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"They say he's an old beau who wears a toupee and knee-breeches. All Washington that dares to do so will be laughing at him, especially the ladies." Benito returned from the office one foggy June evening with a copy of The Bulletin that contained a speech by Broderick.
The streets of San Francisco honor some of the citizens of 1848 and 1849: Geary, the first postmaster; Leavenworth and Hyde, the first alcaldes or mayors; Van Ness, Broderick, Turk, and McAllister, recalling prominent men of those days. Spanish families like Sanchez, Castro, Noe, Bernal, and Guerrero had also a place on the city map.
In which there was both truth and poetry. Passersby who laughed at the inscription witnessed simultaneously the rescue of an almost-submerged donkey by means of an improvised derrick. Benito was showing his friend David Broderick, a recent arrival from New York, some of San Francisco's sights.
There aren't more than half a dozen who are not afraid of them." He drew himself up. "But I'm one. Douglas of Illinois is another. And Seward of New York. I've heard from them. We stand together." He laughed a shade bitterly. "It's difficult to fancy, isn't it? Dave Broderick, the son of a stone mason, a former fireman, bartender, ward-boss fighting for an ideal? Against the Solid South?"
She had described it so vividly and graphically to Aunt Madge, that Mrs. Broderick declared she could picture it exactly. She was never weary of hearing her niece's description. "I feel as though my world were enlarged, and that I had got a new friend," she said one day, and Olivia was amused to hear that the faded flowers had been carefully pressed.
The long three years' honeymoon was over, but, thank God, something else was over too, the dread of approaching poverty, the sadness of unproductive labour, of work done only for love's sake and without grudging. The following afternoon Mrs. Broderick lay tranquilly in the pleasant fire-lit twilight, awaiting Olivia's promised visit. A pine log was spluttering and diffusing tiny coloured sparks.
"It looks like it, Cole," laughed Broderick gently. "Only when you get ready to pull off your little roping party I wish you'd let me know. He don't look like he's the kind to lie down and let you hog-tie him, does he, Miss Waverly? They say he's half Texan an' the other half panther. You want to be quick on the throw, Cole. Remember the way he got the Kid last winter!"
"This, my little man," he said half soberly, "is how we play the game of politics." He made the jointed figure race from top to bottom while his eyes were rather grim. "Here, you try it, Bobbie," he said. "I've played with it long enough." Broderick came to them aglow with triumph. He was a big man now, a national figure. Only a short time ago he had been a discredited boss of municipal politics.
Ere long a dripping figure surrounded by half a dozen captors, was brought upon the wharf. "He stole a safe from Virgin & Co.," Broderick was told. "The Vigilantes have him. They'll hang him probably. Come along and see the show." "But where are the police?" asked Broderick. The man laughed contemptuously. "Where they always are asleep," he answered, and went on.
"Let's go into the other room," the miner said carelessly, "and see what Henry's cigars are made out of." They rose and went back to Pollard's office. And Ben Broderick, who had suggested cigars, was the only one of the three men who rolled his own cigarette, rolled it slowly and with deep thoughtfulness.
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