. He reiterated his 
 charges against the mayor and the administra 
 tion, asserting that conditions as he found them 
 in the city government were an intolerable dis 
 grace. 
 
SPRING STREET 247 
 
 His campaign committee, chosen a few days 
 after he announced his candidacy, included the 
 names of seventy-five per cent of the promi 
 nent and respected men and women of the city, 
 as well as clubs and organizations representing 
 the churches, civic improvement associations, 
 manufacturers, business men and thousands of 
 citizens. The Church Federation and the Min 
 isterial Union, those two great bodies working 
 always for the welfare of the city, gave him 
 unqualified indorsements. The best people of 
 the city advocated his election. 
 
 Gibson s nominating petition was completed 
 in less than a week. The rapidity of the com 
 pletion of the petition was viewed as a criter 
 ion of the respective strength of the commis 
 sioner and of the mayor, whose supporters 
 encountered considerable difficulty in obtaining 
 signatures. It was three weeks before the 
 mayor s petition could be got ready for filing. 
 
 With the primary election two months away 
 the candidates began their campaigns at once. 
 Gibson was everywhere, addressing meetings 
 night and day. The enthusiasm with which he 
 was received surpassed that ever given to any 
 candidate in Los Angeles. Daily he was 
 paraded through the downtown section of the 
 city by cheering admirers. "Gibson for 
 Mayor" banners and cards decorated the en 
 tire city. From their pulpits the ministers 
 
248 SPRING STREET 
 
 urged his election and took up his attack upon 
 the administration. He was given credit unan 
 imously for having clamped the lid down in 
 Los Angeles tighter than it had ever been and 
 he was acclaimed as a "fighting man" because 
 of his duel with "Red Mike" and his personal 
 leadership of the officers who raided the Spring 
 street handbook makers. 
 
 The mayor was without ammunition to re 
 turn Gibson s crossfire of charges against the 
 administration. He was deserted, except for 
 a few loyal supporters, who struggled vainly 
 to stem the tide of popular favor as it swung 
 to Gibson s side. 
 
 Gibson scored heavily three weeks after his 
 campaign was opened by hurling charges that 
 "Gink" Cummings was contributing to the 
 mayor s campaign fund and placing his sinister 
 strength at his disposal to aid him to be re- 
 elected. Astounded by his opponent s audac 
 ity, the mayor sent for Brennan and John. 
 His mild blue eyes were blazing and he chewed 
 vigorously at his cigar. 
 
 "I m licked, boys, unless I do something 
 soon," he said. "I have to play a waiting 
 game, but I can t afford to wait too long. I 
 can t come out with the charge that Cummings 
 and Gibson are plotting to steal the city. I 
 haven t enough evidence. People would think 
 I am crazy. As it is, he s getting away with 
 
SPRING STREET 249 
 
 everything. If the primary was tomorrow he d 
 snow me under." 
 
 "He s pulling all the tricks in the bag," ad 
 mitted Brennan. 
 
 "And I have nothing to come back at him 
 with," the mayor complained. 
 
 "Why don t you fire him from his position 
 as police commissioner?" suggested Brennan. 
 
 The mayor stopped short on the invisible 
 path he had been pacing back and forth across 
 his office. 
 
 "Brennan," he said, "I thought you had 
 more sense than to suggest a thing like that. 
 What reason could I give for firing him?" 
 
 "Say it s for the good of the service, that s 
 all." 
 
 "And give him a chance to wail that I 
 fired him because I am afraid of him, that I 
 did it in desperation to save myself. Why, 
 it would give him 10,000 votes of sympathy. 
 No, Brennan, I must get something real to 
 show that Gibson and Gink Cummings are 
 partners." 
 
 He turned and walked to the window, 
 placing his hands on both sides of it, and 
 leaned forward, his arms supporting him as he 
 looked down into the busy traffic on Broad 
 way. It was a position similar to that he had 
 taken when John first met him, when he vowed 
 to expose Gibson s alliance with Cummings, 
 
250 SPRING STREET 
 
 but the shoulders drooped and the outlines 
 of his figure, silhouetted against the light 
 streaming in the window suggested great bodily 
 and mental weariness. 
 
 "Is it possible that I m to go down to defeat, 
 to disgrace, to ignominy, at the hands of such 
 a despicable rascal?" he said, without turning, 
 as though he was speaking to himself. "Is 
 this to be my reward my end? Are the 
 people of my city to be led like blind sheep 
 into a carnage of crime and graft?" 
 
 Above the roar of the traffic in the street 
 below the strident voice of a newsboy, shout 
 ing his immature conception of the most 
 important news in the latest editions of the 
 afternoon papers, came up to them. 
 
 "Gibson says de mayor s de bunk?" he 
 shrieked. "Just out pa p er!" 
 
 The voice from the street broke the tense 
 silence that had followed the mayor s solilo 
 quy. He turned from the window quickly and 
 strode back to his desk and the suggestion of 
 weariness dropped from him like a cloak and 
 he emerged, alert, taut, energetic, in fighting 
 trim. 
 
 "This won t do," he snapped, "this standing 
 around and feeling sorry for myself. If I m 
 going down to defeat I m going down fight 
 ing and when the day comes that the people 
 discover what a hypocrite and crook this man 
 
SPRING STREET 251 
 
 Gibson is, they ll remember, at least, that I 
 fought him to the last. 
 
 "And I m not licked yet, not by a damn sight. 
 I m going to plug right along and before 
 another month passes I m going to show this 
 crook up if it s the last thing I do on earth." 
 
 "That s more like it," approved Brennan. 
 "I ve been in a few forlorn hope fights before 
 and have seen the impossible happen, in fact, 
 helped it happen." 
 
 "I m depending on you more than anyone 
 else," said the mayor. Turning to John he 
 added: "And you, too, Gallant." 
 
 "The fault of crooks and we re dealing 
 with crooks is that they can t think straight, 
 all the time," said Brennan. "They always 
 make a slip, some time. I ve never known it 
 to fail. No matter how smart a crook is, 
 he always makes one mistake. He can t help 
 it. It s because he s a crook and can t think 
 straight. It s up to us to see that we don t 
 overlook the mistake that Gibson and the Gink 
 will make." 
 
 "Let s hope they make it soon enough," 
 said the mayor. "The primary is only five 
 weeks away and if Gibson is to be exposed 
 it must be within the next four weeks at the 
 latest." 
 
 "I don t agree with you fully in that," said 
 Brennan. "It might be a good idea, if we get 
 
252 SPRING STREET 
 
 what we re looking for, to hold off until a few 
 days before the election so that Gibson won t 
 have enough time to reach the entire city with 
 the story he ll frame up to come back with." 
 "We won t worry about that until we find 
 enough to blast Gibson and Cummings once 
 and for all," the mayor said. "I have men 
 working night and day trying to link the two 
 together. I have tried fairly and honestly 
 to discover where Gibson obtained the money 
 he has. He was broke, flat broke, about the 
 time I was elected and suddenly he had all the 
 money he required. Where it came from I 
 can t find out. There is only one conclusion 
 that I can see and that is that Cummings gave 
 it to him; just as I have contended from the 
 
 start." 
 
 Brennan and John saw Murphy regularly, 
 meeting him at least once a day, hoping each 
 time that he would bring them the informa 
 tion they sought. But he had little to tell them 
 except that Cummings was enforcing his order 
 that there should be no crime in the city. One 
 night he brought them a story of how a re 
 bellious gangster becoming restless, had 
 planned to commit a robbery despite the 
 "Gink s" prohibitory order and had been 
 promptly "beaten up" by Cummings thugs. 
 
 A week after their last conference with the 
 mayor, Brennan and John received a telephone 
 
SPRING STREET 253 
 
 message from Gibson s secretary, who told 
 them that the commissioner wanted them to 
 see him at his office immediately. 
 
 "Another grandstand stunt, I ll bet," Bren- 
 nan speculated as they hurried to Gibson s 
 office. "It s about time for one." 
 
 Gibson greeted them as affably as ever. As 
 they entered his office he closed and locked 
 the door behind them. 
 
 "Well, boys," he said, "how do you think 
 my campaign is coming?" 
 
 "You re going strong," replied Brennan, 
 truthfully. 
 
 "And how is my friend, the mayor?" 
 
 "He isn t ready to concede defeat yet," Bren 
 nan said. "He realizes, though, that you re 
 gaining ground on him every day, or rather 
 increasing the lead you had at the start." 
 
 Gibson laughed. 
 
 "He had his chance," he said. "I gave 
 him warning, although I believe I don t have 
 to tell you again, that I had no idea of ever 
 running against him when he appointed me a 
 commissioner. By the way, why doesn t he 
 fire me?" 
 
 "What for?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "Oh, I see, he figures it would hurt him 
 more than do him good," concluded Gibson. 
 "Well, perhaps he s right. But I didn t send 
 for you boys to talk politics. I have some- 
 
254 SPRING STREET 
 
 thing I think will develop into a story for you, 
 a real story, not the stuff my publicity man 
 hands out." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 Gibson smiled and shook his head. 
 
 "I can t tell you now," he said. "Be here 
 tomorrow morning at 10 o clock and you can 
 be in on the whole business. I don t expect 
 there ll be any shooting, but you might as 
 well bring guns if you have them." 
 
 "Another Red Mike ?" asked Brennan. 
 
 Gibson smiled again. 
 
 "Be here and see," he said, inexplicitly. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Benton, the photographer, who 
 performed his jig dance to the rhythm 
 of "Gunga Din" when he was told he faced 
 another adventure, Brennan and John were 
 in Gibson s office before 10 o clock the next 
 morning. They found Gibson alone in his 
 inner office. 
 
 "No make-up this time, eh?" asked Bren 
 nan, recalling, by inference, Gibson s unkempt 
 costume on the night he "shot it out" with 
 "Red Mike" and saved the "Lark" from 
 destruction. 
 
 "Not necessary," replied the commissioner. 
 "Speaking of make-up reminds me, Gallant, 
 that Miss Carrillo asked me to tell you that 
 she hasn t forgotten about our dinner party." 
 It was the first time that Consuello s name had 
 been mentioned by either of them since that 
 afternoon at the studio when Gibson had 
 told John of their engagement. 
 
 "It would be unlike her if she had for 
 gotten," said John, ready to let Gibson infer 
 what he might from the words. He noticed 
 that Brennan was looking at him curiously. 
 
 "Suppose we set it for the evening of the 
 day I m elected mayor," said Gibson, smiling. 
 
256 SPRING STREET 
 
 Over Gibson s shoulder John saw Brennan 
 drop his right eyelid in a slow wink. 
 
 "That suits me," he replied. As Gibson 
 turned toward his desk John returned Bren- 
 nan s wink. 
 
 "Now, boys, let s get down to business," 
 Gibson said as he turned back to face them, a 
 paper in his hand. "Here s the story. I m 
 going to arrest one of Gink Cummings lieu 
 tenants. The man I m after is Big Jim 
 Hatch, a notorious bunko swindler, and I ve 
 got him cornered but he doesn t know it. 
 
 "Hatch is Cummings pal. They have 
 known each other for years and worked to 
 gether. Big Jim is one of the cleverest bunko 
 men in the country, so clever that he has been 
 indicted only once, although he has swindled 
 victims out of hundreds of thousands of dol 
 lars. That indictment was returned against 
 him in New York several months ago and 
 he fled to Los Angeles, arranging with Gink 
 Cummings to operate here and receive pro 
 tection. 
 
 "This paper you see is a telegraphic war 
 rant from New York for Hatch s arrest. I 
 communicated with the New York authorities 
 as soon as my detectives found that he was 
 in the city and told me he was wanted in the 
 East. They have trailed him day and night. 
 The place where he is living is surrounded now 
 
SPRING STREET 257 
 
 by my men and deputy sheriffs who are wait 
 ing for me before making the raid and ar 
 resting him. Now, if you re ready, we ll go 
 and you can ask me any questions you want on 
 the way." 
 
 He led them to an automobile parked in 
 front of the office building. A liveried chauf 
 feur sat at the wheel. John saw it was the 
 machine that Consuello had said had been 
 placed at her disposal by "a friend." He 
 wondered why she never explained to him 
 that it was Gibson s car. Gibson took the 
 seat beside the chauffeur, while John, Bren- 
 nan and Benton took the tonneau seats. The 
 machine whirled away from the curb. 
 
 "Any questions?" asked Gibson over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "You ve told us everything we need to 
 know now," replied Brennan. 
 
 As Gibson turned back to face the road be 
 fore them John glanced toward Brennan in 
 terrogatively. Brennan shook his head doubt 
 fully as if he was puzzled by this new move by 
 the commissioner. 
 
 "I can t figure it out yet," he whispered. 
 
 In twenty minutes, at Gibson s order, the 
 chauffeur stopped the automobile at a corner 
 in West Eleventh street. 
 
 "We ll stop here and walk the rest of the 
 way, it s only half a block," explained the 
 
258 SPRING STREET 
 
 commissioner. "To drive up to the house 
 would give them warning." 
 
 u Big Jim s" house was in the middle of the 
 block. It was square, of two stories and 
 set well back from the street. The blinds 
 were down in all of the windows and it had a 
 deserted appearance. Out of range of sight 
 from any of the windows Gibson met a group 
 of deputy sheriffs and his private detectives, 
 one of whom stepped forward to address him. 
 
 "He s in there, all right," the detective said. 
 "We trailed him in last night and he hasn t 
 put his nose out of doors since. What are 
 your orders, Mr. Commissioner?" 
 
 "Who has the search warrant?" Gibson 
 asked. 
 
 "I have it," replied one of the deputy 
 sheriffs. "I figured we might have to go 
 in after him." 
 
 "Is the back of the house guarded?" Gib 
 son demanded. 
 
 "Four men are there and four others posted 
 at the sides," he was told. 
 
 "Good! Let s go then; I ll lead the way," 
 said Gibson. 
 
 He strode quickly toward the house and 
 up the walk to the front door, followed by 
 the detectives, the deputies, Brennan, John 
 and the camera man. John had a peculiar 
 sinking feeling as he realized what open tar- 
 
SPRING STREET 259 
 
 gets they were as they approached the house 
 if "Big Jim" opened fire on them from behind 
 the blind of one of the windows facing the 
 street. 
 
 Gibson rapped sharply on the door and 
 they waited tensely for a response. The offi 
 cers right hands were on the handles of their 
 automatics and revolvers. There was no re 
 sponse to Gibson s rap. He clenched his fist 
 and hammered loudly on the solid panel of 
 the door. Again no response. 
 
 "You re certain he is inside?" demanded 
 Gibson. 
 
 "Absolutely, Mr. Commissioner," assured 
 the detective. "He s probably at the door 
 
 now." 
 
 Gibson stepped to one side of the door and 
 the others stepped back also. 
 
 "Open the door or we ll break it down," 
 commanded Gibson, shouting. 
 
 A man s voice answered from behind the 
 door. 
 
 "What do you want?" it asked. 
 
 "Open the door," said Gibson, ignoring the 
 question. 
 
 A key clicked in the lock and the door 
 opened. Two of the deputies sprang on the 
 threshold beside Gibson, their automatics in 
 their hands. 
 
 "Put em up !" they said sharply. 
 
260 SPRING STREET 
 
 A large, florid-faced man, wearing an ex 
 pensive house coat, with an expression of a 
 respectable citizen highly outraged at what was 
 before him, lifted his hands above his head. 
 
 "What s the meaning of this?" he de 
 manded indignantly. 
 
 "There s no use pretending injured inno 
 cence, Hatch," said Gibson coolly. "We have 
 a search warrant and a warrant for your 
 arrest from New York." 
 
 The two deputies with drawn guns searched 
 Hatch for a concealed weapon, patting his 
 pockets, which they found empty. As they 
 stepped back "Big Jim" dropped his hands 
 to his side and smiled. 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Gibson," he said obligingly. 
 "Do your stuff." 
 
 John was startled to hear Hatch call Gib 
 son by name. Nothing had been said that 
 even hinted of the commissioner s identity. 
 The search warrant was handed Gibson. 
 
 "Do you want me to read this?" he asked. 
 
 "Don t trouble yourself," replied Hatch. 
 "All I ask is that you don t tear things to 
 pieces in here. Mrs. Hatch is with me and 
 I don t want her to be bothered." 
 
 "All right, boys, be quick about it," ordered 
 Gibson, sending the officers to search the 
 house, "and don t disturb Mrs. Hatch unless 
 it s necessary." 
 
SPRING STREET 261 
 
 As the private detectives and deputies left 
 them, Benton stepped forward with a request 
 that Gibson and Hatch pose for a photograph. 
 
 "You brought them with you, eh, Gibson?" 
 said Hatch. Then to the photographer he 
 added: "I ll accommodate you under one con 
 sideration." 
 
 "Say it," requested Benton. 
 
 "That you leave Mrs. Hatch out of this," 
 said "Big Jim." 
 
 The photographer looked to Brennan for an 
 answer to this proposal. 
 
 "Go ahead, Benton," Brennan agreed, "we 
 won t bother Mrs. Hatch." 
 
 While Benton was photographing Gibson 
 and Hatch, John observed the bunko swindler 
 more closely. To all outward appearances 
 "Big Jim" might have been any one of the 
 well-to-do business men one sees daily on the 
 downtown streets. His hair was gray with 
 a touch of white at the temples, his complexion 
 ruddy. On the little finger of his plump, 
 soft hand he wore a diamond ring in which 
 the gem was the size of a pea. It was obvious 
 that his suit was the work of a high-priced 
 tailor. He had frank blue eyes that had a 
 guileless expression and there were no crim 
 inal characteristics in the shape of his head, 
 the position of his ears and the contour of his 
 lips. 
 
262 SPRING STREET 
 
 "I suppose you ll want me to go back with 
 you," Hatch said to Gibson after Benton had 
 made his final flashlight picture of them. 
 
 "As soon as the search is completed," as 
 sented the commissioner. "Tell me, Hatch, 
 what about this New York job?" 
 
 "Big Jim" drew a cigar from his vest 
 pocket, clipped off the end of it with a snap of 
 his teeth and lighted it with a match. He 
 puffed at the cigar, looked at it critically and 
 smiled before he answered. 
 
 "You can speak about that to my lawyer," 
 he said. 
 
 In pairs the deputies and detectives re 
 turned from their search of the house empty- 
 handed. 
 
 "Nothing worth taking," they reported. 
 
 They prepared to leave, Hatch donned a 
 suit coat and put on his hat. As they started 
 toward the door John was in the rear. He 
 was about to step over the threshold to join 
 the others outside when a hand touched his 
 arm. He turned and faced a girl, a very 
 pretty girl, he thought, with large blue eyes, 
 golden hair and petite figure. 
 
 "Are you a reporter?" the girl asked. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, mystified. 
 
 "Then please come back here, tonight, I 
 have something to tell you." 
 
SPRING STREET 263 
 
 The door closed and he was outside again. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It was not until after Hatch had been lodged 
 in the county jail to await the arrival of 
 officers from New York and Brennan had writ 
 ten the story of Gibson s arrest of the swindler 
 that John revealed that the girl, whom he 
 presumed was Mrs. Hatch, had asked him 
 to return to the house that night. The ar 
 rest of "Big Jim" was the outstanding local 
 news story of the day. Gibson issued another 
 statement in which he emphasized that Hatch 
 was one of "Gink" Cummings men, who com 
 pletely escaped the notice of Chief Sweeney s 
 "inefficient" detectives. 
 
 When Brennan had handed to P. Q. the 
 last sheet of his story of Hatch s arrest John 
 told him how the girl had stopped him at the 
 door and asked him to return. 
 
 "Great!" exclaimed Brennan. "I can t fig 
 ure out Gibson s game in arresting Big Jim. 
 She ll probably be able to give us the tip." 
 
 "I wonder what she wants to tell me," said 
 John. 
 
 "Tell US, you mean," Brennan amended. 
 "You don t think you re not going to take 
 me along with you, do you?" 
 
 A few minutes after 8 o clock that evening 
 John and Brennan returned to the scene of 
 
264 SPRING STREET 
 
 their adventure of the afternoon. John 
 rapped on the door and the girl spoke to them 
 without opening it. 
 
 "Who is it, please?" she asked. 
 
 "It s the reporter you spoke to this after 
 noon," John said, and the door swung open. 
 The girl stood with her hand on the knob. 
 She glanced inquiringly toward Brennan. 
 
 "My partner," John explained. 
 
 "Come in," she invited, with a friendly 
 smile. 
 
 She waited until they had entered and then 
 closed the door behind them, locking it care 
 fully. Without speaking she led them into a 
 sitting room, artistically furnished, lighted 
 only by a rose-shaded table lamp. She mo 
 tioned them to a deep-cushioned davenport 
 and seated herself in a chair under the light 
 from the lamp. 
 
 There was no doubt about it, she was 
 pretty! Her blonde hair shone in the light 
 and the shadows about her eyes added to 
 their beauty. Her face was round and pi 
 quant, her lips a deep crimson and tiny. Her 
 one-piece dress on which beads sparkled, ex 
 posed a delicately rounded throat and slender 
 white arms. Her hands were small and white 
 and her fingernails were highly polished. Sheer 
 silk stockings and neat, expensive shoes. A 
 hint of cheapness about her; perhaps it was the 
 
SPRING STREET 265 
 
 unnatural thinness of the delicately arched 
 eyebrows, John thought; or perhaps the short 
 ness of her skirt; but she was pretty! 
 
 "I suppose you understand that I am Mrs. 
 Hatch?" she said. 
 
 They nodded. 
 
 "Now," she continued, "can you give me 
 some assurance that you are really reporters 
 and not detectives." 
 
 They produced their press badges which she 
 examined under the light. 
 
 Apparently satisfied, she looked at them for 
 a moment and then spoke. 
 
 U I want you to help me," she said; "help 
 me and my husband." 
 
 "If there is any legitimate way we can help 
 you, we will," Brennan assured her. 
 
 "I will begin at the beginning and tell you 
 everything," she said. "When I have finished 
 you can tell me what you can do for me. 
 
 "In the first place, I am speaking to you 
 because my husband is afraid to say anything. 
 He does not know that I am going to tell you 
 this, but I am doing it to save him, because" 
 she hesitated "I love him. 
 
 "Jim was indicted back in New York and 
 came here to escape arrest. We arrived 
 here five months ago. Whether Jim is guilty 
 of what he is charged with in New York is 
 for him to say. All I know is that he was 
 
266 SPRING STREET 
 
 indicted and that we came to Los Angeles to 
 escape the officers. 
 
 "We came here because Jim was a friend 
 of Gink Cummings and he thought that Cum- 
 mings would protect him. Jim saw Cum 
 mings soon after we reached the city and Cum 
 mings greeted him like a long lost brother. 
 He said that we could hide in Los Angeles 
 and be reasonably sure that the New York 
 officers would never learn we were here. 
 
 "A month after we came here we ran out 
 of money and Jim decided to get to work 
 again. You can guess how Jim planned to 
 work. I need not tell you more than that 
 before another month went by he had the 
 money. It wasn t as much as he had hoped for 
 and we were disappointed. We knew that 
 every time he went to work he not only risked 
 new trouble, but identification as the man who 
 was wanted in New York. That is why his 
 his jobs had to be few and far between. 
 We planned to make every cent of the money 
 last as long as we could. 
 
 "Of course, Gink Cummings knew what 
 Jim had done. When the job was completed 
 he called Jim to his office and told him that 
 he would have to split what money he had 
 got with him. He told Jim that no one 
 worked in Los Angeles without giving him 
 at least a 10 per cent cut, for protection. 
 
SPRING STREET 267 
 
 "Jim was surprised. He had figured that 
 Cummings was his friend. He told Cum- 
 mings that he could not afford to split with 
 him and explained how it was, that he could 
 not risk working often and had to make his 
 money last. He thought that this explanation 
 would satisfy the Gink, but it didn t. 
 
 "They quarreled. Cummings told Jim that 
 he could not work in Los Angeles or stay 
 here unless he came through. Jim told 
 
 him to go to h . Til tip New York that 
 
 you re here, Cummings told him. Jim told 
 him to go to it, that he was in trouble and 
 needed help instead of being compelled to put 
 himself in danger. 
 
 "We were afraid that Cummings would 
 follow out his threat and tip the New York 
 police, so we left the city. We went to San 
 Diego for a month and then, figuring that 
 Cummings would believe we had left for 
 good, came back to Los Angeles again. We 
 were safe enough until a month ago when Jim 
 did another job. He had to; we were broke. 
 Cummings found out about it and came to 
 see Jim. He came here, to this house. He 
 sat where you are sitting now. While he was 
 talking to Jim I was behind the curtain there 
 and heard every word." She indicated por 
 tieres behind them. 
 
 "I won t repeat everything I heard, al- 
 
268 SPRING STREET 
 
 though I could if it was necessary. Cum- 
 mings said he had heard Jim had done another 
 job and came to him for his split. You got 
 away with it once, Jim, he said; I didn t 
 do anything but you ve got to come through 
 this time. I run things here in Los Angeles, 
 let me tell you that. You re an old pal and 
 all that and I d like to let you alone, but I 
 can t afford to. The boys are hollering be 
 cause you re working without kicking in and 
 for my own protection you ve got to split. 
 
 " And what ll you do if I don t? Jim asks. 
 Well, says Cummings, I could have you 
 croaked. When he said that I thought Jim 
 was going to kill him right here, but he kept 
 control of himself. Or, says Cummings, I ll 
 have you pinched for that New York job. 
 Jim smiled when he heard that. Who ll do 
 the pinching? he asked. One of your paid 
 cops? It ll be somebody bigger than a cop, 
 said Cummings." 
 
 John felt Brennan move forward on the 
 davenport. 
 
 " Somebody bigger than a cop. Are you 
 sure he said that?" Brennan asked. 
 
 "Those were his words," Mrs. Hatch an 
 swered. " Who ll that be? asks Jim. Never 
 mind who it ll be, says Cummings, you ll find 
 that out when it happens. Now, I m giving 
 you your last chance, either come across or 
 
SPRING STREET 269 
 
 go back and do your bit; what s it going to 
 be? 
 
 "I know Jim. I know he would rather 
 have died than to have given in to Cummings. 
 Nothing doing, "Gink," Jim says. All right, 
 Jim, says Cummings, don t ever say I didn t 
 give you a chance. Then he left. 
 
 "I was afraid. I begged Jim to split with 
 Cummings and make the most of it. But he 
 was stubborn. I d rather go to the pen than 
 split with that cur, he says to me. So nothing 
 more happened until today and you were here 
 and saw it. 
 
 "Now, this is how I think you may be able 
 to help us. You saw who it was who ar 
 rested Jim. It was Gibson, the police com 
 missioner, who is running for mayor. Gibson 
 must have been the man Cummings referred to 
 when he said that it would be somebody big 
 ger than a cop who would arrest Jim. Gib 
 son could never have known anything about 
 Jim unless Cummings told him. Gibson and 
 Cummings must be working together, some 
 how. The only reason Jim was arrested was 
 because he wouldn t split with Cummings and 
 it s Gibson who arrests him. Can t you see the 
 connection? 
 
 "Jim can tell you every word I ve told 
 you and a lot more and there should be some 
 way of using it to aid him. I don t know how, 
 
270 SPRING STREET 
 
 but there should be some way. If he told 
 everything to the district attorney here, don t 
 you think it might help him a little? You 
 see, Cummings wants him sent back to New 
 York as soon as possible so he won t start 
 talking. He won t say anything about what 
 Jim has done here because he wants him out 
 of the state. 
 
 "I thought that if Jim would tell his story 
 to the district attorney or to some newspaper 
 it might be arranged to have some recommen 
 dation for leniency for him when he goes back 
 to New York. Or, he might be able to have 
 the charge back there dropped and get im 
 munity out here." 
 
 She paused. There was a tense silence until 
 she spoke again, softly. 
 
 "You see," she said, "I love Jim and he 
 loves me. We had decided, after this ex 
 perience with Cummings, to go straight. Jim 
 told me that he would work the rest of his 
 life to pay back whatever he had taken wrong 
 fully and we would be happy together. We 
 wouldn t have to live in fear and the day 
 would come when we could hold up our heads 
 and have a little home and and children." 
 
 John thought he saw tears in her eyes as 
 she ended the sentence. 
 
 "I have trusted you in telling you this," she 
 said. "I feel that I can trust you. Tell me, 
 
SPRING STREET 271 
 
 please tell me, can anything be done with 
 what I ve told you?" 
 
 She looked toward them pleadingly, anx 
 iously. Brennan was sitting on the edge of 
 the davenport, his body bent forward, his el 
 bows on his knees, gazing intently at the girl. 
 
 "A crook can t think straight all the time," 
 he said, quietly. " Gink Cummings has made 
 his mistake." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 T^HE story told by Evelyn Hatch Evelyn 
 * was her given name was twice repeated 
 by John and Brennan the next day, first to 
 P. Q. and then to the publisher of their paper. 
 It was decided that Hatch s own story should 
 be obtained and, if possible, put in affidavit 
 form. Following their conferences with P. Q. 
 and the "chief" they went directly to the 
 county jail where "Big Jim" was brought 
 down from his cell at their request. 
 
 He greeted them genially, offering them 
 cigars as they led him to a quiet corner of 
 the reception room. 
 
 "I always try to be a good scout with news 
 paper men," Hatch said, smiling. "I ve had 
 considerable experience with reporters and 
 I ve always found them square and fair. And, 
 without speaking personally, of course, I can 
 tell you that you reporters do more to eradi 
 cate crime than all the police in the country." 
 
 "Hatch," said Brennan, ignoring the com 
 pliment, "we ve had a talk with your wife." 
 
 "You promised me you d let her alone," 
 said "Big Jim" sharply. 
 
 "We never spoke to her until she told us 
 she wanted to see us," John put in. "As I 
 
SPRING STREET 273 
 
 was leaving the house after you were arrested 
 she stopped me and asked me to come back, 
 saying she had something to tell me." 
 
 The anger that had blazed in Hatch s eyes 
 when he suspected them of violating their 
 promise softened to tenderness. 
 
 "Poor kid," he said, "it s a hard jolt for 
 her." He hesitated a moment and then added, 
 "She s the only one in the world who really 
 cares what becomes of me. Well, what did 
 she have to say to you?" 
 
 "You can guess, can t you?" asked Bren- 
 
 nan. 
 
 u 
 
 I suppose I could, but I m not going to," 
 returned Hatch. 
 
 "She wants to help you," said Brennan. 
 
 "You don t have to tell me that." 
 
 "What she told us she revealed with the 
 sole thought of trying to help." 
 
 Drawing mild little puffs of smoke from 
 tiis cigar "Big Jim" waited silently, thought 
 fully, for Brennan to continue. 
 
 She told us about your trouble with l Gink 
 Cummings the whole business." Brennan 
 watched Hatch s face intently as he spoke. 
 And to prove it I ll repeat her story to us, 
 exactly as she told it." 
 
 While Brennan was relating what Mrs. 
 Hatch had told them "Big Jim" sat motion 
 less in his chair, his head bowed on his chest. 
 
274 SPRING STREET 
 
 John watched the ash in Hatch s cigar turn 
 ing from a glowing red to a heatless gray. 
 When Brennan finished Hatch spoke without 
 raising his head. 
 
 "Poor little kid," he said, tenderly. He 
 straightened up in his chair, tossed away his 
 cigar and scrutinized Brennan keenly. 
 
 "Every word she spoke is the truth; every 
 word of it, and, more," he said. "I ve de 
 cided to take my jolt back in New York so I 
 can get back to her as soon as I can. She ll 
 wait for me, I know she will. Whether you 
 can help me or not, I ll tell you everything." 
 
 John felt his heart jump in his breast. 
 
 "When?" asked Brennan quickly. 
 
 "Now," said Hatch. 
 
 "Shoot," said Brennan. 
 
 "There s no use going over what Evelyn 
 told you again," said Big Jim, without a sec 
 ond s hesitation. "I ll swear to every word 
 she said. But there s something she didn t tell 
 you, because she didn t know it. 
 
 "Did you notice that I called Gibson by 
 name when he arrested me?" 
 
 Brennan nodded. 
 
 "Well, where do you suppose I saw him 
 to know him by sight?" 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, he snapped 
 out: 
 
 "In Gink Cummings apartment!" 
 
SPRING STREET 275 
 
 John discovered that he had been holding 
 his breath. Gibson in Cummings apartment! 
 A thrill like a mild electric shock shot up and 
 down his spine. 
 
 "The Gink s apartment?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "That s the place," Hatch confirmed. "It 
 was about a month ago. I can give you the 
 exact day and hour later. I went to Cum 
 mings to try to settle things between us, with 
 out Evelyn knowing it. We were alone to 
 gether when someone knocked on the door. 
 Cummings answered it. As he left the room 
 he pulled the door to close it, but it swung 
 back open and I saw into the hallway. 
 
 "I saw Gibson enter. I didn t know who 
 it was then and suppose it was pure curiosity 
 that made me watch them. They talked for 
 a minute and then Gibson started toward the 
 door of the room I was in. As he did so, 
 Cummings saw that the door was open and 
 stepped over and closed it. That was all I 
 
 saw. 
 it 
 
 I heard Cummings say, Don t do this 
 again. When he came back he told me there 
 could be no settlement between us except I 
 split with him and I left. The next day I 
 saw Gibson s photograph in a newspaper and 
 it nearly knocked me off my chair. Just to 
 make sure I hunted Gibson up and when I 
 saw him I knew I couldn t have been mistaken. 
 
276 SPRING STREET 
 
 Gibson was the man I saw in Cummings 
 apartment. 
 
 "I m sure that Cummings doesn t realize 
 that I saw Gibson that night. If he had 
 known it he would never have had me arrested 
 and yet I was afraid to threaten him with 
 it. I thought that if I told him I had seen 
 Gibson at his place he would have bumped 
 me off, but now that I m here in jail I have 
 nothing to fear. He won t dare to tell the 
 authorities about my jobs in Los Angeles be 
 cause if he does he ll make my story stronger. 
 Besides, all he knows is that I got the money. 
 He doesn t know whom I got it from or when or 
 how. 
 
 "That s my addition to Evelyn s story. 
 That s how I knew it was Gibson when he 
 stepped in to arrest me. You can see how 
 it worked out. When I defied Cummings he 
 arranged with Gibson to arrest me. He had 
 Gibson do it because Gibson is his man and 
 he wants the public to think that they are 
 enemies. I m telling you this because after 
 I do my bit back in New York I m going 
 straight, with Evelyn. I m going to pay back 
 every cent I ever took from anyone and, per 
 haps, sometime we ll have a home and what 
 she said." 
 
 Overwhelmed mentally by the condemning 
 information against Gibson which had been 
 
SPRING STREET 277 
 
 given them by "Big Jim," John was startled 
 by Brennan s first words after Hatch had 
 stopped speaking. 
 
 "What a fat-head I am!" Brennan ex 
 claimed. 
 
 Hatch s face showed that he shared John s 
 surprise at Brennan s ejaculation. 
 
 "Oh, what a sap I am!" he continued. 
 "Why, oh, why haven t we shadowed them? 
 Why haven t we followed them night and 
 day until we found them together? Why 
 didn t one of us spot the Gink s apartment?" 
 
 "You re lucky you haven t," Hatch put in. 
 "You couldn t have gotten away with it. 
 They probably would have killed you. Any 
 way, I doubt very much if they actually meet 
 each other now. The Gink warned Gibson 
 when I saw them that he was not to do this 
 again, which meant he shouldn t come to the 
 apartment." 
 
 "They re in communication with each other, 
 somehow," said Brennan. 
 
 "There s the telephone, or they may be us 
 ing the mails, or they may have a confidential 
 agent, a go-between," Hatch suggested. 
 
 "I don t think the Gink would take a 
 chance with a go-between," said Brennan. 
 
 Before they left him to hurry back to the 
 office, Hatch agreed to make an affidavit con 
 taining what he had told them, including the 
 
278 SPRING STREET 
 
 portion of the story told by his wife, and had 
 consented to allow them to obtain a sworn 
 statement from Mrs. Hatch. 
 
 "There s only one thing wrong with what 
 we got from Big Jim, " Brennan said as they 
 left the jail, "and that is that it comes from 
 a man facing a term in the penitentiary. It s 
 difficult for people to believe a confessed 
 swindler like Hatch, although he s telling 
 the truth. Even his wife s story would be 
 received skeptically simply because she is his 
 wife. Gibson has such a hold on the city, such 
 a reputation for honesty and integrity, such 
 influential support, that his mere denial of 
 what Hatch says would be believed implicitly." 
 
 "But consider Hatch s story along with the 
 framed-up Spring street raid and the informa 
 tion we have of how Cummings opened and 
 closed the town to convince the people that 
 Gibson is the only man who can stop crime," 
 John argued. 
 
 "We must look at it from the reader s view 
 point," said Brennan. "It s the reader whom 
 we have to convince. He wants facts, plain, 
 hard facts. We have nothing to actually 
 show that Cummings framed the Spring street 
 raid in collusion with Gibson. We have 
 nothing to actually show that the opening and 
 closing of the city by Cummings was to build 
 up a reputation for Gibson. All that is mere 
 
SPRING STREET 279 
 
 inference, suspicion. And the weakness in 
 Hatch s story is in the fact that he is a crook 
 himself, although you and I know that he told 
 us the truth." 
 
 "Then we haven t enough yet?" said John. 
 
 "I m afraid not." 
 
 "But you said last night that Cummings 
 had made his one big mistake." 
 
 "And I wasn t wrong when I said it. We 
 don t have to take Hatch s story simply as it 
 stands. It s up to us now to get corroboration 
 enough to make it undeniable." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "By finding someone who has seen Gibson 
 visit Cummings apartment, a janitor, a neigh 
 bor, the clerk at the desk, anyone." 
 
 "Suppose no one saw him." 
 
 "Then we must find out how they are com 
 municating with each other. We can tap the 
 telephone in Cummings apartment and those 
 at Gibson s office and home if it comes to 
 that." 
 
 P. Q. and the "chief" upheld Brennan s 
 judgment that Hatch s story needed more 
 corroboration than that given by his wife and 
 that the attack on Gibson, exposing him as a 
 fraud, would have to be postponed until one 
 more link was added to the chain of evidence 
 against him. It was decided that Brennan and 
 John should concentrate their endeavors in an 
 
280 SPRING STREET 
 
 effort to discover the method of communica 
 tion between Gibson and the "Gink." 
 * * * * * 
 
 That night John saw Consuello again and 
 realized with a suddenness that shocked him 
 that he loved her. 
 
 The tremendousness of his realization that 
 he was in love with her frightened him, and 
 yet he was gloriously happy. Exultant joy, a 
 rapture faintly akin to the ecstasy that had 
 thrilled him the first Christmas morning he 
 could remember, gave a buoyancy to his brain, 
 his heart, his soul. He knew that he had 
 loved her from the moment he met her and 
 regardless of what the future held for them 
 he would go on loving her forever. 
 
 Returning to his desk after the conference 
 in the "chief s" office on the story told by 
 "Big Jim" Hatch, John found a sheet of copy 
 paper stuck in the roller of his typewriter. 
 That was the office boy s way of leaving mem 
 oranda of telephone calls for the reporters. 
 
 "Call Miss Carrillo at the studio," John 
 read. He went immediately to the telephone 
 booth. 
 
 "There will be a pre-view of the picture, 
 my latest, here tonight and I thought you 
 might like to see it," she said. "Reggie is 
 so busy campaigning that he can t be here," 
 she added, 
 
SPRING STREET 281 
 
 "I would like it," he told her. 
 
 "Can you come?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly." 
 
 "Splendid," she said. "The pre-view will 
 be at 7 :30, but can t you get here earlier so 
 we can have dinner together and talk?" 
 
 "At six, then," he suggested. 
 
 "At six," she assented. 
 
 He wondered why it was he felt relieved 
 when she said that Gibson would not be there 
 with them. 
 
 It was dusk when he reached the studio a 
 few minutes before six. She had waited 
 for him in her dressing room to which he was 
 escorted by the maid. 
 
 "There s a little place a few blocks away 
 where we always go for dinner when we re kept 
 late," she said. "I discovered it myself. I 
 delight in finding little out-of-the-way places to 
 eat. Reggie can t understand it. He s un 
 comfortable every minute of the time we re 
 there." 
 
 "You would have liked my father," he said. 
 "Almost every week he treated mother and 
 me by taking us to dinner at some genuinely 
 picturesque place he had found. Sometimes 
 it would be a little Spanish restaurant in So- 
 nora Town, sometimes an Italian cafe in 
 North Broadway and sometimes a French 
 table de hote, which I liked best. Mother 
 
282 SPRING STREET 
 
 was like you say Gibson is, uncomfortable 
 every minute, but father and I enjoyed it im 
 mensely. One night, when mother wasn t with 
 us, we had tamales at one of those wagon 
 lunch places drawn up at the curb near the 
 Plaza and lighted by a sputtering kerosene 
 range and a lantern that gave it an appearance 
 of being a ship s cabin. I ll never forget it." 
 
 "You miss your father greatly, don t you?" 
 she said. The sympathy in her voice was 
 like soothing music. 
 
 "Everything in me that amounts to any 
 thing I owe to him," he said. 
 
 They walked to the "little place around the 
 corner," as Consuello referred to it. The 
 dinner was served to them at a corner table 
 in a spotlessly clean room of "Mother" Gra 
 ham s cafe, which was only large enough to 
 accommodate a dozen couples. The pro 
 prietress, "Mother" Graham, who took as 
 much pride in her cookery as the chef of the 
 most expensive cafe, greeted Consuello ef 
 fusively. 
 
 "And how s my little darling, tonight?" she 
 asked. " Mother Graham shall serve you 
 herself, for it s not every night that I see your 
 dear face." 
 
 The dinner was plain, appetizing home 
 cooking; delicious brown chops, crisp cool 
 
SPRING STREET 283 
 
 salad, fragrant coffee and hot rolls; berries 
 and cream. Once John caught a glimpse of 
 "Mother" Graham pointing out Consuello 
 to a pop-eyed girl and her youthful escort as 
 "Jean Hope." 
 
 "I am being envied," he said across the 
 table. 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By everyone who sees us. I do not blame 
 them, for I am to be envied." 
 
 "Because you are with Jean Hope?" she 
 smiled. 
 
 "Because I am with Consuello Carrillo," 
 he answered. "I do not know Jean Hope yet. 
 I am to meet her, tonight." 
 
 "You saw her before the camera," she 
 reminded him. 
 
 "But never on the screen," he returned. 
 
 "And what if you don t like her?" 
 
 "My consolation will be that she is only 
 a shadow, a make-believe." 
 
 "You are different," she told him, "and it s 
 not because you lack imagination. Most 
 everyone does not disassociate a film player 
 from her shadow. They think of her always 
 as the type or character in which they admire 
 her most. To them she is always the same, al 
 ways perfect, a picture, a memory. How dis 
 appointed those dream lovers would be if they 
 
284 SPRING STREET 
 
 could suddenly be brought face to face with 
 the player as she really is, with her little vani 
 ties and human frailties." 
 
 "Disappointed or disillusioned, which?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "You are right," she replied, "they would 
 be disillusioned rather than disappointed. 
 There is a difference. For instance, I would be 
 disappointed rather than disillusioned in Reg 
 gie if he should blunder and miss his oppor 
 tunity of becoming mayor of Los Angeles." 
 
 Her words struck him like a blow. They 
 brought to him the realization again that she 
 faced a disillusionment of which she had no 
 warning. How could he save her from it? 
 Would she go on believing in Gibson? It 
 would be like her to defend him until the last, 
 to go with him to a place where his disgrace 
 was not known and begin life all over again. 
 
 "Suppose," he said, watching her intently, 
 "that it was not disappointment but disillusion 
 
 ment." 
 
 "You mean in Reggie?" she asked, ap 
 parently unable to comprehend what he had 
 said. 
 
 Unable to speak the word, he nodded. She 
 laughed lightly and he forced himself to 
 smile. 
 
 "I know him too well to ever be disillu 
 sioned," she said. 
 
SPRING STREET 285 
 
 "Love, they say, is blind," he ventured. 
 
 "I know his faults as I do mine," she said 
 slowly, "and love him for them. You see, 
 we ve known each other since we were chil 
 dren." 
 
 He could not reply. The awfulness of the 
 truth dumbed him and an impetuous desire to 
 protect her swept through him. But he was 
 powerless, helpless. A wild idea of sacrific 
 ing his loyalty to his paper by warning Gibson 
 of the impending exposure of his perfidy so 
 that he might renounce "Gink" Cummings and 
 be worthy of Consuello s love flashed in and 
 out of his brain. 
 
 His silence seemed to mystify her. When 
 she spoke it was as though she might have a 
 vague premonition of his confused thoughts. 
 
 "But there s no need for my having an ap 
 prehension that he will blunder, is there?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "We all make mistakes," he said, con 
 scientiously trying to assure her. He realized, 
 however, that his answer sounded evasive and 
 fearful of further questioning he added, has 
 tily, "His election is conceded by everyone." 
 
 They rose from the table. To "Mother" 
 Graham, perched on a stool behind a cash 
 register near the door, he paid for their din 
 ner and they stepped out into the street. 
 Night had descended quickly. The cool, re- 
 
286 SPRING STREET 
 
 freshing breeze from the ocean that tem 
 pers the warmth of the day was coming in 
 gently, caressingly, soothingly from the west, 
 and worries fled away with it like dead leaves 
 whisked from the trees. 
 
 During the pre-view, which lasted an hour 
 and a half, John had but few chances to con 
 verse with Consuello, She was busy with Bon- 
 wit, the director, and a half dozen others 
 whom John decided were the technicians whose 
 business it was to revise the film before it was 
 released. They sat grouped in a semi-circle 
 and several times certain scenes were flashed 
 on the screen repeatedly for closer observation. 
 
 The girl he saw on the screen was much 
 more like Consuello in real life than the girl 
 he had seen before the camera. The make-up 
 that had transformed her features for her part 
 in the picture was indiscernible on the screen 
 and marvelously the real Consuello was before 
 him. The "close-up" for which she had posed 
 alone, holding the bouquet of daisies, was even 
 prettier than it had been when she enacted it. 
 He realized now what were the results sought 
 by the camera men in shifting the reflectors. 
 Like a halo, sunlight shone around her face, 
 through the loose tresses of her hair, giving 
 it an ethereal appearance. 
 
 So intently did he study every move, every 
 expression of Consuello s on the screen that he 
 
SPRING STREET 287 
 
 had completely overlooked the story of the 
 photoplay. The scene in which the actor em 
 braced Consuello and gazed fervently heaven 
 ward was far more impressive than it had been 
 when it was enacted and the "close-up" of his 
 features, over her shoulder, John decided was 
 really an excellent bit of facial expression. 
 
 When the pre-view was completed and the 
 lights were flashed on again in the small room, 
 Consuello came directly to him. 
 
 "Now, what do you think of /Jean Hope, 
 do you like her?" she asked. 
 
 "I adore her," he said, without restraint. 
 
 The almost timid look of incredulousness he 
 remembered having noticed when he told her 
 she was beautiful at the Barton Randolph lawn 
 fete came into her eyes. For a fraction of a 
 second they looked into each other s faces and 
 something that she saw told her that his adora 
 tion was not only for the image of herself that 
 he had seen upon the screen. She caught her 
 underlip between her teeth and looked down. 
 
 "We can go now," she said, a note in her 
 voice that he had never heard before. 
 
 They did not speak as they walked toward 
 the gates of the studio and it was then he real 
 ized that he loved her. In that moment he 
 was transported to an indescribable happiness. 
 She seemed a fairy creature at his side, too 
 beautiful to touch, too wonderful to speak to. 
 
288 SPRING STREET 
 
 An automobile stopped beside them. Bon- 
 wit, at the wheel, leaned out over the side. 
 
 "Can t I give you two a lift home?" he 
 asked. 
 
 John looked toward Consuello and heard 
 her say: 
 
 "No, thanks; it s only a few blocks home 
 and we ll walk it s such a a a glorious 
 night." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 CONSUELLO was the first to speak as 
 they passed through the studio gateway 
 to the sidewalk overhung by the drooping 
 branches of tall pepper trees. 
 
 "It s not far," she said. 
 
 The words awoke John from his enthrall- 
 ment and she saw by his glance toward her 
 that he did not comprehend their meaning. 
 
 "It s not far to the house," she explained. 
 Not far! He wished it were miles away, that 
 they might walk on together for hours. 
 
 "I could not bear being cramped up in an 
 apartment," she added. "When it became nec 
 essary for me to find some place to live in Los 
 Angeles, a dear friend you must meet her 
 and I hunted up this little place for our home. 
 It wasn t much to look at when we found it, 
 but we have made it over to suit us and we 
 have both grown to love it." 
 
 "Your friend is she in pictures, too?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Betty is an artist," she replied. "She de 
 signs sets and costumes for pictures and she 
 is wonderful. She knows everything about her 
 work, more than anyone else in Hollywood, 
 they say. She deserves all the credit for turn 
 ing our little home into a dream place." 
 
290 SPRING STREET 
 
 "You will miss her when " he found 
 
 himself unable to finish the sentence, "you are 
 married." 
 
 "Yes," she said. Til miss her and our lit 
 tle home. Really, I don t believe I will know 
 how to act if I become the wife of the mayor 
 of Los Angeles. I have grown to detest for 
 mality, dances and dinners and receptions and 
 things. If there is one thing Reggie and I 
 will quarrel about that will be it. He has al 
 ways been invited everywhere and he enjoys 
 the niceness of conventionality." 
 
 He was glad that there was not complete 
 compatibility between her and Gibson. It was 
 selfish and wrong for him to rejoice that she 
 and Gibson were not perfectly suited in their 
 likes and dislikes and he knew it, but neverthe 
 less it gladdened him. 
 
 "I nearly died of fright that day at the lawn 
 fete, when I met you," he said. "I believe I 
 would have done something disgraceful to 
 that servant who was asking me to leave if you 
 hadn t appeared." 
 
 "You told me you thought Reggie to be a 
 villain," she reminded him, laughing. "You 
 don t think him one now, do you?" 
 
 How close he came to telling her then what 
 he had reason to believe Gibson actually was, 
 a villain beyond all understanding, she never 
 knew. 
 
SPRING STREET 291 
 
 "No," he lied. 
 
 She stopped at a gateway formed by a gap 
 in a hedge of spicy scented boxwood that paral 
 leled the sidewalk. 
 
 "Here we are," she said, turning in. 
 
 He saw a rose-shaded light in the window 
 of a small house set far back from the street. 
 
 "Betty is waiting for me," she explained. 
 "I want you to meet her." 
 
 On each side of the pathway leading back 
 to the house was a rose garden with the bushes 
 set at precise intervals. The rose garden 
 ended half way back from the sidewalk. Be 
 fore the house, for the entire width of the lot 
 and a dozen paces deep, was closely cropped 
 grass. Flat stones, set into the lawn like the 
 footprints of an elephant, provided an artistic 
 path to the door, which was massive in size 
 and of unfinished stained oak. The flanges 
 of the hinges were of beaten iron held in place 
 by studded bolts. A quaint knocker was above 
 the handle to the latch. 
 
 "You ll pardon me for a moment?" Consu- 
 ello asked, opening the door and stepping in 
 side, returning a moment later to hold it open 
 for him to enter. 
 
 The room was exceptionally large, with 
 rafters across the ceiling. At one end was a 
 huge fireplace and rugs were scattered over a 
 smooth but unpolished floor. Betty rose from 
 
292 SPRING STREET 
 
 an easy chair as he entered. She had been 
 reading. John saw that she was slender, dark- 
 eyed, rather pretty. 
 
 "Betty, this is Mr. Gallant," said Consuello 
 by way of an introduction. 
 
 "Consuello has spoken of you, often," said 
 Betty, advancing with a friendly smile and an 
 outstretched hand. Mentally John thanked 
 her for the words. He knew instinctively that 
 he would like her and that she would be a 
 friend to him. 
 
 "Miss Carrillo has been more than kind to 
 me," he said. "I often wonder why she is," 
 he added, returning Betty s smile. 
 
 "She likes you," said Betty, with a frankness 
 that startled him a little. He glanced toward 
 Consuello and saw that she was regarding 
 Betty with an amused look. 
 
 Betty moved toward a door at the side of 
 the room. 
 
 "Will you care if I leave you?" she said. 
 "Please do not think it rudeness. I have been 
 doing a little studying which I must finish to 
 night and " 
 
 "I m intruding, I know," interrupted John. 
 
 "You re not," she remonstrated with the 
 candidness that John found later was so engag 
 ing. Her smile overcame his temporary em 
 barrassment. "I ll see you again, I m sure," 
 she added, nodding slightly before she stepped 
 
SPRING STREET 293 
 
 into the other room, closing the door behind 
 her. 
 
 "What do you think of our little home?" 
 Consuello asked as he turned toward her. She 
 was seated in the chair Betty had left. 
 
 "It s like you," he said, feeling free to take 
 the chair near her. "It is so genuinely beau 
 tiful." This time he felt no hesitancy in say 
 ing it. 
 
 "And what of it do you like best of all?" 
 she asked quickly. 
 
 He looked around the room slowly until his 
 eyes rested on a wide casement window open 
 ing out over a deep sill on which blood-red 
 geraniums nestling in the rich green foliage of 
 the plant, grew in a box. Faintly, against the 
 skyline as he looked through this window he 
 saw the curving outline of a hill. The window 
 panes, swung inward, were divided into small 
 squares by the crosspieces. 
 
 "That," he said, without turning his eyes 
 from the window. 
 
 "I knew ." She hesitated. He glanced 
 
 toward her inquiringly. "I knew you would," 
 she said. "That is my window. The hill you 
 see from it is my hill. Did you ever read the 
 verse by Martha Haskell Clark that inspired 
 the designing of that window?" 
 
 He shook his head. She rose and crossed 
 to the window and stood framed to her waist- 
 
294 SPRING STREET 
 
 line in the outer casement. She looked out into 
 the night, toward "her" hill, the fingers of one 
 hand touching the petals of one of the crimson 
 blossoms. Softly she recited: 
 
 "Life did not bring me silken gowns, 
 
 Nor jewels for my hair, 
 Nor sight of gabled, foreign towns 
 
 In distant countries fair, 
 But I can glimpse, beyond my pane, a green 
 
 and friendly hill, 
 
 And red geraniums aflame upon my window- 
 sill. 
 
 "The brambled cares of everyday, 
 
 The tiny humdrum things, 
 May bind my feet when they would stray, 
 
 But still my heart has wings, 
 While red geraniums are bloomed against my 
 
 window-glass, 
 
 And low above my green-sweet hill the 
 gypsy wind-clouds pass. 
 
 "And if my dreamings ne er come true, 
 
 The brightest and the best, 
 But leave me lone my journey through, 
 
 I ll set my heart at rest, 
 And thank Thee, God, for home-sweet things, 
 
 a green and friendly hill, 
 And red geraniums aflame upon my window- 
 sill." 
 
SPRING STREET 295 
 
 He gazed into the empty fireplace as the 
 words of the verse sang through his mind. 
 
 "But still my heart has wings," "Gypsy wind- 
 clouds," "And if my dreamings ne er come 
 true . . . I ll set my heart at rest." 
 
 He mused over them. His heart had wings 
 to soar high with his soul in the ecstasy of his 
 new-found love. And if his dreaming never 
 came true, could he set his heart at rest? 
 
 Or, her dreams, her expectation of happi 
 ness with Gibson when they were shattered, 
 could she set her heart at rest and thank her 
 God for "home-sweet things," her "green and 
 friendly hill, and red geraniums aflame upon 
 her window-sill"? 
 
 He looked up from the ashes of the fire 
 place, where flames had sparkled to cheer and 
 comfort her. She was still looking out toward 
 her "green and friendly" hill and the listless- 
 ness of her outline told him that she, too, was 
 musing. He longed to know her thoughts. 
 
 Very slowly she turned her face toward him. 
 There was a suggestion of somberness in her 
 eyes as she looked down at him. 
 
 "I arranged this window just for that," she 
 said. 
 
 "Why did you know I would choose it as 
 the part of the room I liked best?" he asked. 
 
 "Because I ve found we both love the simple 
 things, the home-sweet things, the enduring 
 things of life," she answered. 
 
296 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Is that why you have been so kind to me?" 
 
 "Please don t think of it as kindness," she 
 said. She was back in the chair she had left 
 to stand beside the window. "That is why I 
 have arranged to see you as often as I have, if 
 that is what you mean." 
 
 An impulse overwhelmed his self-imposed 
 restraint. 
 
 "If anything ever happens to cause you to 
 have doubt in me," he said, earnestly, "will 
 you try to believe that I did what I thought 
 was right?" 
 
 The nature of his question, its suddenness, 
 astonished her. She moved her lips to speak. 
 
 "Don t ask me why I asked you that," he 
 said, "but promise me, promise me, that you ll 
 do your best to think of me as doing what I 
 believed was right." 
 
 "I m bewildered, but you have my promise," 
 she answered. 
 
 The clock on the mantel above the fireplace 
 chimed midnight. He rose. 
 
 "I have been thoughtless," he said. "I had 
 forgotten the time." 
 
 She walked with him to the door. 
 
 "Good-night," he said, "and thank you." 
 
 "Good-night," she said, dropping the hand 
 she had given him to her side. 
 
 He strode out into the night. Subconsciously 
 he waited for the door to close behind him. 
 
SPRING STREET 297 
 
 Each step took him farther toward the street 
 and yet he did not hear the click of the latch. 
 
 At the sidewalk he turned to look back. 
 
 She was standing, framed in the soft light 
 shining through the doorway, looking out at 
 him. He waved his hand. He saw her hand 
 flutter and then the door closed. 
 
 " Still my heart has wings, " he repeated 
 to himself as he turned away. 
 ***** 
 
 The primary election was only two weeks 
 away. Gibson, with the powerful combination 
 of organizations behind him, was swinging into 
 the final lap of his campaign with unabated 
 success. That he would snow the mayor under 
 at the primary was conceded everywhere. Fac 
 ing humiliation in the most decisive defeat in 
 the history of the city the mayor s organiza 
 tion dwindled down to a few never-say-die sup 
 porters whose activities were almost laughable 
 in the prospect of Gibson s overwhelming vic 
 tory at the polls. To the list of organizations 
 indorsing the police commissioner was added 
 the Anti-Saloon league. 
 
 Seeking corroboration of the story told them 
 by "Big Jim" Hatch, which they had in affi 
 davit form from "Big Jim" and Mrs. Hatch, 
 John and Brennan visited the downtown apart 
 ment house where "Gink" Cummings resided 
 and where Hatch claimed to have seen Gib- 
 
298 SPRING STREET 
 
 son. Cautiously they questioned the janitor, 
 the clerk at the desk, the elevator boy and even 
 the proprietor without success. None of them 
 had ever seen a man answering Gibson s de 
 scription enter the building. 
 
 "Probably the time Hatch saw Gibson at 
 Cummings apartment was the only time Gib 
 son ever visited the Gink there, and, because 
 it was late at night, no one happened to see 
 him," said Brennan. "It is beginning to look 
 as though we ll have to tap either Gibson s 
 or Cummings telephone if the chief wants to 
 go that far." 
 
 Then, late one afternoon, John received a 
 telephone call from Murphy. 
 
 "Meet me tonight at Second and Spring," 
 said Murphy. "I got somethin for ya, see?" 
 
 "Is it worth while?" asked John. 
 
 "I m not sayin nothin now, see?" said 
 Murphy. "Just be there at ten bells, see?" 
 
 "We ll be there," John told him. 
 
 "I wonder what he s stumbled across?" 
 said Brennan when John informed him of their 
 appointment to meet Murphy. 
 
 "I asked him and he wasn t sayin nothin , 
 see?" said John. 
 
 "Don t," pleaded Brennan, "you ll have me 
 doing it." 
 
 That night at a few minutes of ten they were 
 standing on the steps of the entrance to the 
 
SPRING STREET 299 
 
 Bryson block when Murphy, his peaked cap 
 pulled down far over his eyes and his coat 
 collar turned up close around his throat, sidled 
 up to them. 
 
 "What s the big idea of covering up your 
 face, Murphy?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "I m takin no chances of gettin made, 
 see?" Murphy answered. "Made," John re 
 membered, was the slang of detectives for 
 identification. When a person was "made" he 
 was identified. 
 
 "Well, then, what s the program?" asked 
 Brennan. 
 
 "I think I got them," Murphy replied. 
 
 "Got who?" 
 
 "De Gink and dis bird Gibson." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Meetin each other." 
 
 "The hell you say!" Brennan ejaculated. 
 "Have you seen them together?" 
 
 "Well if de bird I figure is Gibson is him, 
 I got em, see?" 
 
 "Where?" demanded Brennan. 
 
 "De Gallant kid here knows de place," said 
 Murphy. "Remember da room where ya got 
 paid off when ya got pinched in de handbook 
 raid?" 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 "Dat s da joint." 
 
 John recalled the windowless cubby-hole in 
 
300 SPRING STREET 
 
 the rear of the Spring street saloon where 
 "Slim" Gray, Cummings lieutenant, had re 
 turned to him the $10 he had put up in bail 
 and $10 as compensation for having been on 
 hand when Gibson made the sensational raid. 
 
 "Murphy," said Brennan, "just start in at 
 the beginning and tell us about this and please 
 don t put any more sees into it than you abso 
 lutely have to." 
 
 "Well, here s da stuff. Da other night I m 
 comin in late from da fights at Vernon, see? 
 I m between Main and Spring, see? when I 
 make a bird standin all by his lonesome at da 
 entrance to da alley. Dis bird is kinda ner 
 vous and jumpy-like, see? and I figure he 
 might be a stick-up. I ain t got no jack with 
 me, so I keeps on walkin right at him, see? 
 
 "Well, I m about twenty feet from him, see? 
 when I make another bird crossin tha street 
 toward him. When I get up to them, see? 
 they re just about to meet, see?" 
 
 "Murphy," interrupted Brennan, "for heav 
 en s sake forget those sees. 
 
 Murphy grinned and went on. 
 
 "Well, just as dese two birds meet I get 
 a flash of da mug of da guy dat crosses da 
 street, se " 
 
 "Go ahead, say see all you want to," said 
 Brennan impatiently. 
 
SPRING STREET 301 
 
 "I get a flash of da bird s mug, see? and I 
 make him, see? It was da Gink, see? I try 
 to make da other bird, but he turns into the 
 alley quick, see? Well, I keep right on my 
 way and then come back, see? I stick my nut 
 around da corner of da building and watches 
 them. They hurry down da alley, see? and 
 ducks in a door. 
 
 "Well, I m not takin no chances of gettin 
 plugged, see? so I don t follow them. I just 
 hang around for an hour and waits for them 
 to come out again, see ? When they come out 
 da door I spot it and duck back into a shadow. 
 They pass me so close I could a touched em, 
 see? but it was dark and I don t get no chance 
 to make da bird with da Gink. Well, they 
 go up toward Spring street and I trail them 
 far enough to see them get in a bus, see?" 
 
 "What did this fellow with the Gink look 
 like?" asked John, quickly. 
 
 "I m tellin ya I didn t get no chance to 
 make him," said Murphy. "All I m able to 
 get is that he s tall and black-haired, see?" 
 
 "What kind of a hat did he wear?" 
 
 "Straw." 
 
 "It s Gibson, all right," snapped Brennan. 
 John s nerves tingled throughout his body. A 
 picture of Gibson as he was when he first saw 
 him flashed into his mind. He saw the com- 
 
302 SPRING STREET 
 
 missioner s perfectly moulded hair, black and 
 shiny; he saw his neat straw hat in his lap. 
 
 "Dat s what I figured," said Murphy. u So 
 last night I find a place near da door I seen 
 them go in and waits for them, see? I wait all 
 night, but nobody shows up. I figures dat if 
 it s Gibson meetin da Gink you boys will 
 want to be in on it, see? I know dat joint like 
 it s my own, see?" 
 
 "We see, Murphy, perfectly," interposed 
 Brennan. 
 
 "So, I know there s a basement, see? While 
 I m waitin I take a chance and work da lock 
 on da basement door, see? It s a padlock and 
 I cop it, see? This mornin I get a friend to 
 make a key for it, see? and this afternoon I 
 slip it back where it belongs." 
 
 "Murphy," said Brennan, "you re a wonder. 
 Where s the key?" 
 
 Murphy reached into his pocket and pro 
 duced it. Brennan glanced at his watch. 
 
 "What time was it when you saw Cummings 
 and this other fellow?" he asked. 
 
 "I figure it was between twelve and one," 
 replied Murphy. 
 
 "Good!" Brennan exclaimed. "It s half 
 past ten now. We ll get down there and get 
 the lay of the land in that basement. They 
 may go there again, tonight." 
 
SPRING STREET 303 
 
 They walked rapidly toward the alley-way 
 where Murphy had recognized "Gink" Cum- 
 mings when he met the man they suspected was 
 Gibson. Spring street was beginning to be 
 come deserted for the night. Little groups of 
 men and women from the theaters waited at 
 the corners for street cars. A peanut and 
 candy peddler pushed his cart wearily along 
 the street, close to the curb, plodding his way 
 home. The proprietor of an open front fruit 
 stand struggled with the folding iron fence 
 pulled across the entrance to his store for pro 
 tection of his wares until morning. 
 
 They turned into the alley-way in single file, 
 Murphy leading, Brennan next and John act 
 ing as a voluntary rear guard. The narrow 
 alley, like the bottom of a canyon with walls 
 of brick, was darker than the streets. In the 
 middle of the block Murphy seemed to disap 
 pear into the earth. Then Brennan dropped 
 from sight. John was startled momentarily 
 until he found that they had descended a steep 
 stairway, covered with trash and old papers. 
 Murphy unlocked the padlock and the door 
 creaked inward on rusty hinges. They sidled 
 through it, fearful that the squeaking might 
 betray them. 
 
 Inside it was pitch dark. John was unable 
 to see the faces of Brennan and Murphy, al 
 though their elbows touched. 
 
304 SPRING STREET 
 
 "I ll wait here and keep a lookout," said 
 Murphy. "Here s a torch and go easy with 
 it." He handed Brennan an electric pocket 
 torch. 
 
 "Murphy, you re a wonder, see?" said Bren 
 nan as he flashed on the light, pointing it to 
 his feet as he moved slowly forward. 
 
 A pungent odor of stale beer from empty 
 kegs piled against the walls mingled with that 
 damp smell peculiar to underground places. 
 Cobwebs tickled their faces as they walked 
 through the seldom used path between the kegs 
 and packing boxes. The small arc of light 
 from the electric torch danced ahead of them 
 as John and Brennan inspected their surround 
 ings. At the end of the basement for a length 
 of twenty-five yards back from the wall under 
 the street, they found a space cleared of the 
 boxes and kegs. On one side was a broad, 
 steep stairway leading up to a trapdoor in the 
 floor above. 
 
 They could hear the voices of men in the 
 room over their heads and a scuffling of feet 
 that told them the soft drink and lunch estab 
 lishment, into which the old saloon had been 
 converted, had not been closed down for the 
 night. Their inspection completed, they re 
 turned to Murphy, standing guard at the door 
 way on the alley. After Murphy had snapped 
 the padlock shut they crawled up to the alley 
 
SPRING STREET 305 
 
 again and he led them to a space between two 
 buildings less than four feet in width, into 
 which they crowded themselves. 
 
 "We can spot them from here when they 
 go by, see?" Murphy explained. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A/flDNIGHT. 
 
 *** For more than an hour they had re 
 mained in their cramped hiding place, waiting. 
 Brennan smoked innumerable cigarettes while 
 they talked in whispers. A policeman had 
 walked through the alley peering into the shad 
 ows and they had crouched breathless until he 
 passed them. 
 
 The noise of the city had quieted. Except 
 for an occasional street car or passing automo 
 bile a silence brooded over the downtown dis 
 trict. Stray cats appeared to rummage in 
 battered cans and a huge rat darted between 
 their legs. 
 
 The cool of the night, Southern California s 
 balm to aid sleep "knit up the raveled sleeve 
 of care," chilled them. Murphy took frequent 
 "nips" from a flask, which he offered gener 
 ously to his companions each time before he. 
 put it to his mouth. Brennan told them stories 
 of experiences in the Canadian northwest and 
 adventures in a "comic opera" revolution in 
 Central America. Murphy supplied anecdotes 
 of the ring, things he had seen and done as 
 a second at boxing matches. John listened to 
 them, enraptured, 
 
SPRING STREET 307 
 
 Somewhere a clock struck the half hour, and 
 as the sound died away they heard quick foot 
 steps approaching them. Murphy looked cau 
 tiously around the corner of the brick wall and 
 brought himself back with a jerk. 
 
 "It s them," he said, in a hoarse whisper. 
 He stepped back to make room for John and 
 Brennan at the narrow aperture looking out 
 on the alley. 
 
 Two figures passed their hiding place, walk 
 ing hurriedly. The taller of the two strode 
 with a quick, easy step that John recognized. 
 
 That s Gibson," he said in a sharp whisper. 
 
 "It certainly is," corroborated Brennan. 
 "And it s the Gink with him." 
 
 They watched the figures until they halted 
 at the rear of the saloon. They saw Cum- 
 mings reach in his pocket for the key and open 
 the door while Gibson glanced up and down 
 the alley. When they had disappeared into 
 the building Brennan stepped out into the 
 alley, motioning to Murphy and John to fol 
 low him. 
 
 Again in single file, with Murphy taking the 
 lead from Brennan, they walked warily toward 
 the saloon, holding close to the back walls of 
 buildings so as not to be seen from either end 
 of the alley. Murphy removed the padlock 
 from the basement door and opened it with 
 precautionary slowness to minimize the rasp- 
 
308 SPRING STREET 
 
 ing of the rusty hinges. He closed it again 
 when they had entered the impenetrable dark 
 ness of the basement. 
 
 Led by Murphy, who held the flashlight, 
 they went ahead on tiptoe until they reached 
 a spot which they judged was directly beneath 
 the little room in which they believed Cum- 
 mings and Gibson were in surreptitious confer 
 ence. There they strained their ears to catch 
 the sound of voices above them. John s heart 
 thumped against his ribs and he imagined his 
 breathing sounded like a gust of wind. The 
 floor of the room above was less than three 
 feet above their heads. 
 
 A chair scraped on the floor. Then they 
 heard voices. Tense, holding their breath, 
 they poised in utter silence, straining to distin 
 guish what was being said by the two in the 
 room above their heads. John felt a sinking 
 sensation of disappointment as he realized it 
 would be impossible for them to hear the 
 conversation between the "Gink" and Gibson 
 from where they were listening. The voices 
 that came down to them were jumbled, faint, 
 indistinguishable. Once Gibson laughed. Again 
 the two voices above them stopped suddenly 
 as if the two conspirators had heard a warn 
 ing sound. 
 
 Brennan signaled to them a moment later, 
 when the two voices were audible again, to 
 
SPRING STREET 309 
 
 leave. Murphy snapped the padlock on the 
 door and they crept back to their hiding place 
 between the two buildings. 
 
 "There was no need for us to stay there 
 any longer," said Brennan. "We couldn t hear 
 a word. There s only one way to get what 
 we want and that is to use a dictograph. We ll 
 have to run a wire with an ear on it into that 
 room, somehow. Do you think we can do it, 
 Murphy?" 
 
 "Sure thing," Murphy replied. 
 
 "The sooner the better," said Brennan. 
 "We ll try to get it in tomorrow night. With 
 a dictograph we can get every word that s said. 
 We can bring a shorthand reporter with us 
 and get it down in black and white. In the 
 meantime we ll wait here and see them when 
 they come out." 
 
 Shortly before one o clock they heard foot 
 steps that told them Gibson and Cummings 
 were returning from their conference. Di 
 rectly opposite the aperture between the two 
 buildings, where they were hiding, the taller 
 of the two figures stopped and striking a match 
 held the flame, cupped in his two hands, to the 
 end of a cigar. The light of the match flick 
 ered only for a second, but in that time John 
 and Brennan saw Gibson s face clearly. Toss 
 ing the burned match to the ground he quick 
 ened his steps until he was again at Cummings 
 
310 SPRING STREET 
 
 side and they went from sight around the cor 
 ner. 
 
 "He couldn t have done it better if we had 
 asked him to," commented Brennan, referring 
 to the light Gibson had thrown on his face by 
 lighting the match. "I wonder what he d do 
 if he knew that we were watching him as he 
 did it." 
 
 "Swallowed da stogie," Murphy suggested. 
 
 "Tomorrow night, same time and place: 10 
 o clock at Second and Spring," Brennan in 
 structed Murphy before they separated. 
 
 "I ll be there," agreed Murphy, walking 
 from them. 
 
 "Just a minute, Murphy," called Brennan, 
 "you forgot something." 
 
 Murphy halted. 
 
 "What?" he asked. 
 
 "You forgot to put a see? on the end of 
 Til be there. 
 
 Murphy grinned, waved his hand and went 
 his way. 
 
 The next morning after only a few hours 
 sleep, John and Brennan told P. Q. and the 
 "chief" of their discovery. Brennan s plan for 
 the use of the dictograph was approved and 
 they were commended for their enterprise. 
 
 "If you put this over," the city editor told 
 John, "I ll double your salary." 
 
 It was P. Q. who suggested that Benton, 
 
SPRING STREET 3 1 1 
 
 the photographer, accompany them and en 
 deavor to obtain a picture of Cummings and 
 Gibson together. 
 
 That would cinch it," he said. "If we 
 could print a picture of Gibson and the Gink 
 it would be irrefutable proof of the conspir 
 acy." 
 
 "It would be risky business; might spoil 
 everything," Brennan remonstrated. 
 
 "Could it be done this way?" said P. Q. 
 "While you and Gallant are in the basement 
 with Murphy and a shorthand man, Benton can 
 fix himself outside the door so that when Gib 
 son and Cummings come out he can shoot a 
 flashlight. He can have an automobile close 
 and make a quick getaway by jumping into it. 
 When you have enough of the conversation be 
 tween Gibson and the Gink you can come out 
 side, tip Benton to be ready and wait for him 
 in the machine. They can t chase you. By 
 the time they get a machine you should be a 
 mile away from them." 
 
 "All right, P. Q., we ll try it that way," 
 agreed Brennan. "Benton had better be with 
 us tonight. Whose automobile shall we use 
 and who ll drive it? It must be someone we 
 can trust." 
 
 "You can arrange that to suit yourselves," 
 said P. Q. 
 
 "Don t be afraid to spend money," said the 
 
312 SPRING STREET 
 
 publisher. "It s a big thing you re going to 
 do, boys, and I won t forget you, whether you 
 succeed or not." 
 
 That afternoon they obtained the dicto 
 graph. It was loaned them by Hubert Kittle, 
 aviator, former police officer, one-time con 
 tender for the heavyweight pugilistic cham 
 pionship of the navy, dare-devil and adven 
 turer. Later in the day Ben Smith, official 
 court reporter and one of the fastest and most 
 accurate shorthand men in the country, agreed 
 to share in their adventure. 
 
 "I d trust Ben with my life," Brennan re 
 marked to John later. "If there ever was a 
 man who knew how to keep his mouth shut, 
 it s Ben. Whenever the district attorney s 
 office or the police or the sheriff have some 
 thing really big, something that must be kept 
 absolutely secret, they call him in and he never 
 has failed them." 
 
 "What about the machine and the driver?" 
 John asked. 
 
 "That s what has me stumped," Brennan ad 
 mitted. "Most all of the taxi drivers are lined 
 up with the Gink in some way or another. We 
 must have someone we can not only rely upon, 
 but who can drive. Believe me, Gallant, we 
 can t afford to take any chances." 
 
 From Ben Smith s office in the Hall of Jus 
 tice building they went to the city hall to break 
 
SPRING STREET 313 
 
 the news of their discovery of the meeting 
 place of Gibson and Cummings to the mayor. 
 While Brennan was telling the story and de 
 scribing how they had planned to obtain a 
 written report of the conversation between 
 Gibson and the "Gink" by use of the dicto 
 graph, the mayor sat perched on the edge of 
 his chair, his eyes gleaming with pent-up ex 
 citement. When Brennan had finished he 
 bounced up and circled the desk with quick 
 strides to shake them both by the hand. 
 
 "You ve done it, boys, you ve done it," he 
 said. 
 
 Then he turned his face from them and drew 
 a handkerchief from his pocket. 
 
 "Don t mind me," he said, dabbing with the 
 handkerchief at his eyes. "I m an old fool. 
 But I ve been under a terrible strain, boys, 
 these last few weeks and what you told me was 
 almost too good to be true." 
 
 He turned to face them as quickly as he had 
 turned away, and he was smiling. 
 
 "What about tonight?" he asked. "Is there 
 anyway I can help you? Are you all fixed?" 
 
 "All we need is a fast machine and a good 
 driver," said Brennan. "Someone we can trust 
 and rely upon. Can you suggest anyone?" 
 
 "I certainly can," said the mayor. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 The mayor s face brightened. 
 
314 SPRING STREET 
 
 "The mayor of Los Angeles," he said. 
 
 "You mean " 
 
 "I mean it," assured the mayor. "I have 
 the fastest car that can be bought and I m not 
 afraid to step on it. What more do you 
 want?" 
 
 "It s a go !" exclaimed Brennan, and they 
 shook hands all around. 
 
 John long remembered the meeting between 
 the mayor and Murphy when they assembled 
 at Second and Spring streets that night at ten 
 o clock. Oddly it was the mayor who was 
 flustered when the two were introduced by 
 Brennan, probably because he felt he owed so 
 much to the scrawny youth who stood before 
 him. 
 
 "Murphy, my boy, I I I don t know how 
 to thank you," the mayor began and then, fear 
 ing that sounded too stiff and formal, he 
 added, "If I m re-elected it will be largely be 
 cause of what you ve done and you can have 
 the best job I ve got to offer." 
 
 "I got my own reasons for doin what I ve 
 done, see?" said Murphy, "but I ll take you up 
 on dat job offer of yours if we come through 
 all right, see?" 
 
 "You re you re you re all right, Mur 
 phy," returned the mayor. 
 
 They sat in the mayor s automobile while 
 Brennan outlined the detailed plans for their 
 expedition. 
 
 
SPRING STREET 315 
 
 "When they close up for the night, Murphy, 
 Gallant and I will go in and rig up the dicto 
 graph," he said. "Ben, you might as well 
 come along with us. It would be taking too 
 much of a chance for one of us to go out and 
 get you. 
 
 "Mr. Mayor, you ll park your car close to 
 the alley and wait with Benton until one of us 
 comes out. Then you ll drive to within a few 
 yards of the rear door of the saloon and keep 
 your motor going, while Benton sets up his 
 camera. When we have enough of their con 
 versation we ll come out and get in the car 
 with you. 
 
 "One of us will stand by Benton I ll do it 
 until he shoots his flash as Cummings and 
 Gibson come out. Benton and I will run for 
 the machine and as soon as we hop on the 
 running board, Mr. Mayor, you start going. 
 Don t stop for anything and remember to turn 
 your lights off while you re waiting. Now, 
 does everyone understand?" 
 
 Each signified that he knew his part. 
 
 "One slip will ruin everything," Brennan 
 warned them. "It s our one chance and a mis 
 take will be costly. If something happens and 
 the mayor s car stalls, Gallant and I will stay 
 behind to handle the Gink and Gibson and 
 the rest of you beat it. You, too, Murphy, 
 
316 SPRING STREET 
 
 do you understand? Gallant and I can take 
 care of ourselves." 
 
 They waited until after eleven o clock be 
 fore they left the corner of Second and Spring 
 in the mayor s car. It was Saturday night and 
 there were twice as many people on the streets 
 at that hour than during the week days. As 
 their paper published no Sunday edition, John 
 and Brennan realized that if they were success 
 ful the exposure of the Gibson-Cummings plot 
 could not be made until Monday or Tuesday 
 at the earliest, which would be three or four 
 days before the primary election, scheduled for 
 Thursday. 
 
 At Brennan s order the mayor drove the 
 automobile up and down Spring street, from 
 Second to Eighth and back. Each trip as they 
 passed the saloon they watched for signs of 
 it being closed for the night. At half-past 
 eleven they saw that the lights were ex 
 tinguished, the doors closed and the steel 
 lattice work drawn across the open front to 
 protect the cigar stand for the night. 
 
 The mayor swung the automobile into the 
 first street intersecting Spring street, toward 
 Main, stopping it at Brennan s instructions so 
 that it could be driven into the alley without 
 difficulty. Brennan, Smith, Murphy and John 
 left the machine and hurried into the alley. 
 Murphy carried a brace and bit hidden under 
 
SPRING STREET 317 
 
 his coat. John s left arm was stiff at his side 
 from a steel bar thrust up into the sleeve and 
 Brennan carried the dictograph in a paper 
 package under his arm. 
 
 Holding close to the shadows of the brick 
 wall, they walked rapidly to the basement 
 door, opening it and entering quickly. Mur 
 phy and Smith were posted at the door to act 
 as guard and to watch for the arrival of Gib 
 son and Cummings. Brennan and John went 
 directly to the trap door at the top of the 
 stairs at the front of the basement. Bren 
 nan pushed upward against the door, but it 
 held fast against his strength. John handed 
 him the steel bar. A thrust, a wrench, a tear 
 ing of decayed wood and the door yielded. 
 They scrambled through to the floor of the 
 saloon, finding themselves within a few feet 
 of the room where they were to "plant" the 
 dictograph. 
 
 "Luck is with us this time," said Brennan as 
 they saw that the door of the room was 
 open. He knelt in the open space between 
 the tiers of drawers on either side of the desk 
 that filled one side of the room. In half a 
 minute the brace was boring into the wood 
 of the flooring. Through the hole cut through 
 the floor Brennan pushed the wires of the 
 dictograph until their entire length disappeared 
 into the basement and the "ear" of the eaves- 
 
318 SPRING STREET 
 
 dropping device was flat over the perforation. 
 He swept up the shavings from the boring 
 of the hole with his hands as they hurried 
 back down into the basement, where they 
 found the end of the wire dangling from the 
 ceiling. Brennan assembled the dictograph 
 rapidly, attaching to it three head-pieces with 
 receivers clamping over the ears. 
 
 "We ll test it," he said to John. "Scoot up 
 stairs and say something in a natural tone in 
 all parts of the room. Try to talk at about the 
 pitch you believe they will speak and drop 
 your voice to a whisper occasionally. Ben 
 and I will listen." 
 
 While Brennan and Smith waited with the 
 headgears John followed orders, returning to 
 the basement when he believed he had talked 
 to himself long enough to make the test ac 
 curate. 
 
 "Works perfectly," Brennan told him. 
 "Heard every word you said. We re all 
 set and ready to go." 
 
 John glanced at his watch. It was five min 
 utes after twelve. They made themselves as 
 comfortable as possible on the empty packing 
 boxes. Smith produced his notebooks and a 
 handful of carefully sharpened pencils. 
 
 A picture of Consuello as she appeared 
 when she stood beside the window with its red 
 geraniums, reciting the verse in which she 
 
SPRING STREET 319 
 
 found heart comfort, flashed into John s mind. 
 He closed his eyes to hold the vision in his 
 imagination. It faded away, and another 
 picture took its place, a mental miniature of 
 Consuello as he had last seen her, standing in 
 the doorway, silhouetted in the soft rose light 
 behind her. He saw her hand flutter and the 
 door close. Could it be that with the intuition 
 of a daughter of Eve she knew that he loved 
 her? Could it be that she 
 
 "Brennan," he said, "what is that verse of 
 Kipling s that starts So long as neath the 
 hills or something like that?" 
 
 In the tiny glow of Brennan s cigarette John 
 noticed a hint of a smile on the other s lips as 
 he recited: 
 
 "So long as neath the Kalka hills 
 The Tonga-horn shall ring, 
 So long as down the Solon dip 
 The hard-held ponies swing, 
 So long as Tara Divi sees 
 The lights of Simla town, 
 So long as Pleasure calls us up, 
 And duty drives us down, 
 If you love me as I love you. 
 What pair so happy as we two?" 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "That s it," John said. "There s another 
 
320 SPRING STREET 
 
 part of it that says something about all earth 
 being servant ; how does it go?" 
 Brennan continued: 
 
 "By all that lights our daily life 
 
 Or works our lifelong woe, 
 
 From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs 
 
 And those grim glades below, 
 
 Where, heedless of the flying hoof 
 
 And clamor overhead, 
 
 Sleep, with the grey langur for guard, 
 
 Our very scornful Dead. 
 
 If you love me as I love you, 
 
 All Earth is servant to us two." 
 
 He paused again. 
 
 That s it," said John. 
 
 "That s a hell of a thing to be thinking 
 about now," said Brennan. 
 
 "I know it," John returned. 
 
 For several minutes they were silent. John 
 thought he saw Brennan give Smith a signifi 
 cant glance. 
 
 "By the way, Gallant," Brennan asked, 
 "how is your friend, Consuello?" 
 
 "I m to have dinner with her and Gibson 
 the night he is elected mayor," John replied, 
 remembering Gibson s invitation. 
 
 "Who arranged that?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "Gibson." 
 
SPRING STREET 321 
 
 "I m afraid we re going to spoil your little 
 dinner party," said Brennan, smiling. 
 
 "That verse you just recited for me doesn t 
 rhyme if you make it three instead of 
 two, " John countered. 
 
 "You win," conceded Brennan. "What 
 time is it getting to be?" 
 
 John looked at his watch. 
 
 "Quarter to one," he answered. "What if 
 they don t show " 
 
 A shaft of light shot through the darkness 
 from the door. It was the prearranged signal 
 from Murphy to inform them that Gibson and 
 Cummings were approaching. As if jerked by 
 cords held in a single hand they straightened 
 up from their lounging positions. 
 
 They heard the door open at the rear above 
 them and footsteps on the floor, approaching 
 until the noise was directly over their heads. 
 Dust shook down on them from the grimy 
 ceiling. 
 
 Simultaneously they pulled on their head 
 gears and listened. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 AS CLEARLY and distinctly as though he 
 * ^ was at a telephone John heard the voices 
 of "Gink" Cummings and Gibson in the room 
 above him. Smith began writing his short 
 hand record of the conversation they over 
 heard as soon as the conspirators began talk 
 ing. 
 
 "Well, what s new?" he heard a voice he 
 knew to be Cummings ask. 
 
 "Things are about the same," he heard 
 Gibson reply. "I can t see how anything can 
 happen now to beat us." 
 
 "The newspapers are the only thing that 
 worry me," said Cummings. "Those damn 
 reporters are never satisfied. They keep dig 
 ging around until they stumble across some 
 thing and then tear things to pieces. What 
 about them? You haven t heard of anyone 
 of them asking too many questions or getting 
 suspicious, have you?" 
 
 Gibson laughed. 
 
 "Forget it, Cummings," he said. "I ll 
 handle the reporters. They re not half as 
 smart as they think they are and as people 
 give them credit for being." 
 
 In the glare from the electric torch that 
 
SPRING STREET 323 
 
 Brennan focused on Smith s notebook John saw 
 Brennan wink at him. 
 
 "Why, two of them Brennan and Gal 
 lant are my best friends," Gibson continued. 
 "They ve fallen for every stunt we ve pulled." 
 
 Brennan winked again. 
 
 "Don t be so cock-sure," Cummings cau 
 tioned. "I ve had more experience with them 
 than you have and you re all wrong if you 
 think they re a bunch of dumb-bells. You ll 
 have to be mighty careful. You ve sailed 
 right along without any trouble because you ve 
 had sound advice. As soon as you think 
 you re out of danger, that s the time some 
 thing s sure to happen." 
 
 "I ll admit you ve steered me straighter than 
 I could have gone alone," said Gibson, "but 
 don t worry, I m going to take good care of 
 myself." 
 
 There was a silence of a minute. John pic 
 tured Gibson and the "Gink" regarding each 
 other critically through the smoke of their 
 cigaret and cigar. It was Cummings who 
 spoke first. 
 
 "Gibson," he said, "this will be our last 
 meeting before the election." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I ve decided we can t take any more 
 chances," said Cummings. 
 
 Another pause in the conversation. Then 
 
324 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Gibson, do we understand each other 
 thoroughly?" 
 
 "What makes you ask that?" John believed 
 he detected a note of surprise in Gibson s 
 counter question. 
 
 "I want to be sure, that s all," Cummings 
 said. "You know how much I m relying on 
 you. You know what I ve done to put you 
 where you are. You re only going to be 
 mayor for one term and we ll have to clean 
 up enough then to last us the rest of our 
 lives. When your term expires I want to 
 quit the game. 
 
 "You were broke when I met you and I ve 
 made you mayor of Los Angeles. You have 
 power and a reputation and if you don t spill 
 the beans you ll be a millionaire when you 
 walk out of the city hall in four years. For 
 ten years I ve had this plan in my mind, 
 waiting for a chance to work it. When I 
 met you I knew I had the man to go through 
 with it. I ve spent a lot of money, risked 
 everything I had and there have been times 
 that I ve had a fight on my hands to keep the 
 boys in line. 
 
 "It looks now as if I m going to come out 
 on top. While you re mayor we ll work care 
 fully. Probably it will be a year before we 
 start out after the money. We can afford to 
 wait that long once you re in office. But every- 
 
SPRING STREET 325 
 
 thing, everything, you understand, depends on 
 you." 
 
 "Everything you say is true," said Gibson, 
 seriously. 
 
 A pause. When Cummings broke the 
 silence there was a new tone in his voice. It 
 was harsh, dictatorial, threatening, the voice 
 of a man of steel who ruled like an uncrowned 
 king by the fear he instilled in his miserable 
 subjects. 
 
 "Gibson," he said, "if you double-cross me 
 you ll wish you had never been born." 
 
 John could not help but admire the even 
 coolness of Gibson s voice when he replied: 
 
 "There s no need for you to try to frighten 
 me, Cummings." 
 
 "I mean what I say," returned the "Gink." 
 
 "I know you do," said Gibson quietly. "But 
 I want you to understand something. You and 
 I can get along together without any threats. 
 And another thing. I m not working with you 
 because I fear you, but because I want what 
 you re giving me. So forget the rough stuff, 
 as you call it." 
 
 So delicately was the dictograph adjusted 
 that John heard Cummings draw his breath 
 sharply. 
 
 "I ve been double-crossed before," he said, 
 "by men a damn sight smarter than you are." 
 
 "I ll simply repeat what I just said to you," 
 
326 SPRING STREET 
 
 retorted Gibson. "I m working with you 
 because I want what you have to give me, 
 not because I m afraid of you or anyone else." 
 
 It was a direct challenge to a man who ruled 
 by cowing his adherents, who had never failed 
 to carry out a threat and who was as guilty 
 of murder as the thugs he ordered to beat or 
 shoot to death a rebel in the ranks of crime. 
 But between the two, Cummings was the cow 
 ard, psychologically at least. His shrewdness 
 told him that it was useless for him to en 
 deavor to control Gibson by threats of physical 
 harm or death and he exercised his tact. He 
 realized also that a man of Gibson s mettle 
 was more to be trusted than a servile, af 
 frighted weakling. 
 
 "You re right, Gibson," he said. "There s 
 no need for either of us to try to frighten the 
 other. Forget what I said a minute ago. I 
 said it without thinking. You can t blame me 
 if my nerves are on edge after what I ve been 
 through to put you where you are and you 
 know how much I ve got at stake in this busi 
 
 ness." 
 
 "No more than I have," said Gibson. 
 "Cummings, I ve never told you this because 
 I didn t think it necessary, but on the day I 
 am sworn in as mayor I hope to be married. 
 You can understand better now how well I 
 
SPRING STREET 327 
 
 realize that nothing must happen. I d rather 
 die right here than have any of this business 
 come out to disgrace her." 
 
 Cummings received Gibson s announcement 
 of his intention to be married in silence. John 
 expected Brennan to tip him another wink or 
 smile to him at Gibson s mention of his mar 
 riage plans. Instead, he saw Brennan s eyes 
 narrow and his jaw set. Whether the ex 
 pression of anger and determination that came 
 over Brennan s face was caused by indignation 
 of Gibson s duplicity or by friendship for Con- 
 suello, whom Brennan had never seen, John 
 did not know, but a thrill of encouragement 
 swept through him as he realized that he was 
 not alone in the fight to save her. 
 
 He saw Brennan signal him to approach. 
 Slipping off the headgear he moved noiselessly 
 and leaned forward so that he could hear what 
 Brennan whispered to him. 
 
 "It won t be long now before they ll be 
 leaving," Brennan said. "Slip out without 
 making any noise and bring Benton and the 
 mayor for the picture." 
 
 John went quickly to the door, where Mur 
 phy was on guard. 
 
 "Everything o. k. ?" asked Murphy in a 
 hoarse whisper. John nodded and went up 
 and out into the alley. He found the mayor 
 
328 SPRING STREET 
 
 and Benton waiting nervously in the automo 
 bile. 
 
 "We ve got enough to ruin them," he said, 
 anticipating the mayor s eagerness. He climbed 
 into the car and the mayor drove it quietly 
 into the alley, switching off the lights as Bren- 
 nan had ordered him to do. He stopped the 
 automobile about thirty feet past the door of 
 the saloon. In a minute Benton was setting up 
 his camera on its tripod directly across the 
 alley from the door. 
 
 At Benton s request, John stood at the 
 door and flashed on his electric torch long 
 enough for the photographer to get the focus. 
 Although it was less than five seconds that he 
 stood with his back only a foot from the door 
 from which Cummings and Gibson were to 
 emerge, John s imagination created a terrible 
 fear that they would come upon him in the 
 helpless position in which he stood. 
 
 "All set," Benton called to him in a sharp 
 whisper. Crossing the alley he saw Benton fill 
 ing his flashlight gun with flash powder and 
 heard him chanting, softly to himself: 
 
 * E would dot an carry one 
 Till the longest day was done; 
 An e didn t seem to know the use o fear. 
 If we charged or broke or cut, 
 You could bet your bloomin nut, 
 E d be waitin fifty paces right flank rear." 
 
SPRING STREET 329 
 
 He was at Benton s side when Murphy, 
 Smith and Brennan, in rapid succession came 
 quickly up into the alley from the basement 
 stair. Sharply Brennan ordered John to fol 
 low Murphy and Smith into the automobile 
 while he remained with Benton, who stood 
 poised with his finger on the trigger of the 
 flash gun. 
 
 As soon as John, with Murphy and Smith, 
 was in the automobile, he looked back. The 
 door opened and Cummings and Gibson step 
 ped out. Benton s flashlight gun boomed and 
 a brilliant white light blazed, turning night 
 into day for a fraction of a second. 
 
 The mayor raced the motor as Benton and 
 Brennan dashed toward the automobile and 
 sprang to the running board. John saw Gib 
 son and Cummings, recovering from their sur 
 prise, rush after them. Cummings was tug 
 ging at something in his right hip pocket. 
 
 With a roar from its exhaust, the automo 
 bile lunged forward. He heard the mayor 
 curse as he shifted the gears fiercely, each 
 move of his hand giving the car accelerated 
 speed. 
 
 "Duck your heads," Brennan yelled. 
 
 An automatic pistol cracked out its sharp re 
 ports and a bullet tore through the top of 
 the car and shattered the windshield glass to 
 
330 SPRING STREET 
 
 splinters as the automobile lurched out of the 
 
 alley. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Murphy sat tilted back in a chair, his feet 
 braced against the sill of the only window of 
 his room. Cigarette butts were heaped in a 
 tarnished brass souvenir ash tray on a table at 
 his side. The Sunday newspapers, from which 
 he had extracted the sporting sections to peruse 
 every line, were scattered on the floor around 
 his chair. 
 
 His scraggy hair tousled on his head, a 
 growth of black, wiry beard covering his face, 
 coatless and collarless, he was a picture of 
 coarse self-indulgence. Returning to his room 
 at three o clock in the morning after separat 
 ing from the mayor, Brennan, John and Smith 
 following their escape from "Gink" Cummings 
 pistol shots, he had slept until noon. He went 
 to the cheap dairy lunch near his rooming 
 house for a heavy breakfast of ham and eggs, 
 purchased the Sunday papers and came back 
 to smoke and read. 
 
 The room with its disordered bed, drab 
 walls dotted with sporting prints, dusty, rickety 
 furnishings, threadbare carpet and grimy lace 
 curtains, was a dreary, prison-like place. But 
 to Murphy it was the place of his content, 
 as much of a home as he had ever had. He 
 had slept in alleys and deserted shacks and 
 
SPRING STREET 331 
 
 basements. So to him the room brought no 
 discomfort and was as luxurious in his un 
 imaginative mind as a suite at the Ambassador 
 or the Alexandria. No invitation to the rest 
 ful mountains or the sparkling ocean, its 
 beaches lined with gay Sunday crowds, floated 
 to him on the breeze that drifted in through 
 the open window. He was enjoying a rousta 
 bout s day of rest. 
 
 After a while, perhaps, when dusk falling 
 over the city heralded brooding night, he 
 would emerge from his room to visit his 
 favorite pool room, where, in an atmosphere 
 blue with smoke, he would lounge in a chair 
 at a wall and exchange gossip of sport and 
 sporting things with other hangers-on. From 
 there he might wander in upon a friendly 
 "crap" or card game behind the locked door 
 of an unventilated room of a Spring street 
 "social club." Or he might go to one of the 
 stuffy, over-heated gymnasiums to watch some 
 industrious and ambitious boxer in training. 
 That w r as his life and he was happy in it, a 
 hand-to-mouth sort of existence in which he 
 was satisfied. 
 
 At intervals a thrill of the excitement of 
 the adventure of the night before, when he 
 had played an important part in the trapping 
 of "Gink" Cummings and Gibson, returned 
 to him. It was difficult for him to realize 
 
332 SPRING STREET 
 
 that the mayor of Los Angeles had taken him 
 by the hand, like a brother, and thanked him 
 and promised him the best job at his disposal 
 if he was re-elected. He remembered having 
 told the mayor he could drive like Jimmy 
 Murphy, the racer, when they had sped out 
 of the downtown district and away from pos 
 sible pursuit. He remembered how he had 
 patched a cut over the mayor s eye, a lacera 
 tion caused by a piece of the shattered wind 
 shield, with the skill of facial repair that he 
 had learned as a second at the Vernon ring. 
 
 The "Gallant kid" and Brennan, they were 
 "regular guys," all right. Brennan was a 
 "wisecracker," all right, all right. Some day 
 he d tell them why he was helping them. They 
 thought he was doing it for the money they 
 gave him. He wouldn t "double-cross" the 
 "Gink" or anyone else for money, see? What 
 kind of a "bird" did they take him for, any 
 way? A "stool-pigeon"? He d tell them 
 why some day and they d know that Tim Mur 
 phy wasn t no "stool-pigeon." He d tell 
 them 
 
 A rap on the door! He brought his feet 
 down from the window-sill. The "Gallant 
 kid" or Brennan, probably, or, maybe it was 
 his friend, the mayor. He rose and, crossing 
 the room, turned the key in the lock. He 
 was about to put his hand on the knob when 
 
SPRING STREET 333 
 
 the door pushed open toward him and three 
 men sidled into the room. Murphy cringed 
 back as one of them shut the door quickly, 
 locked it and turned to face him, putting the 
 key in his pocket. 
 
 It was "Slim" Gray, the "Gink s" right- 
 hand man! 
 
 "Slim" Gray, cold-eyed, his thin lips pressed 
 tight together; "Slim" Gray, hard, venomous, 
 merciless, hate blazing in his eyes. And the 
 other two looking at him contemptuously, 
 snarlingly. Two of the "Gink s" men! 
 
 For nearly a minute they stood there look 
 ing at him, without moving. For nearly a 
 minute he stared back at them as if they had 
 hypnotized him; his arms half lifted, his head 
 bent forward, his mouth hanging open. A 
 sickening feeling of terror caused his hands to 
 tremble and his knees to feel as though they 
 were giving way under him. 
 
 He knew they were going to "bash" him, 
 probably kill him. He might have been able 
 to handle "Slim" alone, but those two power 
 ful bruisers they d kill him, sure. He checked 
 an impulse to scream. They d throttle him 
 if he did. Maybe he could taik himself out of 
 the trap. 
 
 Twice before he managed to gasp out 
 "Slim!" his lips formed the word, but no 
 sound came from them. 
 
334 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Shut your mouth," said "Slim ; 
 
 through his teeth. 
 
 He threw himself back as though he ex 
 pected the words to be followed by a rain of 
 blows. His back was flat against the wall. 
 If he could only get around to the window he 
 could dart out and down the fire escape. 
 Divining his one and only hope of escape, 
 one of the "bashers" sprang forward, grabbed 
 him by an arm and whirled him into a chair. 
 He cringed as the bruiser stood over him, his 
 big fists clenched and ready to strike. 
 
 "Get back, Louie," he heard "Slim" order 
 sharply. Louie stepped away from him and 
 "Slim" faced him. 
 
 "Murphy," said "Slim," speaking slowly, 
 "you ve got one chance to get out of this." 
 
 "What ve I done, Slim ?" his voice shook. 
 In his terror he could only think of trying to 
 "stall." 
 
 "Don t pull that stuff on me, you damn 
 stool-pigeon," snapped "Slim." "You know 
 what I want from you. Who was that with 
 you last night? Come on, spit it out." 
 
 "What re ya talkin about, Slim ?" 
 
 "I told you not to pull that stuff. It won t 
 get you anything, see? We know you were 
 
 in it. You fool, didn t you know 
 
 we d find out about you?" 
 
 "Ah, Slim, ya got me wrong, I ain t " 
 
SPRING STREET 335 
 
 A hand clutched his hair. He could feel the 
 finger nails digging into his scalp. With a 
 jerk that shook him to his feet Louie threw 
 him half out of the chair. 
 
 "Cut it, Louie," he heard "Slim" say as 
 he remained where he had been thrown, fear 
 ful of lifting his head. 
 
 For a minute there was a dreadful silence. 
 
 "Murphy," said u Slim," "do you remem 
 ber what happened to Gat Mollwitz and 
 Beanie Wilson?" 
 
 Did he remember? A nauseating feeling 
 gripped him. "Gat" and "Beanie" had defied 
 the "Gink" and they were found one morning 
 beaten and kicked, broken and bleeding. They 
 died in agony a few hours later. 
 
 "Don t, Slim, don t!" he gasped. 
 
 "Out with it, then, who was that with you 
 last night? Come through and you can get out 
 of town tonight." 
 
 Right then something happened inside of 
 Murphy, something a psychologist might be 
 able to describe in vague scientific terms. He 
 became possessed of a desperate courage far 
 greater than he had ever dreamed of having. 
 In that moment of metamorphosis he became a 
 fatalist. He realized that whether he gave 
 "Slim" the information he sought or not the 
 result would be the same. The life would be 
 kicked and beaten out of him. The "Gink," 
 
336 SPRING STREET 
 
 to save himself and Gibson at all hazards, 
 would not take a further chance by permitting 
 him to live. 
 
 Then why should he give up? Why should 
 he surrender to "Slim" and his "bashers" if 
 he could gain nothing by it? He d like to be 
 able to live just long enough to tell the mayor 
 and Brennan and the "Gallant kid" the real 
 reason that he helped them trap Cummings 
 and Gibson. He didn t want them to think 
 he had sold himself for money. And even if 
 they killed him now, Brennan and the "Gal 
 lant kid" would know that he died trying to 
 protect them, that he wasn t a contemptible 
 "squealer" after all. 
 
 As he straightened up from the prone posi 
 tion into which he had been thrown by Louie, 
 he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the pil 
 low under his bed and there flashed into his 
 mind the realization that under it was his re 
 volver. If he could only get it somehow. 
 
 "Let s hear it. Who was with you?" de 
 manded "Slim." 
 
 Murphy s long dormant imagination began 
 to work. For the purpose of deceiving "Slim" 
 he must keep a mask of servile fear on his 
 face. 
 
 "Let me get a shot of hooch, Slim, and 
 I ll tell ya everything," he whimpered. He 
 rose timidly from his chair. Louie and the 
 
SPRING STREET 337 
 
 other "basher" started toward him, but stopped 
 at a gesture from "Slim." 
 
 He went to the battered, flat-topped dresser 
 a few feet from the bed and pulled open a 
 drawer. From it he took a bottle of whisky. 
 Pretending that the cork was stuck he worked 
 with it fumblingly to get time in which to 
 think. He would take a drink, feign that it 
 choked him, stagger to the head of the bed, 
 stumble on to the pillow and then come up 
 with the revolver in his hand. Then h^ would 
 have them! 
 
 He lifted the bottle to his mouth and gulped. 
 He let the bottle fall from his hand as he 
 choked and gasped for breath, sputtering the 
 fiery liquor from his lips. Reeling and spit 
 ting he stumbled toward the bed and fell on 
 it. His right hand pushed under the pillow 
 and seized the gun, but not by the handle. In 
 the second that he was trying desperately to 
 wrap his hand around the butt of the weapon 
 and get a finger on the trigger he was lost. 
 
 With a warning shout Louie leaped on the 
 bed and grasped his arm. 
 
 He felt himself pulled to his feet and 
 hurled to the floor. He shut his eyes. With a 
 sweep of his arm the "basher" crashed a black 
 jack against his skull. A head splitting flash 
 of blinding light and then darkness and in 
 sensibility. He did not feel the brutal blows 
 
338 SPRING STREET 
 
 that were rained on him nor the kicks that 
 fractured his arms, his ribs and tore deep cuts 
 on his face and body. 
 
 "That s enough, boys, beat it," commanded 
 u Slim." As they ran out of the room "Slim" 
 caught sight of Murphy s coat. Quickly his 
 hands went through the pockets. From one 
 he drew a soiled bit of paper. 
 
 On the paper was written, "Brennan and 
 the Gallant kid" and the telephone number of 
 the newspaper on which they were employed. 
 
 "Slim" locked the door from the outside 
 and tossed the key back into the room over the 
 transom, leaving Murphy for dead. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 T N THAT delightful state of drowsiness 
 * that follows after waking from a sound 
 sleep, John mentally reviewed the stirring ad 
 venture of the night before. The warm, 
 bright sunshine streaming in through the open 
 windows of his bedroom had wakened him 
 slowly. He could hear his mother in the 
 kitchen, preparing breakfast. 
 
 Every detail of how the mayor, Murphy, 
 Brennan and he had succeeded in overhearing 
 a conversation between Gibson and "Gink" 
 Cummings was fresh in his mind. His nerves 
 tingled as he again felt the thrill of those 
 breathless minutes when Benton photographed 
 Gibson and the u Gink" by flashlight and Cum 
 mings rained shots after them as they escaped 
 in the mayor s automobile. 
 
 It was only a matter of a few hours now 
 before the conspiracy between the police com 
 missioner and candidate for mayor and the 
 notorious king of the underworld to seize 
 control of the city government would be ex 
 posed, broadcast throughout Los Angeles as 
 the most sensational news story of the year. 
 Before he returned home, after three o clock 
 in the morning, John, with Brennan, had in- 
 
 
340 SPRING STREET 
 
 formed P. Q. of their success in obtaining evi 
 dence to prove the Cummings-Gibson conspir 
 acy. The city editor told them he would com 
 municate with the "chief" Sunday and instructed 
 them to report for duty earlier than usual Mon 
 day morning. 
 
 "We ll probably break the story Monday," 
 said P. Q. "We ll shoot everything we have : 
 Gallant s story of the framed raid on the 
 Spring street bookmakers, how the Gink re 
 gulated crime to give Gibson a reputation; the 
 affidavits of Big Jim Hatch and his wife and 
 give it the finishing touch with Benton s pho 
 tograph. Of course, we ll have Smith s ver 
 batim report. Arrange with him to have it 
 ready for us without fail by seven o clock 
 Monday morning. One of you get an affidavit 
 from Murphy, telling his whole story. You ve 
 blown the lid off things this time, all right, 
 boys." 
 
 Murphy left them before they telephoned 
 to P. Q., so it was impossible for them to 
 arrange with him to meet one of them before 
 Monday. They agreed that John should find 
 Murphy and obtain his affidavit in order that 
 it would be ready for publication Monday. 
 
 The elation John felt as a newspaper re 
 porter in having aided in obtaining the evi 
 dence for the exposure of the Cummings-Gib 
 son plot changed to regret when he thought of 
 
SPRING STREET 341 
 
 how it would affect Consuello. Could she, 
 would she remember and follow out her prom 
 ise to think of him as having done what he 
 believed was his duty? Would she refuse to 
 believe the truth about Gibson or would she, in 
 the bitterness of disillusionment, blame those 
 who brought about the exposure? He pic 
 tured her beside her window of red geraniums, 
 lifting tear-dimmed eyes to her "green and 
 friendly hill" and he was unhappy in conjectur 
 ing upon her broken heart. 
 
 His mother s call to him that breakfast was 
 waiting roused him from his reverie. He had 
 never told Mrs. Gallant that Consuello was 
 Gibson s fiancee; in fact, Consuello s name had 
 never been mentioned between them since the 
 night that Mrs. Gallant had displayed her 
 antipathy for her. He realized also that his 
 mother would not be able to comprehend 
 why Consuello met him in Gibson s absence 
 and would probably consider it an unforgiv 
 able breach of etiquette. 
 
 At breakfast he told his mother of his ad 
 venture of the previous night, minimizing the 
 dangers of the exploit to forestall her inevit 
 able admonition for him to avoid risks of all 
 kinds. 
 
 "It s a big thing for me," he said, en 
 thusiastically. "I was promised more salary 
 and a contract if it went through. Of course, 
 
342 SPRING STREET 
 
 Brennan and P. Q. and Murphy deserve most 
 of the credit, but I helped them." 
 
 "What will become of this man Gibson?" 
 Mrs. Gallant asked. 
 
 "I ve been wondering how he ll take it," 
 he said. "He may try to bluff through, claim 
 it s all a perjured frame-up. But I don t be 
 lieve he ll do that. You see, he knows that 
 the photograph is absolutely condemning evi 
 dence. I expect that he ll simply disappear. 
 He may have left the city by this time. Or 
 he may try to bargain with our publisher by 
 offering to retire as a candidate if the scan 
 dal about him is hushed up. I don t believe 
 the chief would consent to that, though." 
 
 Usually on Sunday mornings John accom 
 panied his mother to church. This day, how 
 ever, because it was too late for them to 
 attend the morning service, they went for a 
 walk instead. When they passed the neighbor 
 hood motion picture theater John noticed that 
 Consuello s latest picture, the one he had seen 
 at the pre-view, was being shown. An heroic 
 size photograph of Consuello stood in the 
 small lobby of the theater. He noticed that 
 his mother averted her eyes. They walked in 
 silence for half a block and then Mrs. Gallant 
 spoke. 
 
 "Isn t Miss Carrillo a friend, a very dear 
 friend, of this Mr. Gibson?" she asked. 
 
SPRING STREET 343 
 
 "Yes," he admitted. "Why do you ask, 
 mother?" 
 
 She did not reply. 
 
 "But, mother," he exclaimed, "surely you 
 won t think that she knew of his scheming with 
 Gink Cummings! Will you blame her be 
 cause someone she knew went wrong? Do 
 you hold her responsible for the faults and 
 weaknesses of others?" 
 
 Again Mrs. Gallant did not reply. Her 
 silence provoked him. It was so unlike her 
 to be unfair. He stifled the angry protest he 
 was about to utter. 
 
 "Some day, mother, you are going to know 
 her," he said. "Then every unkind thought 
 you have ever held toward her will come back 
 to you in anguish. You know, mother, dear 
 est, how wrong it is to condemn unfairly. 
 That was one of the first lessons taught me 
 by father; to withhold judgment; suppress 
 prejudice until all sides of a case have been 
 heard. That is the keystone of American lib 
 erty malice toward none. It was the prin 
 ciple of the Magna Carta, Great Britain s 
 document of human rights, that the English 
 barons compelled their king to deliver to them 
 more than 700 years ago. 
 
 "Remember, mother, dearest" his voice 
 softened "it was prejudice, intolerance and 
 hate that caused the crucifixion of Christ," 
 
344 SPRING STREET 
 
 please," his mother said, gently, 
 "please don t allow anything to spoil our one 
 day of the week together." 
 
 "But, mother - " he began. 
 
 "My boy! Please," she pleaded. 
 
 He had never gone against her wishes when 
 she spoke to him like that. He patted her 
 arm and smiled. 
 
 "All right, mother, dearest," he said, "we ll 
 forget all about it now. This is our day to 
 gether and nothing shall impair it." 
 
 How glad he would have been to have been 
 able to have told her of his love for Con- 
 suello! How much help she could have been 
 to him, now that he was about to ruin the 
 man Consuello had agreed to take as her 
 husband. If "that" Mrs. Sprockett, who was 
 fostering his mother s prejudice against motion 
 pictures and motion picture players, would 
 only stay more at home with her colicky baby 
 instead of playing the part of a hypocritical 
 Puritan. A passage from Proverbs his father 
 had often quoted returned to him. 
 
 "Where no wood is there the fire goeth 
 out; so where there is no talebearer, the strife 
 ceaseth." 
 
 But he chased these thoughts from his head 
 to be a companion to his mother. They ad 
 mired flowers in gardens of homes they passed, 
 studied interesting architecture they caught 
 
SPRING STREET 345 
 
 sight of, planned a picnic in the foothills John 
 thought of the spot where he had watched Con- 
 suello before the cameras recited bits of 
 poetry to each other and enjoyed the afternoon 
 more than any since the death of Mr. Gallant, 
 who had always led them on their Sunday 
 "tramps," as he called them. 
 
 It was earlier than usual when they returned 
 to their home. They shortened their outing 
 because of John s promise to Brennan to see 
 Murphy before morning and obtain from him 
 an affidavit to be used in the printed exposure 
 of Cummings and Gibson. 
 
 "Be careful, my boy," Mrs. Gallant cau 
 tioned him as he kissed her before leaving to 
 get the car to go down town. 
 
 "Don t worry, mother; there s no danger 
 now," he assured her. 
 
 As he passed the neighborhood picture thea 
 ter a young girl, sixteen or seventeen years of 
 age, emerged from the door. In the strong 
 light of the lobby he saw her face plainly a 
 rather pretty face and he remembered, indis 
 tinctly, of having met her, seen her somewhere 
 before. He saw that she recognized him 
 with a startled expression and unconsciously 
 he slowed his steps. The girl hurried to his 
 side and put her hand on his arm. 
 
 "Please don t tell, will you?" she begged. 
 
 "Tell? I don t understand," he said. 
 
346 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Aren t you John Gallant?" she asked. 
 
 He noticed a look of fear in her eyes. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I m Alma Sprockett," she said, as if the 
 mention of her name was sufficient explanation 
 of her request for him to keep whatever she 
 had in mind a secret. 
 
 "Well?" he asked, still unable to under 
 stand. 
 
 "If mother ever found out that I was at 
 the picture show today I d be in a peck of 
 trouble," she said. "She won t let me go to 
 the movies at all and I have to sneak away and 
 I do enjoy them so much. Now you won t 
 tell your mother or my mother or anyone, will 
 you?" 
 
 "Of course not," he answered, smiling. 
 
 "Oh, thanks ever and ever so much," she 
 said, and turning, hurried homeward. 
 
 That was it, he thought as he waited for 
 his car. Mrs. Sprockett could find time to run 
 around the neighborhood telling others what to 
 do, what not to do, what should be done and 
 what shouldn t be done, but she couldn t be 
 obeyed even by her own daughter! All the 
 way uptown and until he turned into the nar* 
 row, foul-aired stairway leading up to Mur 
 phy s room, Mrs. Sprockett and Alma, his 
 mother and Consuello were jumbled in his 
 thoughts. 
 
SPRING STREET 347 
 
 He rapped on the panel of the door of 
 Murphy s room at the end of the dark, dingy 
 hall. When he received no response he turned 
 the knob and pushed against the door, which 
 held fast. Discovering that it was locked he 
 hesitated a moment to decide whether to wait 
 or leave and return later. 
 
 A moan, a deep gasping sound, came to his 
 ears. He started and put his ear to the crack 
 of the door. Another moan, fainter than be 
 fore, sounded in the room. 
 
 "Murphy!" he called. 
 
 There was no answer from beyond the 
 door, not even a moan. John shook the 
 handle. 
 
 u Murphy! Murphy! Is that you? Are you 
 hurt?" he shouted. 
 
 No answer, no sound. He put his shoulder 
 to the door and, bracing himself, pushed with 
 all his strength against it, but it held firm. Step 
 ping back he swung a kick against a lower 
 panel. The wood broke and splintered. He 
 dropped to his knees and tore the split pieces 
 out with his hands. 
 
 Through the hole in the panel he saw the 
 key u Slim" Gray had tossed back into the 
 room over the transom. Reaching his arm 
 through the opening he picked it up and, open 
 ing the door, rushed into the room. 
 
 The twisted, broken, beaten figure of Mur- 
 
348 SPRING STREET 
 
 phy lay on the floor near the foot of the 
 bed. The awfulness of the sight turned John 
 sick and with a choking cry of pity and despair 
 he dropped to his knees beside it. 
 
 "Murphy! Murphy!" he cried. "What 
 have they done to you? Can you hear me? 
 Speak to me, Murphy, speak to me." 
 
 The head of the "bashed" youth rolled 
 limply from side to side and he groaned un 
 consciously. John shut his eyes to close from 
 vision the swollen, lacerated face of his friend. 
 Fury surged through him as he jumped to his 
 feet. He knew intuitively that Murphy was 
 the victim of "Gink" Cummings brutality. 
 He wanted to kill Cummings with his hands. 
 
 Sobbing, he ran from the room and dashed 
 to the nearest telephone. He called the re 
 ceiving hospital, telling the attendant to rush 
 the ambulance at top speed. He waited at the 
 street entrance to the rooming house until the 
 ambulance arrived, its shrill siren whistle 
 clearing a pathway for it through the traffic. 
 Slowly, gently, they lifted Murphy from the 
 floor and, placing him on a stretcher, carried 
 him down the stairs to the ambulance. A 
 morbid crowd, attracted by the sight of the 
 ambulance, thronged the sidewalk. 
 
 John sat beside the stretcher with the white- 
 clad attendant as the ambulance sped up 
 Third street to Hill and turning to the right 
 
SPRING STREET 349 
 
 stopped with a creaking of brakes in front of 
 the hospital door. He waited anxiously for 
 the surgeons to make their examination. Two 
 detectives hurried from central station to the 
 hospital and getting what information John 
 had, dashed out to a waiting automobile. 
 
 In his anxiety as he waited for the verdict of 
 the surgeons he only gave the detectives Mur 
 phy s name and the address of the rooming 
 house. They were gone before he could tell 
 them he knew Murphy had been "bashed" by 
 the "Gink s" men. 
 
 "He s in bad shape," the chief surgeon told 
 him. "Skull fracture; arms, jaw, ribs and 
 nose broken; internal injuries; cuts and bruises; 
 lost a lot of blood." 
 
 "What can be done to save him?", John 
 asked. 
 
 "An operation is about the only thing," the 
 surgeon replied. "He s pretty far gone." 
 
 "Operate then," said John. "Get the best 
 surgeons in the city to help you. Spare no 
 expense." 
 
 An hour later Murphy was on the operating 
 table with three of the most capable sur 
 geons in Los Angeles working with all their 
 skill and science to hold the flickering life in 
 his body. Not knowing where to find Bren- 
 nan, John telephoned to P. Q. 
 
 "I ll get in touch with the mayor and have 
 
350 SPRING STREET 
 
 him tell Sweeney to put every available detec 
 tive on the case," the city editor said. "Do 
 everything you can for Murphy. Be careful 
 yourself. If the Gink knows what Murphy 
 has done he knows that you and Brennan were 
 with him. He ll not stop at anything. I ll try 
 to find Brennan." 
 
 While Murphy was in the operating room, 
 Chief Sweeney, with a squad . of detectives, 
 appeared at the hospital and questioned John. 
 
 "I ve just talked with the mayor," Sweeney 
 said. "He has told me enough of what has 
 happened to convince me that the Gink s men 
 did this. I m going out now to arrest Cum- 
 mings on suspicion and hold him in jail until 
 we see how Murphy comes out. If he dies, 
 I ll charge Cummings with murder if it s the 
 last tKing I do on earth." 
 
 John noticed as Sweeney and the detectives 
 hurried away that several of them carried 
 sawed-off shotguns. 
 
 A few minutes later they wheeled Murphy 
 out of the operating room on a carrier and 
 placed him on a cot in one of the wards. John 
 approached one of the surgeons, swathed in 
 sterilized clothes and apron. 
 
 "Will he live, doctor?" he asked in trepida 
 tion. 
 
 The surgeon answered without looking up 
 
SPRING STREET 351 
 
 from the rubber gloves he was peeling from 
 his hands. 
 
 "He has a chance," he said. 
 
 "Much of a chance?" John asked. 
 
 "Not much, I m afraid," the surgeon said. 
 "You see, he is weak from the loss of blood 
 and he is hurt internally. His ribs have punc 
 tured his lungs. Only one in a hundred in 
 jured the way he is ever recovers. We ll do 
 everything we can now, but we re almost help 
 less." 
 
 He went to Murphy s bedside. The figure 
 stretched flat on the bed was motionless except 
 for an almost indiscernible trembling of the 
 covering that showed Murphy was still breath 
 ing. The face of the unconscious youth was 
 hidden by bandages. A pungent odor of 
 ether filled the room. As John looked down 
 on the bed, praying that the little flame of life 
 would not be extinguished by the cold breath 
 of death, he became conscious of the fact that 
 someone else had entered and was standing 
 close behind him. Believing it to be a nurse 
 he turned slowly to ask if it was possible that 
 Murphy might regain consciousness after the 
 effects of the anesthetic wore off. He found 
 himself facing the mayor. 
 
 For fully a minute the mayor stood looking 
 down at Murphy. Tears filled his eyes and 
 
352 SPRING STREET 
 
 brimmed over his cheeks. He let them fall un 
 heeded as he lifted his eyes to John. 
 
 "Gallant," he said, "if you don t mind, I m 
 going to pray for the life of this boy." 
 
 John bowed his head. He saw the mayor 
 drop to his knees at the side of the bed so that 
 his forehead touched the covers. 
 
 " Thy will be done, oh, Father," he heard 
 the mayor pray, "but we ask Thee in Thy gentle 
 mercy, to spare us the life of this boy. We ask 
 Thee to hold the life in his poor, battered body; 
 to bring him back to us. We ask it, oh, Lord, 
 in the name of Thy son; Amen." 
 
 The mayor rose to his feet and they walked 
 from the room. 
 
 "I hope you ll tell the people of Los An 
 geles what Murphy saved them from," said 
 the mayor as they separated outside the hospi 
 tal door. "Whether I m re-elected or not I ll 
 not rest until the brutes who beat him are 
 brought to justice. You can tell them that, too." 
 
 Dusk was deepening into night as John en 
 tered the detective bureau at central station, 
 around the corner in First street from the 
 hospital. He found the two detectives who 
 made the first investigation of the case writing 
 out their reports. 
 
 "Three men did it," one of them told him. 
 "They were seen entering and leaving the 
 house. Two big fellows and a small, thin- 
 
SPRING STREET 353 
 
 faced man. No one heard the noise or sus 
 pected that anything was wrong." 
 
 "No identification of the men?" he asked. 
 
 "Not yet," the detective replied. "We un 
 derstand the chief and a bunch of the boys are 
 on the case and may make an arrest before 
 morning. By the way, if you re a friend of 
 Murphy s you d better go down to his room 
 and take charge of his things. There s no 
 lock on the door now, you know, and things 
 are liable to disappear." 
 
 "Thanks for the tip," said John. "I ll at 
 tend to it." 
 
 He went direct to Murphy s room from 
 police headquarters. The room was dark and, 
 scratching a match, he lighted the gas at a jet 
 in the wall. He thought of how rapidly gas 
 illumination in homes had disappeared. He 
 remembered Consuello s father telling him that 
 as late as 1870 there was only one street lamp 
 a gas one in Spring street, although there 
 was agitation among the citizens to have the 
 city council add another light to put "as far 
 south as First street." 
 
 As he inspected the room in the pale light 
 from the gas flame he tried to picture in his 
 mind how Murphy had tried to save himself 
 from the three bruisers. He discovered the 
 stain caused by the spilled whisky, the empty 
 bottle under the bed. Then, suddenly, it 
 
354 SPRING STREET 
 
 flashed into his mind that Murphy might have 
 been beaten to force him to reveal the names 
 of those who were with him. He stopped his 
 work of collecting Murphy s few belongings 
 as this possibility came into his brain. 
 
 Had Murphy told? Beaten and kicked 
 and facing death had he sought mercy by re 
 vealing who had the evidence against Cum- 
 mings and Gibson? Or, had he passed into 
 insensibility keeping it a secret? 
 
 Fie heard footsteps approaching the room. 
 Perhaps it was Sweeney and his detectives 
 coming to inspect the scene of the brutal at 
 tack. It might be Brennan. 
 
 The door swung open and three men en 
 tered the room quickly. John recognized one 
 of them as "Slim" Gray. 
 
 He knew he was face to face with the men 
 who had "got" Murphy. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 T N THE fraction of the second that he stood 
 -* facing "Slim" Gray and the two bruisers, 
 tense and glaring, the cool self-possession he 
 had acquired in his training as a boxer over 
 came his mental confusion. With one quick 
 glance he saw the cold hate gleaming in 
 "Slim s" eyes as he stood with his back flat 
 against the door and noticed that one of the 
 "bashers" wore brass knuckles on his right 
 fist, while the other had pulled a black-jack 
 from his pocket. 
 
 The iron bedstead was between him and 
 the two thugs. As one of them started for 
 ward John stooped and grasped the empty 
 whisky bottle on the floor at his feet. From 
 his crouching position he leaped toward the 
 window, his only avenue of escape. Louie it 
 was he who was armed with the black-jack 
 jumped at him with a curse, his skull-crashing 
 weapon held back to strike a blow. Coolly, with 
 the mental rapidity he had developed as a 
 boxer, John darted toward the bruiser and back. 
 Tricked by the feint, Louie lurched forward 
 with a sweeping blow of the black-jack. The 
 momentum of the swing of his arm drew his 
 head down and with a quick slashing move- 
 
356 SPRING STREET 
 
 ment, like a pugilist chopping with his fist, 
 John crashed the bottle against Louie s temple. 
 
 The bottle shattered and Louie, blood gush 
 ing from the wound, crumpled at his feet, 
 John tossed away the neck of the bottle and 
 barely had time to side-step the onrush of the 
 other thug, who struck viciously at him with 
 the fist armored with the knuckles. As they 
 drew back John was in the position of a boxer, 
 standing lightly on his toes, his left hand ex 
 tended with the shoulder drawn up to pro 
 tect his chin, which rested against his collar 
 bone, his right arm crooked back. The bed 
 was between him and the door, where u Slim" 
 stood. 
 
 The "basher" swung up from the hip with 
 his right arm, aiming for John s face. A 
 man who "leads," or strikes first, with his right 
 hand, is a target for a trained fighter. Ward 
 ing off the blow by lifting his left arm so that 
 it caught the descending fist on the tightened 
 muscles below his elbow, John stepped in 
 with a swift right-cross to his opponent s chin. 
 A sharp pain shot through his clenched fist 
 and he knew he had smashed a knuckle as it 
 crashed against the jawbone. 
 
 His head jerking as he received John s 
 punch, the thug reeled back, throwing up his 
 hand to cover his face. John rushed at him 
 and sank his bruised right fist into his middle. 
 
SPRING STREET 357 
 
 As the fist clouted against his abdomen the 
 bruiser grunted and, doubling over, grabbed 
 John in his arms. John lifted his left arm as 
 they clenched and pushed his elbow against 
 the other s throat. Pulling himself out of the 
 clinch as the "basher s" hold weakened when the 
 elbow pressed against his neck, John whirled 
 and stopped with his back against the wall. 
 He danced lightly from side to side to confuse 
 the thug, who stood panting before him. 
 
 Louie, only stunned by the blow with the 
 bottle, pulled himself to his hands and knees. 
 John saw that his face was smeared crimson 
 from the cut on his head. Realizing that the 
 "basher" in front of him was "stalling" for 
 time, waiting until Louie was on his feet again 
 John darted to one side and seized a chair, 
 swinging it up over his shoulder. His hand 
 with its broken knuckle was puffed and painful 
 and it hurt to bend the fingers to grasp the chair. 
 
 Louie was on his feet, poised for a leap. 
 John threw the chair at the "basher" before him 
 and dashed to the other side of the room. 
 
 "I ll get him, Joe," Louie gasped, wiping the 
 blood from his eyes and taking a firmer grip on 
 the black-jack. As Louie rushed at him John 
 seized the heavy water pitcher on a table near 
 him and hurled it. With a snarl on his lips, 
 Louie ducked and the pitcher broke against the 
 wall behind him. Louie was smarter than Joe 
 
358 SPRING STREET 
 
 had been. He "led" with his left hand and as 
 the blow was warded off he swung the black 
 jack with his right. John jerked back his head, 
 but the club grazed his cheek, tearing open the 
 flesh. Before he could recover, Joe s brass 
 knuckles crashed against his forehead, opening 
 another cut. 
 
 John wabbled to his feet. His brain was 
 numbed and he was blinded by the blood from 
 the laceration over his eyes. Feebly he lifted 
 his arms to protect his head. Joe pulled his 
 arms down from his face and Louie drew back 
 his black-jack for the knockout blow. As he 
 was about to strike, John, with the last flicker 
 ing move of instinctive self-protection, sank to 
 the floor. With a curse, Louie lifted his foot to 
 kick the prone figure beneath him. 
 
 John nerved himself for the blow that was to 
 knock him insensible. He knew it was the end. 
 He heard a scuffle of feet and dimly, through 
 the blood from his wounds he saw Louie and 
 Joe step back from him. He shut his eyes. 
 They were going to kick him to death. If he 
 could only but why didn t they move? Why 
 didn t they kick him? What were they waiting 
 for? 
 
 Unable to believe his eyes, he saw the legs 
 of Louie and Joe take backward steps until they 
 were back against the wall. Did they think he 
 was "out"? Were they leaving him for dead? 
 
SPRING STREET 359 
 
 Fascinated, he stared at the legs of the bruisers 
 and then he heard a voice, a voice he recognized. 
 
 "Keep em up," the voice commanded, coldly, 
 evenly, "Keep em up. The first one of you 
 that tries moving gets it, understand?" 
 
 Slowly John lifted his head. It ached split- 
 tingly and lolled heavily on his shoulders. 
 Weakly he pressed his hand against his cut 
 forehead, stopping the blood from dripping 
 over his eyes. Blinking to clear his vision he 
 looked around the room. 
 
 In the doorway stood Brennan, a .45 caliber 
 army model automatic in his hand; a very dif 
 ferent Brennan from the reporter John knew. 
 A Brennan with eyes as cold as the steel of the 
 gun he gripped; a Brennan with an unwavering 
 hand and a steady voice; a Brennan like the 
 hero of the stories he told of brave men leading 
 forlorn-hope charges. Good old Brennan ! He 
 had them, all right. Good old Brennan ! 
 
 With their backs to the wall, their hands 
 high above their heads, stood "Slim" Gray, 
 Louie and Joe, ghastly pale, staring as if they 
 were hypnotized at the pistol that pointed 
 toward them. 
 
 "Drop that sap !" Brennan snapped. 
 
 The black-jack fell from Louie s upraised 
 hand, bouncing as it hit his shoulder and 
 dropped to the floor. 
 
 "How badly are you hurt, Gallant?" Brennan 
 
360 SPRING STREET 
 
 asked, without looking away from his three 
 prisoners. 
 
 "I m I m all right," John replied, strug 
 gling to his feet. "Good old Brennan," he 
 added, essaying a smile. 
 
 "Good old nothing," said Brennan. "Wrap 
 a towel around that head of yours and if you 
 think you can make it, get downstairs to a 
 phone. Get Sweeney; he s back at central 
 station now." 
 
 John staunched the flow of blood with a 
 towel and, faint from the reflex action of the 
 blows he had endured, walked falteringly out 
 of the room. At the door Brennan stepped 
 to one side to allow him to pass, but never took 
 his eyes from the three men with their hands 
 above their heads. 
 
 The clerk at the corner cigar store gaped 
 when John, the crimson stained towel swathed 
 about his head, walked in to the telephone. 
 In less than a minute he had Chief Sweeney on 
 the wire. 
 
 "Chief, this is Gallant John Gallant," he 
 said. 
 
 "Yes, what is it?" 
 
 "We ve got the men who beat up Murphy." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "In Murphy s room. Brennan is covering 
 three of them with a gun now. Come as fast 
 as you can." 
 
SPRING STREET 361 
 
 His strength returning gradually, John 
 walked a little more steadily as he hurried back 
 to the room. Brennan and his prisoners were 
 in the same positions as when he left them. 
 
 "You re lucky I didn t kill you as soon as I 
 came in," he heard Brennan say to the three 
 against the wall. "If Gallant had been out I 
 would have killed you. It s a good long stretch 
 in San Quentin or the rope for all of you if 
 Murphy dies." 
 
 "Slim" and his two bruisers glared at their 
 captor. 
 
 "I know what you re thinking," Brennan 
 continued. "You re thinking about rushing me. 
 You think I could only get one of you before 
 the other two got me. Each of you would 
 start right now if you were sure you weren t 
 the one I d get. That s what you re thinking 
 and if you weren t all cowards you d come at 
 me. Well, why don t you try it? But before 
 you do, let me show you something. See that 
 picture of Jack Johnson on the wall over 
 there? See how small the head is? Well, 
 watch this." 
 
 With a jerk of his wrist he tossed the gun 
 into the air, caught it by the butt and the roar 
 of a shot shook the room. He had fired a 
 second after the pistol was in his hand. Where 
 Jack Johnson s head had been on the print was 
 a hole about the size of a five-cent piece. 
 
362 SPRING STREET 
 
 "Come on, now, try rushing me," said 
 Brennan, quietly. 
 
 "Slim," Louie and Joe, their eyes returning 
 to Brennan from the hole in the wall, con 
 tinued to stare at him like hypnotized men. 
 
 A white, scared face showed in the door 
 way. It was the proprietor, roused by the 
 pistol shot. He was almost bowled over a 
 few seconds later when Sweeney, with a squad 
 of detectives, all with guns in their hands, 
 burst into the room. 
 
 John saw them snap handcuffs on "Slim" 
 and the two "bashers" and then the room be 
 gan going around and around and the figures 
 before him began floating up and down. There 
 was a roaring sound in his ears and everything 
 went black. His knees sagging, he sank slowly 
 
 to the floor. 
 
 * * * 
 
 He dreamed a dream that was half night 
 mare and half ecstasy before he regained com 
 plete consciousness. 
 
 First he was in a room without doors 
 battling alone against an endless line of alter 
 nate Louies and Joes who vanished when he 
 struck them. Then he was on the floor waiting 
 to be kicked by a pair of legs that had no body 
 and that tormented him by dancing a jig to the 
 rhythm of a sing-song rendition of "Gunga 
 Din." 
 
SPRING STREET 363 
 
 When the bodiless legs disappeared he found 
 himself mingling in an every-day Spring street 
 crowd with a towel turban stained with blood, 
 on his head and wondering why none paid the 
 slightest attention to him or his strange head 
 gear. Alma Sprockett stopped him at a cor 
 ner and begged him not to tell something he 
 knew nothing of, and he promised her he 
 wouldn t tell and went on his way racking his 
 brain to remember what she had said to him. 
 
 A life-size photograph of Consuello came 
 to life, stepped out of its frame in a theater 
 lobby and sailed through a casement window 
 bordered with red geraniums until it reached 
 the top of a hill, marked with a sign board, on 
 which were the words, "Green and Friendly." 
 He sat at her feet on the hilltop and told her 
 all the earth was servant to just the two of 
 them. They were supremely happy sitting 
 there, for days and weeks and years, until a 
 crimson rain fell and a terrible thunder roared. 
 Bolts of lightning crashed all around him and 
 a splinter from one of the bolts was imbedded 
 in his eye and his head began to ache, and 
 then 
 
 He opened his eyes. He was in a bed at 
 the receiving hospital. Putting a hand to his 
 face he felt a bandage over the cut in his 
 cheek, made by Louie s black-jack, and gauze, 
 held in place by strips of adhesive tape, cover- 
 
364 SPRING STREET 
 
 ing the laceration over his eyes made by Joe s 
 brass knuckles. His right hand was in a stiff, 
 straight bandage, the fingers held flat by 
 splints. Brennan and the chief surgeon were 
 standing at his bedside. 
 
 "Hello," he said and his voice sounded far 
 away from him. 
 
 "Hello," said Brennan, "how are you feel 
 ing?" 
 
 "My head aches," he said. 
 
 "You ll be all right," said the surgeon. 
 "You fainted from nervous exhaustion and 
 loss of blood and we brought you down here 
 and fixed you up. You cracked two knuckles 
 of your right hand and you have lacerations 
 that we sutured on your forehead and your 
 cheek. You can get up as soon as you feel 
 strong enough." 
 
 "What time is it?" he asked. 
 
 "It s a little after midnight," Brennan re 
 plied, as the surgeon left the room. 
 
 "Tell me," he asked, "how did it happen 
 that you got there in time to save me?" 
 
 "I telephoned to P. Q. after dinner to tell 
 him that I had Ben Smith s transcript and he 
 told me about Murphy," Brennan explained. 
 "He told me to find you at the receiving hos 
 pital here. When I got here they told me you 
 had gone to the detective bureau and at the 
 bureau I learned that you had gone to Mur- 
 
SPRING STREET 365 
 
 phy s room. I hurried down there and as I 
 got near the door of the room I heard a crash. 
 It must have been when you threw the water 
 pitcher. 
 
 "Luckily I had my gun with me. I drew it 
 and pushed open the door. As soon as they 
 saw me standing there with the gun in my hand 
 they lifted their hands above their heads and 
 started backing up. You know the rest of it." 
 
 "You saved my life," said John. 
 
 "If you re going to start talking like that 
 I ll leave you right now, understand?" said 
 Brennan. 
 
 "What happened after I fainted?" he asked, 
 realizing that Brennan meant what he said. 
 
 "We took Slim and the other two to the 
 University station and locked them up," said 
 Brennan. "That is, Sweeney and his men 
 took them while I brought you here. I had 
 Sweeney take them out to University station 
 because the other reporters would find out 
 about it if we booked them at Central station 
 and our whole story would have been in their 
 hands." 
 
 "There s one thing I can t understand," John 
 said. 
 
 "What s that?" asked Brennan. 
 
 "W"hy didn t Slim or Louie and Joe shoot 
 me when I put up a fight?" he asked. 
 
 "That s easy to explain," said Brennan, 
 
366 SPRING STREET 
 
 "They didn t try shooting because the sound 
 of a shot would have roused the occupants of 
 the house or have been heard by someone on 
 the street. As it is, Slim and the two others 
 have been identified as the men seen leaving the 
 place after Murphy was beaten up." 
 
 "And how is poor Tim?" he asked. 
 
 "There s very little hope for him," Brennan 
 said. "They ve taken him to the Clara Barton 
 hospital and the mayor has employed two more 
 physicians to stay with him and do everything 
 they can for him." 
 
 "Has Sweeney arrested the Gink ?" 
 
 "No, Cummings has disappeared; can t find 
 him anywhere?" 
 
 "What about Gibson?" 
 
 "I don t know," said Brennan. "No one 
 has tried to find him yet. There ll be plenty 
 of time for that after we come out with our 
 blast in the first edition. And that reminds 
 me, P. Q. is at the office now, waiting for me. 
 We ll work the rest of the night and have 
 everything ready to be set in type by seven 
 o clock. I m sorry you won t be able to help us. 
 You had better get some rest so that you ll be 
 strong enough to be on your feet in the morn 
 ing." 
 
 "Will you arrange to get word to my 
 mother that I won t be able to get home?" he 
 asked. "Tell her that I must work all night 
 
SPRING STREET 367 
 
 at the office. Don t give her any hint that I m 
 hurt." 
 
 "I ll arrange it," Brennan assured him, 
 starting toward the door. 
 
 "Just a minute," said John, bringing his un- 
 bandaged hand above the covers. Brennan 
 stopped and, turning, saw the hand extended 
 toward him. 
 
 "I don t care what you say, Brennan," John 
 said, "you ve got to shake hands with me." 
 
 Brennan hesitated and then returned to the 
 bedside, grasping John s hand. For a moment 
 they regarded each other silently. 
 
 "You saved my life, Brennan, and I ll never 
 forget it," said John slowly. "If it had not 
 been for you I would be where Murphy is and 
 you know it." 
 
 "If it had not been for Murphy they would 
 have got both of us," said Brennan. "They 
 went to him to try to find out who we were 
 and I don t believe he told them." 
 
 "How was it they returned to the room 
 when I was there?" John asked. 
 
 "I don t know; they probably spotted you 
 when you found Murphy; but I m willing to 
 stake my life on it that Murphy was game to 
 the last." 
 
 "Brennan," said John, "I m beginning to 
 think you have a little faith in mankind after 
 all." 
 
368 SPRING STREET 
 
 Brennan smiled as he dropped John s hand. 
 
 "Perhaps I have," he said. "Now go to 
 sleep," he added, "because there s a great day 
 ahead of us." He closed the door softly be 
 hind him, leaving John alone with his thoughts. 
 
 And his thoughts were of Consuello. He 
 wondered where she would be during the "great 
 day" before them when she read or learned 
 of the exposure of Gibson s alliance with 
 "Gink" Cummings, of the horrible pommeling 
 given Murphy, of the attack upon himself. 
 What would Gibson say to her? What 
 COULD he say to her? He wished that 
 Gibson would disappear as Brennan had told 
 him Cummings had. If Gibson wanted to be 
 merciful that s what he would do, disappear, 
 leave her to think the worst or the best of him, 
 as she chose. 
 
 Pondering over everything that had occurred 
 since the first day he met him, John con 
 cluded that Gibson s single weakness, his in 
 ability to give up his social position when he 
 found himself stranded financially, had worked 
 his ruin. That love of the "niceness of con 
 ventionality," as Consuello had described it; 
 that irresistible desire to live an easy life 
 when he should have worked to restore his 
 family fortune; had led him into trouble. At 
 the moment when he was "broke," when cir 
 cumstances were such that he would be com- 
 
SPRING STREET 369 
 
 pelled to withdraw as the society man "Gink 11 
 Cummings, scheming to seize control of the 
 city government, had tempted him and he had 
 fallen. He sold himself to the boss of the 
 underworld and became perfidious and a pup 
 pet so that he might have money and fame 
 while it lasted. 
 
 How Gibson suffered by comparison with 
 the example set by Consuello ! When the vast 
 wealth that had once been the Carrillo s dwin 
 dled and only the few acres of land with the 
 old home was left, she went to work and was 
 loved and respected for what she had done. 
 She had not lost caste by her venture into 
 worldly affairs. That was where Gibson had 
 been short-sighted. He had believed that he 
 would lose standing if he was forced to work 
 for a living; so he took the easier way 
 and like all easier ways, it wrought destruction 
 of his morals, his conscience and his reputation. 
 
 From this retrospective philosophizing with 
 the lesson that it taught, John turned to 
 dreaming of Consuello as the one he loved. 
 His imagination, from which he slipped the 
 leash of worry and care, pictured for him glo 
 riously delightful, utterly impossible scenes 
 Consuello and he on a yacht skimming the 
 rolling waves of the ocean off Catalina, lei 
 surely inspecting some "gabled foreign town"; 
 she another Princess Patricia with "silken 
 
370 SPRING STREET 
 
 
 
 gowns" and "jewels for her hair," loving and 
 wedding him, a "commoner" like the real 
 princess husband, despite the frowns of kings 
 and queens, and settling down to rule a Graus- 
 tark-like little kingdom. 
 
 When he awoke the following morning a 
 hospital attendant brought him his suit, cleaned 
 and pressed, with a new shirt and collar which, 
 he learned, had been left for him by Brennan. 
 His head had ceased its aching and after 
 breakfast he could only feel a trace of the 
 weakness that had caused him to faint the 
 night before. 
 
 As he entered the local room of the news 
 paper office P. Q. stopped work to rush toward 
 him and Brennan, looking up from his type 
 writer, emitted a "rousing" cheer. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A LL that day the giant presses roared, turn- 
 ** ing out thousands upon thousands of the 
 newspapers with the story stripping the mask 
 oft Gibson and revealing the nefarious plot be 
 tween him and "Gink" Cummings. All day 
 long delivery trucks piled high with bundles 
 of the papers distributed them to newsboys in 
 the downtown district and throughout the city. 
 Never in the history of Los Angeles had there 
 ever been such a tremenduous single-day issue 
 of a newspaper. 
 
 Under the glaring headlines was Benton s 
 flashlight photograph of Gibson and Cummings 
 emerging from the rear door of the Spring 
 street saloon where their conversation had been 
 overheard by the reporters. The picture was 
 clear enough to enable anyone who knew either 
 of them to recognize them both. On one side 
 of the cut was Brennan s signed and copy 
 righted story of the complete exposure of the 
 alliance between the police commissioner and 
 the underworld boss, a clear, concise, dramatic 
 narrative of every event leading up to the de- 
 noument. On the other side was Ben Smith s 
 stenographic transcript of the conversation be 
 tween the conspirators, with all its tell-tale and 
 condemning elements. 
 
372 SPRING STREET 
 
 Beneath the cut were reproductions of affi 
 davits by John, Brennan, Smith, the mayor, 
 "Big Jim" Hatch and Evelyn Hatch, swearing 
 to the facts contained in Brennan s comprehen 
 sive story that jumped from the first page and 
 filled the second. On pages three and four 
 were photographs of Gibson and the mayor; 
 Brennan and Gallant, his face in bandages; 
 Murphy on his cot at the hospital; Murphy s 
 room; the mayor s automobile with its shat 
 tered windshield; "Gink" Cummings; "Slim" 
 Gray, Joe and Louie and reproductions of 
 their black-jack and brass knuckles. 
 
 There were separate stories dealing in detail 
 with John s experience in Gibson s raid on the 
 Spring street bookmakers; the regulation of the 
 crime wave by Cummings to enable Gibson to 
 add to his false reputation as the feared enemy 
 of crooks; "Big Jim" Hatch s story of how he 
 had been arrested by Gibson because he would 
 not split money he stole in bunko swindles with 
 Cummings; the "beating up" of Murphy and 
 the attack on John; Evelyn Hatch s corrobo- 
 ration of her husband s claims and the pistol 
 shots fired by either Gibson or Cummings, or 
 both, the night they were trapped in the saloon. 
 A strongly-worded editorial branded Gibson as 
 the worst traitor the city had ever known and 
 demanded his immediate retirement as a police 
 commissioner and candidate for mayor. Police 
 
SPRING STREET 373 
 
 detectives it was announced, were searching for 
 Cummings, who would be arrested as soon as 
 he was located, and held for murder if Mur 
 phy died. 
 
 Mr. Phillips, the publisher, called John, 
 Brennan and P. Q. to his private office and 
 after he had commended them for their work 
 they rejoiced together, not only because their 
 paper had frustrated the scheming "Gink" and 
 exposed Gibson, his tool, but because they had 
 "beat" all other papers in the city with the 
 story, acknowledged to be the greatest "scoop" 
 ever scored in Los Angeles. 
 
 A master musician lives for the applause of 
 his audiences; a great discoverer or inventor 
 has his public acclaim; a statesman or public 
 benefactor is rewarded by the voice of the 
 people ; but the gratification of a newspaper 
 man in having accomplished a notable achieve 
 ment for his paper is his only recompense and 
 it is sufficient. 
 
 No medals are pinned on his chest, no roar 
 of applause comes up to him from the multi 
 tudes, but he is satisfied. His glory is his own 
 and he is content. 
 
 Two hours after the first edition was on 
 the streets, the publisher received a hastily ap 
 pointed committee representing the Church 
 Federation, the women s clubs and other or 
 ganizations that had supported and indorsed 
 
374 SPRING STREET 
 
 Gibson as a candidate for mayor. The evi 
 dence, no more than what had been published, 
 was certified to this committee. The Church 
 Federation was the first to act. Unable to 
 locate Gibson to question him personally con 
 cerning the exposure and accepting the evi 
 dence against him as final, the federation au 
 thorized the publication of its withdrawal of 
 indorsement of him as a candidate for mayor 
 and an expression of appreciation of the news 
 paper s work in bringing the truth to light. 
 Similar action by the other organizations that 
 had been deceived by Gibson followed quickly 
 and before night his political strength had melt 
 ed away to nothing. Forgotten eyen was his 
 sensational capture of "Red Mike," now serv 
 ing a life sentence at San Quentin for his 
 attempt to wreck and rob the Southern Pacific 
 "Lark" train. 
 
 Every newspaper reporter in Los Angeles 
 was engaged in the search for Gibson that 
 followed the publication of the exposure of 
 his plot with Cummings. The other papers, 
 anxious to retaliate by obtaining the first 
 statement from Gibson for the blow given them 
 when they were "scooped" combined their 
 forces in a frantic effort to find him before John 
 and Brennan could do so. 
 
 The missing man s office and apartment were 
 closed. His secretary, located after a search 
 
SPRING STREET 375 
 
 of several hours, could give no information 
 concerning his disappearance. The railroad, 
 steamship and automobile bus stations had sold 
 no ticket to anyone answering his description. 
 He seemed to have vanished completely. A 
 theory was advanced that he had fled with 
 "Gink" Cummings and this was gradually ac 
 cepted generally as the hours passed and no 
 trace of him could be found. 
 
 Brennan waited until they were alone before 
 he suggested to John that Consuello might be 
 able to furnish a clew to . Gibson s where 
 abouts. Thoughts of her had been flashing in 
 and out of John s mind during the excitement 
 of the morning. He realized that if anyone 
 knew where Gibson was it would be Consuello, 
 and again he had the disheartening apprehen 
 sion that, faithful to her love, she might be 
 in flight with the man she was to have married. 
 
 "I don t like to speak of it she s probably 
 very much upset by what has happened today 
 but there s only one person who may know 
 where Gibson is," said Brennan, "and that s 
 Miss Carrillo." 
 
 "I d rather do almost anything than face her, 
 today," said John. 
 
 "You mean with your face bandaged up the 
 way it is?" Brennan asked, a twinkle in his 
 eyes. 
 
 "I don t know what she will think of me," 
 
376 SPRING STREET 
 
 John said, ignoring the jest. "She has be 
 lieved in Gibson and she may think that what 
 I have helped to do is a violation of the friend 
 ship between us and that I am an ungrateful 
 and deceitful wretch." 
 
 "Don t you want to see her and explain 
 things to her?" 
 
 "No, not until she sends for me." 
 
 "Suppose she never sends for you what 
 then?" 
 
 "Then I ll know that she never wants to 
 see me and and that will be the end of it, 
 I suppose." 
 
 They were silent for a moment and then, 
 while John was pondering over the thoughts 
 that were in his mind when he had said, "The 
 end of it, I suppose," Brennan without another 
 word, quoted a quatrain from the verse that he 
 had recited while they were waiting to over 
 hear the conversation between Gibson and 
 Cummings : 
 
 "So long as Pleasure calls us up, 
 And duty drives us down, 
 If you love me as I love you, 
 What pair so happy as we two?" 
 
 John glanced up quickly and saw that Bren 
 nan was pretending he just happened to think 
 of the verse and had quoted it with no partic 
 ular intention or reference to the thoughts of 
 either of them. 
 
SPRING STREET 377 
 
 " And duty drives us down, " he repeated, 
 smiling. 
 
 A little later all thoughts of Gibson and the 
 suggestion that Consuello be consulted in the 
 search for him fled from their heads when 
 they were called by telephone and told that 
 Murphy was sinking rapidly and was not ex 
 pected to live many more hours. Together 
 they hurried to the Clara Barton hospital. 
 
 "I wish he could know that the brutes who 
 beat him have been arrested," said Brennan as 
 they turned west into Fifth street from Broad 
 way. "I tried to talk to them, to find out 
 from them what poor Tim said and did before 
 they knocked him out, but they wouldn t an 
 swer. They know what they re up against 
 if he dies and their lawyer has told them to 
 keep their mouths shut. I had the satisfaction 
 of telling them, though, that I d be on hand to 
 write the story when they are hanged and that 
 I was looking forward to the assignment. 
 Slim almost broke down when I said it." 
 
 The mayor, two doctors and a nurse were 
 in the room when they entered. Murphy lay 
 inert on the bed. He had never regained con 
 sciousness, the doctors said, and he was in such 
 a weakened condition that only a miracle be 
 yond the skill of surgery and medicine could 
 save him. The mayor looked at them in si 
 lence as they approached the bed beside which 
 
378 SPRING STREET 
 
 he was seated in a chair. They saw that there 
 were tears in his eyes, tears that he was not 
 ashamed of others seeing. 
 
 For a quarter of an hour they stood at the 
 bedside while one of the doctors frequently 
 felt Murphy s wrist to catch the fluttering 
 pulse. Then a sound came from the bandaged 
 head and the doctor leaned over, putting his 
 ear close to the hidden face. They heard the 
 sound again and realized it was a whisper. 
 
 "He s saying something about the Gallant 
 kid," said the doctor looking up. 
 
 John moved to the head of the bed and, 
 leaning over it, said: 
 
 "Yes, Murphy; I m here." 
 
 The whisper rose a little becoming audible 
 throughout the room. 
 
 "I m croaking I guess ain t I?" it asked. 
 
 "You re all right Tim," John managed to 
 say. 
 
 "I didn t squeal kid they got me I 
 didn t tell em it was you and Brennan." 
 
 "We know you didn t, Murphy." 
 
 "I wanna tell ya something before I go 
 see?" The whisper became fainter. "I wasn t 
 workin for ya for da jack ya gave me - 
 see? I did it cause my old man my old 
 man " The whisper stopped. 
 
 "Yes, Tim." 
 
SPRING STREET 379 
 
 " Cause my old man my old man 
 was was Red Mike, see?" 
 
 A quick intake of breath by Brennan was the 
 only sound that broke the tense silence. 
 
 "So I wasn t no dirty stool pigeon 
 - " The whisper stopped again. Murphy 
 drew his last breath and with it he said his 
 last word : 
 
 The news of Murphy s death was printed in 
 the late editions. His voice shaking with sup 
 pressed emotion, Brennan dictated the brief 
 announcement of the passing of the twisted- 
 nose youth by telephone to the office. 
 
 "Tim Murphy, who was brutally beaten by 
 Gink Cummings thugs yesterday, died at the 
 Clara Barton hospital as a result of his in 
 juries late today," Brennan said over the phone. 
 At the other end of the wire a reporter was 
 taking the dictation on a typewriter. "Before 
 he died Murphy regained consciousness long 
 enough to disclose that he was the son of Red 
 Mike, now serving a life sentence for having 
 attempted to wreck the Southern Pacific Lark. 
 It was because he believed his father had been 
 the victim of former Police Commissioner 
 Gibsons lust for glory, he said, that he aided 
 in disclosing Gibson s plot with Cummings to 
 seize control of the city government. His 
 
380 SPRING STREET 
 
 death means that Slim Gray, Cummings 
 right-hand man, and his two strong-arm men 
 now under arrest, will be charged with murder 
 and that a murder complaint will be issued 
 against Cummings." 
 
 They were silent as they wove their way 
 through the hurrying streams of men and 
 women in Fifth street homeward bound after 
 the work of the day in downtown stores and 
 offices. On the corners newsboys were still 
 selling editions of their paper with the expo 
 sure of the Gibson-Cummings plot as fast as 
 they could hand them out. They saw several 
 men stop where they had bought the paper and 
 stand, jostled by the crowd, reading the story 
 absorbedly, apparently amazed by what was 
 on the printed page beneath their eyes. 
 
 From the corner of Fifth and Broadway, 
 where he left Brennan waiting for a street car, 
 John went to the receiving hospital to have the 
 wounds on his face and his maimed hand 
 dressed again before he started home. The 
 gauze bandages on his forehead and cheek 
 were replaced with strips of medicated plaster 
 which were less conspicuous, but it would be 
 more than two weeks, the hospital surgeon told 
 him, before the splints could be removed from 
 his hand. 
 
 His mother was at the door to meet him 
 w r hen he arrived home. Her face paled as she 
 
SPRING STREET 381 
 
 saw the plaster hiding the cuts on his cheek 
 and forehead and the bandage on his hand. 
 He took her in his arms quickly. 
 
 "I m all right, mother, dearest," he said. 
 "Don t worry, I m all right." 
 
 "My boy, my boy! Why didn t you let me 
 know you were hurt?" 
 
 "There, there, mother," he said, softly pat 
 ting her with his uninjured hand. "It s noth 
 ing to worry about. I ve only a couple of 
 scratches on my face and my hand is hurt a 
 little." 
 
 He led her into the living room and, seating 
 her in a rocking chair, he dropped to his knees 
 at her feet, as he had in the grief and despair 
 that stunned him when his father died. With 
 caresses and soft words of assurance he soothed 
 her until her dismay left her. At dinner, 
 which had been waiting for him, he told her 
 everything that had occurred since he left her 
 twenty-four hours past. At the end of his 
 story he explained to her what it would all 
 mean to him. 
 
 "The chief, that is Mr. Phillips, our pub 
 lisher, has promised me a contract at double 
 what I m getting now," he told her. "And, 
 besides, he says Brennan and I are entitled to a 
 bonus for what we ve done. It means, mother, 
 dearest, that I ve made good; that I ve arrived 
 as a newspaper man." 
 
382 SPRING STREET 
 
 "You know how proud I am of you, John," 
 Mrs. Gallant said. "I never imagined that 
 newspaper work was so strenuous. I thought 
 a reporter s work was writing news instead of 
 making it." 
 
 "Newspapers, I have learned, mother, are 
 vigilant guards of the interests of the people," 
 he said. "It is a newspaper s duty to inform 
 the public of what occurs and to prevent as 
 well as condemn wrong. Mr. Phillips told us 
 that the unmasking of Gibson was newspaper 
 enterprise by which the city as well as the paper 
 benefited. Thousands of things not as con 
 spicuous as this are done every year by a news 
 paper and its reporters and editors. 
 
 "Without publicity wrong would go unde 
 tected and unpunished. Think of v/hat would 
 have happened if Gibson had been elected 
 mayor of Los Angeles. For at least four years 
 Gink Cummings would have ruled the city and 
 you can imagine what that would have meant." 
 
 They were about to leave the supper table 
 when Mrs. Sprockett, weeping hysterically, 
 appeared in a state of excitement that alarmed 
 them. Wringing her hands, sobbing distract 
 edly, she flung herself into a chair and moaned 
 in such a way that Mrs. Gallant hurried to her 
 side anxiously. 
 
 "My Alma! My Alma! My girl!" Mrs. 
 Sprockett wept. 
 
SPRING STREET 383 
 
 "What is it? Tell us. Can we help?" 
 asked Mrs. Gallant while John had a momen 
 tary apprehension that Mrs. Sprockett s condi 
 tion might be the result of a discovery that her 
 daughter had visited the corner motion picture 
 theater surreptitiously. 
 
 "She s gone," Mrs. Sprockett gasped. 
 
 "Gone?" Mrs. Gallant exclaimed. 
 
 "Gone," Mrs. Sprockett repeated, and then, 
 with a sob of despair, she added, "Kidnaped!" 
 
 "You mean she has disappeared?" asked 
 John, feeling that her fear that Alma had been 
 abducted might be far-fetched. 
 
 "She has been gone since morning," contin 
 ued Mrs. Sprockett, a little calmed by the 
 sound of a masculine voice. "Ever since morn 
 ing. Someone has stolen her. Oh, my little 
 girl; someone has stolen her. What shall 1 
 do? What shall I do?" 
 
 "Try to calm yourself," urged Mrs. Gallant. 
 "She will probably return before long." 
 
 "She left no note? Gave no warning?" 
 John asked. "She may have run away of her 
 own accord, you know," he added. 
 
 Mrs. Sprockett stopped her sobbing and sat 
 upright in her chair. Indignation blazed in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "How dare you, sir? How dare you?" she 
 demanded, furiously. "How dare you stand 
 there and tell me that my Alma left me of her 
 
384 SPRING STREET 
 
 own free will? My Alma leave her mother 
 who loves her so? My Alma run away like 
 some common scamp? I didn t come here to 
 be insulted like that, sir!" 
 
 A look from his mother caused John to 
 repress an inclination to ask her to tell him 
 really why she came to them. 
 
 "I m sorry," he apologized. "I didn t mean 
 to insinuate " 
 
 "You did! You did! You stood up there 
 and told me that my little girl who loves her 
 mother ran away from home," Mrs. Sprockett 
 cried, irrationally. "That s what you did ! You 
 stood up there " 
 
 "I m sorry," interrupted John, moving from 
 the room to avoid the outburst. 
 
 He stepped out on the porch and found 
 Mrs. Sprockett s husband, coatless and collar- 
 less as usual, with the same weary look about 
 his eyes and the same hopeless droop of his 
 narrow, rounded shoulders, mounting the steps. 
 Across the street, in the Sprockett home, the 
 baby wailed and fretted. 
 
 "Beg pardon," began Mrs. Sprockett s hus 
 band. "I just thought " 
 
 "Yes, she s inside," said John, anticipating 
 the inevitable question. 
 
 Instead of moving on into the house Mrs. 
 Sprockett s husband stood where he had 
 stopped. 
 
SPRING STREET 385 
 
 "Our Alma " he began. 
 
 "If you want my advice," said John, inter 
 rupting again, "I would wait until morning if 
 I were you and then ask the police to help you 
 find her." 
 
 No storm of protest came from Mrs. 
 Sprocket s husband. The instinctive fraternal- 
 ism of man between man caused him to signal, 
 with a nod of his head, for John to come 
 closer to him. With frequent apprehensive 
 glances toward the door, he whispered : 
 
 "Alma s not a bad girl, but she s been held 
 down too much. She s only sixteen and she 
 likes pretty things and picture shows and other 
 things a girl of her age likes naturally. It 
 wouldn t surprise me a bit if she s just picked 
 up and left to go to work some place and have 
 a little more freedom. She s not a bad girl, 
 she s she s just a girl, that s all, and she 
 wants to do what other girls do. But, of 
 course, I want her back." 
 
 John s sympathy swept away the anger that 
 had surged through him when Mrs. Sprockett 
 became irate. 
 
 "I think you re right," he said, remembering 
 how Alma had begged him to refrain from tell 
 ing anyone that he had seen her leaving the 
 picture show. 
 
 "Don t say a word about what I ve said to 
 you, will you?" asked Mrs. Sprockett s hus- 
 
386 SPRING STREET 
 
 band, involuntarily shrinking away from the 
 steps. 
 
 "Never fear," John assured him, "and if I 
 can help, let me know." 
 
 "Thanks, I will, but Maud well you 
 know how it is you know sometimes," said 
 Mrs. Sprockett s husband. 
 
 "I know," said John, and Sprockett hurried 
 back across the street. A few minutes later 
 the baby s wailing stopped. Mrs. Sprockett s 
 husband appeared on the porch of the Sprock 
 ett house with a bundle of blankets in his arms 
 and pacing back and forth, whistled a familiar 
 tune as a lullaby. John listened and distin 
 guished the notes of the father s whistling and 
 smiled to himself as he recognized it as an off- 
 key variation of "The Merry Widow Waltz." 
 
 Mrs. Sprockett, still sobbing, and Mrs. Gal 
 lant, with her arm around her, emerged from 
 the house. 
 
 "I m going to keep Mrs. Sprockett company 
 until she can rest," Mrs. Gallant explained. 
 
 John watched them cross the street and 
 saw the door close behind them. Soon the 
 whistling ceased and Sprockett and the baby 
 went inside. 
 
 For half an hour John lolled on the porch, 
 pondering over Alma s disappearance, the 
 abjectedness of Mrs. Sprockett s husband and 
 the spectacle of Mrs. Sprockett s wilfulness. 
 
SPRING STREET 387 
 
 Had Mr. and Mrs. Sprockett ever, ever been 
 deeply in love, exulting in the happiness before 
 them in married life? How miserable it was 
 that Sprockett had to whisper to him u not to 
 tell," exactly as Alma had? 
 
 He found his thoughts distressful and was 
 about to rise, planning an hour with his books 
 before going to sleep, when an automobile 
 he knew by the outline it was a taxicab 
 stopped before the house. The driver opened 
 the door and a figure stepped out, hurrying up 
 toward him. 
 
 As he came to his feet he saw that it was a 
 girl who was approaching him. 
 
 u Mr. Gallant?" a familiar voice asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The figure came closer to him and he saw 
 that it was Consuello s friend and companion, 
 Betty. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 A BASHED by Betty s unexpected appear- 
 * * ance at his home and with a sudden fear 
 that something had happened to Consuello pos 
 sessing him, John waited for her to speak. He 
 noticed that she had not dismissed the cab that 
 waited at the curb. 
 
 "Can you come with me immediately?" she 
 asked, quickly. "I want you to see Consuello, 
 tonight." 
 
 "Did she send you for me?" he entreated. 
 
 "No, but I know that she wants you," she 
 replied. 
 
 "Are you sure?" he persisted. 
 
 "Don t be a foolish boy," she said, with a 
 gesture of impatience. "No one in the world 
 knows Consuello as well as I do. I am doing 
 this for her. Do you think for a moment that 
 I would be here if I wasn t certain I was doing 
 the proper thing?" 
 
 "I know she trusts you," he said, reassured 
 by her mild vexation. 
 
 "Hurry, then; I ll explain things while we re 
 on our way. I ll wait for you in the cab," she 
 said. 
 
 Mrs. Sprockett s husband answered the door 
 when he crossed the street to the Sprockett 
 
SPRING STREET 389 
 
 home to tell his mother he had been called 
 away. 
 
 "Tell mother that I m going to see a friend 
 and that I ll be home before it is late," he 
 said. "Tell her there s no need to worry about 
 
 me." 
 
 "Just a minute and I ll call her," Mrs. 
 Sprockett s husband suggested. 
 
 "No, just give her my message," he said, 
 apprehensive of the probable consequences of 
 telling his mother that it was Consuello he was 
 going to meet. 
 
 As the cab started away from the curb he 
 turned to Betty with the question that, in his 
 mind, had been begging for an answer from 
 the moment he recognized her. 
 
 "How is she?" he asked, his voice betraying 
 his anxiety. 
 
 "She is very brave," Betty said, earnestly. 
 
 "Perhaps I should not ask you this, but has 
 she seen Gibson?" So much, he felt, depend 
 ed on her reply to this question. If Consuello 
 had already talked with Gibson and Betty 
 divined that she wanted to see him, then 
 
 "Perhaps I should not tell you, but she 
 has talked to him. That s as much as I will 
 tell you. The rest must come from her," 
 Betty replied. 
 
 She had talked with Gibson and yet she 
 wanted to see him ! Or, could Betty be mis- 
 
390 SPRING STREET 
 
 taken? Had she interpreted Consuello s mood 
 erroneously in coming for him? 
 
 "Forgive me for my doubtfulness," he said, 
 "but are you certain that she wants to see me?" 
 
 A shade of exasperation crossed Betty s face. 
 
 "You said a moment ago that you knew 
 Consuello trusted me," she said. "If she trusts 
 me, then why can t you?" 
 
 Reassured by this pertinent counter question 
 he deduced that Betty, with the welfare of Con 
 suello at heart, had concluded that he might be 
 able to furnish the solace her companion needed 
 in her hour of trial. The ecstasy that had 
 thrilled him when he first realized that he 
 loved Consuello returned to him as the cab 
 sped through the streets. She knew now why 
 he had beseeched her to think of him as doing 
 what he thought was right. And she had kept 
 her promise ! A glance through the window 
 of the cab at a lighted corner told him that 
 they were nearing their destination. 
 
 "I m going to leave you alone with her," 
 Betty said, with the frankness that she had 
 displayed when they first met. "I need not ask 
 you to be very considerate, to do everything 
 you can to comfort her. In my heart I feel 
 that what has happened is all for the best. 
 How dreadful it would have been if she had 
 been compelled to make this discovery for her 
 self after they were married. 
 
SPRING STREET 391 
 
 "I told her that I would be away until late; 
 that I was busy. We ll stop at the corner to 
 let you out, because she knows that I took a 
 cab when I left and she might suspect that I 
 went for you. Here we are." 
 
 She called to the driver to stop. 
 
 "It was kind of you " he began as he 
 
 stood at the cab door after alighting. She 
 stopped him with a gesture of her hand. Then, 
 leaning forward a little, her eyes dancing with 
 a smile, she said: 
 
 "Don t you know that I know you love her?" 
 
 The door closed quickly and the cab spurted 
 away from the curb, leaving him standing 
 bewildered and yet overjoyed by the audacious 
 words she had spoken. So that was why she 
 had called him to Consuello ! If Betty knew 
 it, then Consuello, too, must realize that he 
 loved her. The thought frightened him. It 
 had never occurred to him before that she 
 might know. Somehow, he had not dared to 
 imagine that she cared enough even to guess 
 that he loved her. 
 
 He went slowly to the opening in the hedge 
 of boxwood that lined the sidewalk in front of 
 Consuello s artistic little dream home and 
 turned into the pathway between the patches 
 of rosebushes. A heavy fragrance from the 
 blossoms filled the still night air. As he 
 stepped on to the porch and reached for the 
 
392 SPRING STREET 
 
 knocker with his left hand he recalled suddenly 
 that his face bore strips of plaster over his 
 wounds and that his right hand was held rigid 
 in splints. The hesitancy that this recollection 
 gave forsook him when he remembered that 
 Betty had made no comment on his appearance, 
 probably because she had seen the photograph 
 of him that had been published in the paper. 
 Emboldened he rapped with the knocker. 
 
 She wore the same simple white frock that 
 he had admired when they first met. For a 
 moment she stood with her hand on the knob 
 of the door, the look of surprise in her eyes 
 fading to an expression of mingled pleasure 
 and perplexity. 
 
 "Come in," she invited. 
 
 He saw that a tender light, the softness of 
 sympathy, came into her eyes when she noticed 
 the plasters on his forehead and cheek. Then, 
 when she extended her hand to him and he 
 stood awkwardly unable to take it without first 
 disposing of the hat he held, she apologized 
 for her forgetfulness. 
 
 "I m sorry," she said, quickly compassionate. 
 
 "It s nothing," he said. "Only a scratch or 
 two, that s all." 
 
 They crossed to the fireplace, where she took 
 a chair near the rose shaded table lamp, the 
 only illumination in the room. He sat oppo- 
 
SPRING STREET 393 
 
 site her, his back toward the door, waiting for 
 her to speak. 
 
 "I was thinking of you when you rapped on 
 the door," she said. "I was alone beside my 
 window looking out toward my hill. The 
 darkness of the night prevented me from seeing 
 it, but I knew it was there. Though I could 
 not see it, I looked to it for comfort." 
 
 "It won t be hidden from you long," he said. 
 "When the morning comes it will be there and 
 the darkness will be gone." 
 
 "When the morning comes," she said, softly, 
 "there ll be sunshine and flowers and birds 
 and happiness. But it is there for me now, 
 steadfast, loyal, abiding. I know now why I 
 love the hills more than the ocean. They are 
 so fixed, so permanent; unchanging, unmoving; 
 while the ocean storms and calms, thunders and 
 ripples, lures you to its depths and drowns 
 you." 
 
 John knew the inner meaning of her words. 
 Sincerity and deceit. Trustworthiness and 
 treachery. Genuineness and make-believe. 
 
 "Was it difficult for you to keep your prom 
 ise?" he asked, breaking the silence that had 
 followed after she had spoken. 
 
 "To understand that you did what you 
 thought was right?" she inquired. He nodded. 
 
 "No," she said, "I never doubted that. But 
 
394 SPRING STREET 
 
 I was never really put to the test. My decision 
 was made before I thought of what I had 
 promised you." 
 
 She paused and then, lifting her eyes to meet 
 his, she continued: 
 
 u You see, I believe there is only one real 
 love between a man and a woman and that is 
 the love that endures all things. I have always 
 thought and I still do that a woman who 
 sincerely loves a man will stay by his side even 
 if the whole world is against him. Unless a 
 woman can do that willingly, gladly, I do not 
 believe that it is real love. 
 
 "He came .here early Sunday morning and 
 asked me to go away with him. I could not 
 understand and he did not explain. He simply 
 said that something had happened that would 
 prevent him from ever becoming mayor of Los 
 Angeles and that he was going away, never to 
 return. 
 
 1 If you love me, you will come with me, 
 he said. I was bewildered, of course, but I 
 knew that he was right. It was the test, a test 
 far greater than I had ever dreamed would 
 come to me. 
 
 "I asked him why it was that he should be 
 compelled to leave the city. He assured me 
 that he had committed no crime. He was very 
 earnest as he spoke and so serious that I knew 
 something terrible had happened. He declared 
 
SPRING STREET 395 
 
 again and again that he loved me and that if 
 I loved him I would go with him and ask no 
 questions. It was all so overwhelming that I 
 begged him to leave me, to let me decide alone. 
 
 " I will let you know, tonight, I told him. 
 Unless you hear from me you will know that 
 I have decided I cannot do what you have 
 asked me. 
 
 "Soon after he was gone I realized that 
 that I did not love him with the one great love. 
 I knew that I didn t because I had not thrown 
 myself into his arms and told him, as Ruth 
 told Naomi, Tor whither thou goest I will go; 
 and where thou lodgest I will lodge. 
 
 "I need not tell you in details of how bewil 
 dered I was by his strange request and what I 
 went through when I found that I did not 
 really love him. Of course, I tried to imagine 
 what had occurred that caused him to ask me 
 to leave everything and go away with him. 
 Whatever it was, I felt it was cowardly of him 
 to leave unless it was all his own fault. 
 
 "So he did not hear from me last night and 
 this morning I read of what he stands accused. 
 But I was prepared. I had chosen my course 
 and what I read only made me certain that I 
 was right; that I did not truly love him, never 
 had and never could. I pitied his weakness. 
 I could see how he had gone astray. You see, 
 I have often wondered how it was he had 
 
396 SPRING STREET 
 
 money so suddenly after everything he once 
 had had gone from him. The source of his 
 wealth was always a mystery to me." 
 
 She paused and looking toward the casement 
 window with its red geraniums, she added, 
 softly: "That is my story. That is what has 
 happened." 
 
 In the silence that followed they were both 
 startled to hear footsteps on the porch outside. 
 Consuello looked toward him, quickly, with an 
 expression that warned him. The door swung 
 open and Gibson stepped in, closing it behind 
 him. 
 
 "I thought I d find you here," he said. 
 
 His face was pale and a smile that was half 
 a sneer was on his lips as he stood looking at 
 them. John was on his feet facing him and a 
 glance showed that Consuello had also risen 
 from her chair at Gibson s unexpected entrance. 
 
 "The girl who said that she loved me and 
 the man who pretended he was my friend," 
 said Gibson, sarcastically. 
 
 John s muscles tightened and he bit his lip 
 to restrain the words of warning to Gibson that 
 he was about to speak. 
 
 "If you have come here to " he heard 
 
 Consuello say, coolly, evenly. 
 
 "I came here to say good-by to you," Gibson 
 interrupted, "and to make certain that there 
 had not been some mistake. I thought you 
 
SPRING STREET 397 
 
 might have tried to reach me last night and 
 failed, or that you might have changed your 
 mind." He paused a moment before adding, 
 "But I know better now." 
 
 u You should have known last night," Con- 
 suello said. u You should have known that if 
 I had decided to do what you asked me I 
 would have come to you, found you wherever 
 you were." 
 
 "I should have known months ago, if I had 
 not been such a blind fool," said Gibson 
 bitterly. 
 
 "You were a blind fool," said Consuello, 
 "but not as I suspect you think. You were 
 blinded by your own selfish indolence. You 
 said a moment ago that I told you I loved you. 
 I did tell you that and I thought that I meant 
 it, but when I found that I could not go with 
 you as you asked I knew I had been mistaken. 
 You must remember that I decided against you 
 before I knew the reason you wanted me to 
 leave." 
 
 The half-sarcastic smile curled Gibson s lips. 
 
 "Then you ll admit that something else 
 someone else, perhaps " he said. 
 
 "I saw no one, except Betty, from the time 
 you left until Mr. Gallant came this evening," 
 Consuello said. "I m thankful that I was able 
 to decide before I read what was in the paper 
 today. Reggie, how often have I told you my 
 
398 SPRING STREET 
 
 conception of love. Don t you know that if I 
 cared for you nothing would have kept me 
 from you ? I cannot tell you why it was ; I can 
 only tell you how. I knew as soon as I real 
 ized that I had refused to go with you blindly 
 that it was not love, the real love, that I had 
 in my heart for you." 
 
 "And suppose I had not asked you to go 
 away with me ? Suppose I came to you tonight 
 and asked you to stand by me, right here in 
 Los Angeles?" 
 
 "It would have been the same," Consuello 
 replied quietly. "I would have given you the 
 
 same answer." 
 
 As she spoke Gibson gazed at her intently 
 and the anger that had smouldered in his eyes 
 disappeared and he forced a smile to his lips 
 as he turned toward John. 
 
 "Gallant," he said, "I saw 7 you take terrible 
 punishment one night and stagger to your feet 
 until you were knocked senseless. I admired 
 you that night, Gallant; I envied your courage. 
 When Charlie Murray made his little talk I 
 think I was the first to respond. If you found 
 a $50 bill in what Charlie turned over to you, 
 you know now who tossed it into the ring." 
 He paused, looked to the floor and then back 
 into John s face. 
 
 "Tonight you have watched me take my pun- 
 
SPRING STREET 399 
 
 ishment," he continued. "I stood on my feet 
 and cheered when you came back into the ring 
 and when you left. I don t want pity or sym 
 pathy, but I want you to have a cheer in your 
 heart for me when I go." 
 
 Gibson s change from sarcasm and bitterness 
 to a show of manliness relieved the tenseness 
 of the situation. Consuello sank into a chair 
 and gazing into the fireplace, where flames had 
 once sparkled as bright as her romance with 
 Gibson and now only cold ashes remained, left 
 the two men facing each other. 
 
 "No one has ever doubted your courage," 
 John said. 
 
 "I hope you do not think that I had any 
 thing to do with the death of Murphy or the 
 attack upon yourself," said Gibson. "If I had 
 known what -they were going to do I would 
 have died fighting them. I took Cummings 
 gun from him when he fired at you and the 
 others in the automobile. From that minute 
 I have neither seen nor heard from him. If I 
 ever run across him I ll bring him back and 
 surrender him to the district attorney. That 
 is the way I hope to win condonement for what 
 I ve done. That is where I m going when I 
 leave here tonight, to search for him, to the 
 ends of the earth if it is necessary." 
 
 "If ever, while you re away, you need help, 
 
400 SPRING STREET 
 
 
 
 let me know," John said, with an impulsive 
 desire to take Gibson s hand. But he stood 
 still, waiting for the other to continue. 
 
 "When I came here tonight and found you 
 two together I said things that I m sorry ever 
 escaped my lips," said Gibson. "I was a cad 
 and no matter what you may think of me for 
 the other things I ve done, I want you to 
 forgive me both of you for that alone." 
 
 Their silence assured him that they were 
 anxious to forget his display of bitterness. 
 
 "Will you do me this favor, Gallant?" he 
 continued. "Will you publish tomorrow that you 
 have seen me and that I ve started search for 
 Cummings and won t return to Los Angeles 
 until I bring him back with me? Just that 
 much and no more." 
 
 "That much and no more," John promised. 
 
 Then Gibson turned toward Consuello. She 
 had bowed her head in her hand. He hesi 
 tated a moment and then walked slowly to the 
 side of her chair. 
 
 "Good-by, Conny," he said. 
 
 She looked up at him, tears brimming in her 
 eyes, her under lip caught between her teeth. 
 He tried to force a smile to his lips, but it 
 balked. 
 
 "Good-by," she said, and her voice trembled. 
 
 He turned away quickly, as if he felt he 
 could not trust himself to be at her side a 
 
SPRING STREET 401 
 
 second longer. He stopped again, facing 
 John. 
 
 "Just one thing more, Gallant," he said. 
 
 "Yes," said John, his voice queerly out of 
 pitch. 
 
 Gibson looked him straight in the eyes. 
 
 "You love her, don t you?" he asked. 
 
 Unable to speak what was in his heart, John 
 stood silent. He moistened his lips with his 
 tongue and wondered why it was he could not 
 shout back his answer. Flustered by the bold 
 ness of the question put to him so directly, a 
 thought flashed into his mind of Betty s frank 
 declaration that she knew he loved Consuello. 
 Then he discovered the reason why his mother 
 had been so perturbed by his frequent meetings 
 with her. She, too, undoubtedly knew he was 
 in love ! 
 
 While these thoughts were racing through 
 his head, Gibson put his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "You need not answer, Gallant," he said, 
 "because your silence is enough. Regardless 
 of how incongruous it seems in view of the 
 great wrong I have done her, I love her, too. 
 And, because I love her I can tell that you do. 
 I can see it by the way you speak to her, the way 
 you look at her and unless I am greatly mis 
 taken she knows it as well as you and I do." 
 
 He grasped John s left hand in his own. 
 
 "Take care of her, Gallant; love her and 
 
402 SPRING STREET 
 
 try to make her happy," he said. He turned 
 and walked to the door, leaving John speech 
 less and motionless, staring after him. At the 
 threshold he wheeled to face them again. 
 
 "Exit, the villain," he said slowly and smil 
 ing. 
 
 The door closed behind him and his foot 
 steps, taking him steadily, not too fast, not too 
 slowly, from the house, diminished until the 
 only sound audible in the room was the ticking 
 of the clock on the mantel of the fireplace. 
 
 John, his back toward Consuello, his eyes on 
 the door, wondering whether it was all a 
 dream, a cheer in his heart for the man who 
 had left them so dramatically, feared to move. 
 
 "Exit, the villain" Gibson s last words 
 echoed in his brain. 
 
 He imagined he heard Brennan saying: "A 
 grandstander, a grandstander to the last." 
 
 When he finally turned around, Consuello 
 was standing by the open casement window, 
 looking out into the night, her fingers touching 
 the petals of the geraniums on the sill, in the 
 same position in which she had stood when she 
 had recited to him the little verse with its 
 simple, homely philosophy. 
 
 He moved to her side, marveling at her 
 unaffected beauty. 
 
 Looking out of the window he saw that the 
 moon, which had been hidden by the clouds an 
 
SPRING STREET 403 
 
 hour before, had crested her "green and 
 friendly hill" with an outline of silvery-blue. 
 
 Something in her pose that suggested to him 
 that she was waiting for him to speak gave 
 him the courage. Yet he was afraid to look 
 at her as he spoke, afraid to see what effect 
 his words had upon her. 
 
 "I do love you," he said. 
 
 That little gasp as she caught her breath, 
 what did it mean? Still unable to face her, he 
 continued : 
 
 "He knew it; Betty knows it; mother knows 
 it and I want the whole world to know it I 
 love you." He could say no more. 
 
 Gently, caressingly, her small white fingers 
 touched his unbandaged hand. Tremulously 
 he turned his head and saw her answer in her 
 eyes and slowly, almost reverently, he lifted 
 her hand to his lips. A mocking bird broke 
 into joyous song in a tree outside, a golden 
 flood of music to mock the silent song in his 
 
 heart. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Lights were shining through the curtains 
 on the windows of the Sprockett house and his 
 mother was waiting up for him when he 
 returned home. As he took her in his arms 
 to kiss her forehead tenderly he had a fantasy 
 that the wonderfulness of his requited love 
 had miraculously altered his mother s opinion 
 
404 SPRING STREET 
 
 of Consuello. But it was a fantasy, only that. 
 
 "Mother, dearest," he whispered, "I m the 
 happiest man in the world, tonight." 
 
 His mother drew back from him and the 
 intuition that had advised her that her son 
 was in love with Consuello, long before he 
 realized it himself, told her the reason for his 
 happiness. She turned away and pressing a 
 handkerchief to her eyes left him with a dis 
 cordant note breaking the harmony of his 
 ecstasy. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A DOCTOR is awarded his diploma; a 
 ^*- lawyer is admitted to the bar; a preacher 
 is given a pulpit; an actor rises from under 
 study to the leading role ; a newspaper reporter 
 is given a u by-line" and sees his name over a 
 story for the first time. 
 
 Under the big head-line. "Gibson Found; 
 Quits Race," and over the announcement Gib 
 son had authorized "that much and no more" 
 appeared the magic words, "By John Gal 
 lant." 
 
 By that simple token he passed automatically 
 from the position of "cub" to be a full-fledged 
 reporter. 
 
 The only ceremony marking the graduation 
 was when Brennan, leaning over his shoulder 
 as he gazed at his "by-line," said in his ear: 
 
 "Looks pretty nice, doesn t it?" 
 
 The story stated plainly that Gibson author 
 ized the publication of the statement that he 
 w r as leaving Los Angeles to search for "Gink" 
 Cummings and did not intend returning until 
 he brought Cummings back with him to face 
 trial for the murder of Murphy, as co-defen 
 dant with "Slim" Gray and his two "bashers." 
 John explained to P. Q. that he had given 
 
406 SPRING STREET 
 
 his word of honor that he would print nothing 
 but the brief announcement. With the city 
 editor s consent he omitted mentioning where 
 he had met Gibson and under what circum 
 stances Gibson had talked with him. 
 
 "A newspaper reporter s word must be as 
 good as his bond," said P. Q. Remember, 
 Gallant, never to print what you have received 
 in confidence. I fired more than one reporter 
 because he broke his word, although in break 
 ing it he gave us a whale of an exclusive story." 
 
 Shortly after the first edition was on the 
 streets, John looked up from his typewriter to 
 find Mrs. Sprockett standing beside his desk, 
 about to speak to him. Nervous, distressed, 
 her eyes reddened from a sleepless night of 
 weeping, she asked him if he was too busy to 
 spare her a moment. 
 
 "Not at all," he said, rising and placing a 
 chair for her beside his desk. 
 
 Fumbling with her handkerchief and appear 
 ing apologetic for having spoken to him so 
 sharply the night before, she told him that 
 Alma had been away from home all night and 
 had not returned yet. 
 
 "Then, Mrs. Sprockett, there s only one 
 thing for you to do," he said, "and that is to 
 inform the police." 
 
 "I have just come from the police station," 
 Mrs. Sprockett said. "They sent me here. 
 
SPRING STREET 407 
 
 They told me that the best way to find a 
 missing girl was through the newspapers. 
 They said that in 99 cases out of 100 girls who 
 disappear are either found or traced by the 
 newspapers and newspaper men. 
 
 <4 Of course, you know how much I regret 
 having anything concerning Alma appear in 
 the newspapers. I thought there was some 
 other way to find her, some way that would 
 attract less attention. But if it has to be, it has 
 to be, and I ll do anything to bring my little 
 girl back to us." 
 
 "You will do the sensible thing if you per 
 mit the publication of Alma s picture and a 
 brief story that she is missing," John said. 
 
 Mrs. Sprockett drew from her bag a photo 
 graph of her daughter and gave John a 
 description of her and the facts relative to her 
 disappearance. 
 
 "If anything has happened to her it will kill 
 me," she said, as she rose to go. "I ll owe 
 a debt I can never repay to the one who brings 
 her back to me." 
 
 The photograph of Alma and the brief 
 story that went with it appeared in the second 
 edition and John wondered if Mrs. Sprockett s 
 husband had dared to make the suggestion 
 that had sent his wife to the police. 
 
 Soon after Mrs. Sprockett left the office, 
 John, unable to wait a minute longer without 
 
408 SPRING STREET 
 
 hearing her voice, telephoned to Consuello s 
 home. He wanted to tell her again that he 
 loved her, and again and again, and he wanted 
 to hear her tell him, as she had before he 
 left her, that her "dreamings had come true, 
 the brightest and the best." But it was Betty 
 instead of Consuello who answered his call. 
 
 "Conny is at the studio," Betty said. "She 
 was called there unexpectedly concerning some 
 thing about her new picture." 
 
 "Did she tell you anything before she left?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Betty laughed. 
 
 "She told me everything," she replied. 
 
 "And is she happy?" he asked. 
 
 "Happier than I have ever seen her," Betty 
 assured him. "I ll tell her that you called." 
 
 "That I called and that I " he stopped 
 
 himself. 
 
 "Love her," Betty finished for him. 
 
 "More and more every minute," he said, not 
 to be abashed by Betty s good natured pre- 
 sumptuousness. 
 
 But whenever throughout the day his 
 thoughts of Consuello and their great love 
 brought him happiness, the haunting realiza 
 tion that his mother still clung to her prejudice 
 against her occupation wore upon him. He 
 had gone to his room after she had left him 
 the night before and at breakfast there had 
 
SPRING STREET 409 
 
 been a strained effort by both of them to avoid 
 recalling the cause for her distress. He had 
 pleaded and begged her so often to overcome 
 her intolerant dislike for Consuello that he 
 was beginning to fear he would never be able 
 to win her over. Not for much longer, he 
 realized, could he keep his mother s feelings 
 against her from Consuello. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, when the clatter of 
 the telegraph instruments and the typewriter 
 had lulled, and tired men lounged, squatted on 
 desks and tilted back in chairs in the local 
 room discussing the events of the day, John 
 and Brennan were summoned to the publish 
 er s private office. There they were confronted 
 by P. Q. and the "chief," the managing editor 
 and the news editor, the quartet often referred 
 to by the reporters as the "brain trust." There 
 John and Brennan received checks for $500 
 each and were informed that their salaries had 
 been doubled, the $500 being a bonus for their 
 work in exposing the Gibson-Cummings plot. 
 
 On his way home John decided to make one 
 final effort to change his mother s attitude 
 toward Consuello. He planned it all very 
 carefully. First he would tell her of how his 
 salary had been doubled and then he would 
 turn over to her the bonus check to be banked. 
 Then he would take her in his arms and beg 
 her to listen while he told her of the love 
 
410 SPRING STREET 
 
 between him and Consuello, whom he was to 
 meet later in the evening. 
 
 He was absorbed in thinking of everything 
 he would say to his mother when he got off 
 the street car at the corner and walked toward 
 his home. It was not until he was within a 
 quarter of a block from his home when he 
 saw something that brought him to a sharp 
 halt. Scarcely able to believe what was before 
 his eyes, he stood stock-still for a moment and 
 his worry left him like a weight had been lifted 
 from his soul. 
 
 On the sidewalk was Mrs. Sprockett with 
 the lost Alma clasped in her arms. Mother 
 and daughter were alternately laughing and 
 crying and kissing each other. Near them 
 stood Mrs. Sprocket s husband, bouncing the 
 Sprockett baby in his arms and smiling and 
 nodding his head to Alma whenever her face 
 showed to him from her mother s embrace. 
 
 And a few feet from the re-united mother 
 and her daughter were Consuello and his 
 mother! Mrs. Gallant was smiling and pat 
 ting Consuello s hand, which she held in both 
 her own ! 
 
 Wondering what had happened to bring 
 about such a happy scene, John strode toward 
 it, smiling his happiest. He was about to 
 speak when Mrs. Sprockett, allowing Alma 
 to go to her father, grasped Consuello s hand 
 
SPRING STREET 411 
 
 and holding it tight against her breast, cried 
 softly: 
 
 "My dear, my dear, oh, what you have 
 done for us! My dear, my dear." 
 
 He turned to his mother for an explanation. 
 
 "Consuello brought Alma back," Mrs. Gal 
 lant said. Then, lifting her face to kiss him, 
 she whispered, "Forgive me, my boy, for my 
 unkindness to her and to you." 
 
 She turned to Consuello. 
 
 "Come, my dear," she said, "you must have 
 dinner with us." 
 
 Mrs. Sprockett hurried after her husband, 
 who had started toward their home with the 
 baby on one arm and the other around Alma s 
 shoulders. John took Consuello s hand and 
 whispered to her, "You wonderful, wonderful 
 girl." 
 
 Inside, while Mrs. Gallant rearranged the 
 dinner table and prepared portions for three 
 instead of two, she related to him what had 
 occurred. 
 
 "On the way to the studio this morning," 
 she said, "I bought a copy of your paper to 
 read what you had written about about what 
 happened last night. I saw in the paper the 
 photograph of this girl who was missing and, 
 just by chance, I noticed the address of her 
 home and realized it must be close to your 
 own. For that reason, I suppose, I. gave the 
 
412 SPRING STREET 
 
 picture more than a passing glance, although 
 I thought little of it. 
 
 "I had no sooner arrived at the studio than 
 this girl came running up to me and begged me 
 to help her become a motion picture actress. 
 Because the picture was still fresh in my mind 
 I recognized her, although it was some time 
 before I got her to admit that she had run 
 away from home. I talked to her and told 
 her what a mistake she had made and finally 
 she said that, if I wanted her to, she would 
 return home. So I brought her home and, 
 truly, you would think I had done something 
 wonderful by the way your mother and Mrs. 
 Sprockett thanked me." 
 
 u You did," he said, realizing that by her 
 act of bringing home the runaway Alma she 
 had, unknowingly, won his mother to her. 
 
 "Why?" she asked. 
 
 "Because everything you do, everything 
 about you is wonderful," he said, justifying 
 himself for the evasion by knowing that his 
 answer was truthful, at least. 
 * * * * * 
 
 In his imagination John enjoyed picturing 
 the four principal streets of Los Angeles 
 Broadway, Spring, Main and Hill as differ 
 ent types of girls much in the same way that 
 he looked upon houses, particularly old ones, 
 as people. 
 
SPRING STREET 413 
 
 Broadway he pictured as the ultra-modern 
 girl, gay, sparkling, witty, brilliant, tempera 
 mental; busily enjoying every minute of life; 
 clad always in the most down-to-the-moment 
 styles. He imagined her as popular, colorful, 
 a wonderful companion for a happy, festive 
 mood; a street that looked upon her compan 
 ion streets as a debutante looks upon her 
 older sisters. 
 
 Her faults he placed as tempestuous, born 
 of an excess of nervous energy; a desire to 
 stay up too late and keep others up with her; 
 an insatiable love for beautiful, costly things; 
 a super-abundance of light-heartedness and a 
 touch of light-headedness and a spirit of utter 
 irresponsibility. 
 
 A tempting street, a flirting street, almost a 
 flapper street. 
 
 Hill street he thought of as older, quieter, 
 more thoughtful and sedate; a book-loving, 
 home-loving sort of a girl; mildly reproving 
 but secretly admiring her sister street, Broad 
 way. She took pride, he thought, in Pershing 
 Square, a restful spot in the roar of the down 
 town thoroughfares that was like a cool hand 
 on a fevered brow, a kind thought for others, 
 a touch of unselfishness. 
 
 A steady,calm, sweet girl; the kind of a girl 
 whom everyone knows would make a wonder 
 ful wife and mother, but whom few ever marry. 
 
414 SPRING STREET 
 
 One to turn to in trouble, to rely upon and to 
 always find ready to serve; less popular than 
 her companion streets, gentler, less strident. 
 
 A beautiful girl in church on Sunday morn 
 ings, but a wallflower at a dance. 
 
 Main street was the girl of old Los Angeles, 
 the daughter of the dons, dark-eyed, mysteri 
 ous, quaintly and languidly entrancing, he pic 
 tured her always with a rose in her midnight- 
 black hair, perhaps a black lace fan dangling 
 at her wrist; wearing the dress of other days 
 with shining black beads and flounces and 
 trinkets scorned by Miss Broadway as so 
 much tinsel conceding only her rouge and 
 powder to modernism. 
 
 Haughtily proud of her origin, pointing to 
 her birthplace the Plaza in its shabby, 
 tumbled-down setting as the birthplace of the 
 city. A girl speaking Spanish, softly and 
 beautifully, and knowing instinctively the steps 
 of the bewitching La Jota. 
 
 A hint of Carmen; a romantic girl. A girl 
 for a stroll in the moonlight and a kiss upon 
 taunting lips. 
 
 And Spring street! 
 
 She had a touch of each of her companions, 
 Broadway s brilliant beauty; Hill street s 
 charming character and Main street s pride 
 of ancestry. And yet so different from them 
 all! 
 
SPRING STREET 415 
 
 An independent girl, versatile and elusive; 
 tasting of life deeper than her companions; 
 with rich men of the world lovers. Sophis 
 ticated, whole-hearted, generous; regretting 
 with those who loved her the passing of the 
 days when she held her arms open to bon 
 vivants and epicures. 
 
 A chic girl whom you thought of as having 
 a past. An adventurous girl, counting among 
 those who were her followers a host of varied 
 characters from Le Compte Davis, the biblio 
 phile lawyer, chuckling over Schopenhauer s 
 pessimism between hours of study over his law 
 books, to Barney Oldfield, the racing driver, 
 who deserted her to become a manufacturer; 
 Jim Jeffries, former world s heavyweight pu 
 gilist, who was her companion in his fame and 
 who left her to become a rancher; and Al 
 Levy, who wined her and dined her in his 
 cafe. 
 
 All this musing John related to Consuello 
 in the wonderfully happy evenings that fol 
 lowed Mrs. Gallant s conversion from dislik 
 ing to loving the girl he adored. 
 
 He told her he could never decide which of 
 the four he liked best. He said sometimes 
 Broadway had shaken her bobbed curls at 
 him, smiling and bright, pretty and stylish, 
 and he was captivated. Then, perhaps, a little 
 remorseful that he had pursued so fleeting a 
 
416 SPRING STREET 
 
 beauty as Broadway, he had turned to Hill 
 street to be comforted by her soundness and 
 to tell her, in his heart, that she was a "real" 
 girl, so much more worth-while than her light- 
 hearted sister, who wanted to be going and 
 going all the time. 
 
 And nights, when he felt a longing for the 
 stories of the old days, or, perhaps, to see the 
 intriguing shadows of her dark eyes, he visited 
 Main street, wandering away at times into 
 Chinatown, clinging like a faithful servant to 
 the feet of the daughter of the dons. 
 
 When he had tired of all three, Broadway, 
 Hill and Main, he told her, he had turned to 
 Spring street and found her ever alluring and 
 interesting. It was there, in George Blake s 
 gymnasium, that he had trained for the bout 
 at Vernon and it was there that "Gink" Cum- 
 mings had held sway, manipulating Gibson 
 like a puppet, ruling with an iron hand, order 
 ing his gangsters to "bash" whoever opposed 
 him and collecting his ill-gotten tributes. 
 
 "Do you remember," she asked, "that day 
 we met and how when you said you were 
 frightened and embarrassed I told you that I 
 had read stories of reporters who never knew 
 fear and that in plays and books the reporter 
 always did the bravest things?" 
 
 He smiled back to her. 
 
 "And I told you that it was like a story or 
 
SPRING STREET 417 
 
 a play when you rescued me from the servant 
 who had asked me to leave?" he added. "I 
 told you then that you were a beautiful hero 
 ine and pointed out Gibson to you as the 
 villain," 
 
 u And you said that in books and plays 
 dreams came true and when I asked you what 
 dream you wished to come true you said, A 
 rather silly, hopeless, golden sort of dream 
 a dream of meeting you again, " she supple 
 mented. 
 
 "A dream that came true far more wonder 
 fully than I ever hoped it would," he said. 
 
 They were beside her open casement win 
 dow. It was a warm, bright Sunday morning 
 and in a few minutes they would leave to meet 
 his mother for the long-deferred visit to the 
 home of Consuello s parents. 
 
 "There have been stories of all kinds, told 
 and untold, about Spring street," he said, "but 
 do you know the one I like best?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "The story you told to me of how it re 
 ceived its name," he said. "And do you know 
 why?" 
 
 Again she shook her head. 
 
 "Because you are to me ( Mi Primavera 
 My Springtime." 
 
 They entered the waiting automobile to be 
 whirled through the city and out to the 
 
418 SPRING STREET 
 
 romantic hacienda where the languorous past 
 so strangely and sweetly blended with the vital 
 present and the throbbing promise of a future 
 filled with love and life together. 
 
 The motor swung around a corner and into 
 a throbbing thoroughfare down the long, 
 crowded course of which was pictured in an 
 almost perpetual perspective panorama the 
 rushing torrent, the back-wash, the undertow, 
 the placid pools and the spectators upon the 
 banks of the gigantic river of human endeavor. 
 
 Through the cinema of John Gallant s mind 
 there swept a thought that here was presented 
 a prophecy and a promise. Hand in hand 
 they would meet whatever the coming days 
 might bring toil, failure, happiness, success. 
 Love was the magic wand that made them all 
 as one. 
 
 Steadily he clasped her warm, trusting 
 fingers as they nestled in his palm. 
 
 "We are starting down our Spring street, 
 Mi Primavera," he said. 
 
 And as she looked up into his ardent eyes 
 he knew that all his fondest dreams were 
 coming true. 
 
 THE END. 
 
3 
 
 B OOK 
 
 LIB 
 
 is 
 
 
 ^^eriod^PP^caUon i8 ^JJ** not if 
 
 
 ,- . 
 
 M/)R 12 1984 
 
 Clfi. IB 1 2 *34 
 
YB 
 
 S 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY