Stanford’s magnificent circus: A Novel

PART ONE

1891

by

Jerry Franks

Published by the Four-Leafed Press Aptos, California

DEDICATED TO MEMBERS OF LELAND STANFORD JUNIOR UNIVERSITY’S PIONEERING CLASSES OF 1892, 1893, 1894 & 1895

My four-leaved clover groweth not Upon Parnassus steep, But on the Palo Alto hills Where Stanford poppies sleep;

And though these song-weeds cluster not Beside the Muses' well, The Spring-filled Lagunita Lake Perchance may do as well;

No brilliant bloom, but rooted deep In Stanford loyalty, Their still small voice may speak to those Who share that love with me,

Who once within a cloistered place Were college mates of mine, In clover there four sweet years That bore the stamp devine

Then, though this lyre have but two strings, One Love, the other Beer, I calmly dedicate them both To every Pioneer

by Charles Kellogg Field, Class of 1895

iii

FOREWORD

“Stanford’s Magnificent Circus” was written to be entertaining, to be enjoyed. It is also hoped that the reader will gain a new appreciation of the challenges facing the administration, students and faculty of a new university created in the far west---Leland Stanford Junior University---if some historical knowledge is gained along the way, so much the better.

It is so easy to forget that in 1891, vestiges of a tragic Civil War still hung in the air. A non-fictional character in this book remembered as a child what happened on the day Abraham Lincoln was shot as most of us remember what happened on the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated. A fictional character in this book almost participated, unwillingly, in an Indian Massacre; gunmen hired by the Southern Pacific Railroad killed another’s father in a shoot-out over disputed lands. Much of the western territory was still in dispute. It was into this setting that over four hundred men and women began the process of creating a university, some young like Bert Hoover, some veterans of Indian Wars like the fictional Fletcher Martin.

Time has erased the memory of grand Stanford pranks such as the Flatcar Incident, which involved hundreds of members of the Pioneer Classes and the annual Senior vs. Faculty baseball games. Landmarks like the ‘95 oak, the chimney and the camp no longer exist. All are remembered and brought back to existence in these pages.

Senator and Jane Stanford will always be honored for their contribution to higher education. They opened the doors of their new university to men and women who could pass certain academic standards---regardless of their status or monetary resources. That only a small minority was oriental and none were Jewish or Black was to be expected for the times.

If it were not for them, one of our presidents may have stayed in Salem, Oregon and slipped into anonymity.

If it were not for them, thousands of lives, like the author’s, would have been drastically different. Aptos, California June, 2004

v

Contents

Page

1. Dedication: Poem by Charles Kellogg Field, Class of ‘95………………….iii 2. Foreword……………………………………………………………………………v 3. Crude 1891 Map of LSJrU and Environs………………………………………vii 4. “Hail, Stanford, Hail!” by Professor Albert W. Smith………………………..ix 5. Prologue: Olmsted’s Letter to Stanford…..………………………………….. 1 6. Early Arrivals………………………………………………………………………13 7. The Gathering…………………………………………………………………….. 69 8. Opening Day Ceremonies……………………………………………………….111 9. The Flatcar Prank………………………………………………………………..151 10. Reception at Roble Hall…………………………………………………………193 11. Ghostly Appearances……………………………………………………………236 12. ’95 Oak Creation………………………………………………………………..275 13. Faculty vs. Seniors Baseball Game…………………………………………...317 14. Thanksgiving Holiday Plans…………………………………………………..350 15. Palace Hotel & Chinatown…………………………………………………. 378 16. Trek to Lick……………………………………………………………………. 420 17. 1891 Exit………………………………………………………………………. 454 18. Appendix………………………………………………………………………. 511 A. Bibliography……………………………………………………….… 513 B. Cast of Characters………………………………………………….. 517

ix ix

Hail, Stanford, Hail!

By Professor Albert W. Smith

Where the rolling foothills rise Up toward mountains higher Where at eve the Coast Range lies In the sunset fire, Flushing deep and paling Here we raise our voices, hailing Thee, our Alma Mater

Down the foothills to the bay It shall ring, As we sing, It shall ring and float away Hail, Stanford, hail ! Hail, Stanford, hail !

ix 1

Prologue

Olmsted’s Letter to Stanford

John Charles Olmsted stood in the doorway. Almost an hour before, his stepfather had called him and asked him, when it was convenient, to come into his office. In other words, when the inking job he was doing for the Leland Stanford Junior University Project was completed. He had just cleaned the German drafting pen he was using and put it back into its polished walnut case.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” he asked Frederick Law Olmsted, the celebrated Landscape Architect.

Frederick was engrossed with something he was doing at his desk but he immediately turned around in his swivel chair and faced John. Frederick was sixty-three years, bald-headed with bushy white hair, long at the sides. His grizzly beard drooped over his shirt hiding whatever tie he might have worn that day. Even though expensive, his clothing looked like he had been digging in the garden. His best friend described him as “an ancient philosopher.” A poorly dressed one, John had thought.

Frederick’s vigorous blue eyes flickered into a smile as he greeted John. “I need your help. Here, sit beside me.” He motioned to one of the wooden side chairs. “Would you like a brandy or something a little stronger? I have it here in its usual place.”

“No, I’m fine, Frederick.” John settled in his chair and tried to appear at ease but with his long fingers intertwined and his legs awkwardly akimbo, he looked oddly uncomfortable for such an elegantly dressed man.

“We missed you at supper,” Frederick looked genuinely interested in John’s whereabouts.

“I thought I told you about the engagement I had with friends in Boston. Fellows I knew at Yale. We regularly get together for some ale and gossip.” John paused. He knew Frederick was making small talk to put him at ease. He asked, “Is it about the Stanford Project? That seems to be on your mind, lately.”

“Yes, it is.” Frederick stretched his arms as he spoke, “I’ve just had the arduous task of writing a well-mannered letter to Ariel Lathrop a man I intensely dislike. These days, I find it easier to take a pick to hard ground.” With his head and eyes, Frederick motioned to the desktop behind him. “It is 2

the letter you see on my desk, completed but not yet in its envelope. I’d like to talk to you about what I wrote.”

As Frederick spoke, he looked at John, intently. It had been some time since he had really looked at his stepson. Unlike others in the family, John was shy and diffident. He did not come into Frederick’s office unless asked. He was perfectly happy to remain at his drafting board, performing all the difficult and detailed tasks that went with the landscape architecture business. John was thirty-seven years old, always well groomed with a neatly trimmed beard. He dressed immaculately in nicely fitted Prince Albert suits. He had the delicate features of his deceased father, Frederick’s brother. His long face and nose reminded Frederick of an El Greco painting. John and Frederick were not close. Perhaps it was because after John’s father died, Uncle Frederick had married his mother.

John was well aware of the problems Frederick had with Senator Stanford and his unpleasant brother-in-law, Ariel Lathrop. From what he had heard, he liked neither of them. “I assume the letter ends our relationship with the Senator and his boorish brother-in-law.”

“Yes it does.”

“So, be it. We have lots of other work to do. I know their changes of heart have worn you down. If you think it is time to break it off, it is.”

“I wish it were that simple. You know how people perceive me as being obstinate to a fault and I know they are right. I’m afraid that my obstinacy could now be the only reason we are continuing to work on the Stanford Project. That is why you are here”

“You want my advice?” John was surprised.

“I want you to hear me out. Tell me what you think.” With both hands, Frederick lifted his nickel-plated reading glasses from his nose and carefully placed them by the unsealed letter. “ I am sure you are already familiar with most of this from the letters I wrote you and my ranting in the office but I want to make sure you have the full story of my dealings with the good Senator and the ignoble Ariel and why I want to cut off our relationship with them as a fisherman cuts snarled bait.”

During the seconds that followed, Frederick and John shifted in their seats as if readying themselves for a journey.

Frederick spoke, “You, of course, know it began well enough. You were present when Codman (an intern working at the firm) excitedly entered 3 our premises and told us about his discussion with General Walker, president of MIT, his alma mater.”

John said, “As I remember it, Harry (Henry Codman) said that Senator Stanford had tried to recruit Walker for the post of president of the new university he and his wife were founding in California as a memorial for their dead son. Walker declined the offer but agreed to act as a consultant. Harry thought it was a tremendous opportunity for us and he helped arrange for you to visit the General.”

Frederick smiled at the memory. “I didn’t know Walker beforehand, but we got along famously. It was as if we thought as one. He had me get in touch with the Senator and after a brief exchange of letters, they asked me to plan their university and it was a project I could not decline. Not only because of the unheard of ten thousand dollars I would receive for the preliminary plan but also because of the pure immensity of the undertaking. Eight thousand acres would be involved, even larger than the Central Park project Vaux and I had designed and built and the Senator was intending to create an entire town north of the university with residential areas for students and faculty and a vast arboretum that particularly suited my love of wildness and disorder. It would be years and years of work for our firm.”

John injected, “All this I knew, so up to this point, there was no hint of problems.”

“None that was obvious. But now I realize I should have known that this project was doomed when four years ago during the summer of “86, after traveling thousands of miles by train to Portland and from there by a six-horse team stagecoach to San Francisco with Rick (John’s brother), and young Codman, Senator Stanford was too busy to see me. You know, of course, that instead of waiting on our heels we took a train excursion to Los Angeles through the hellish Mohave Desert while the Senator completed whatever was more important than his appointment with me.”

John added, “I remember you wrote to me that the desert was the most forbidding region you had ever visited and the mercury rose well above 100. At the time, I thought your umbrage over the delayed meeting was your thin skin showing through.

Olmsted nodded his head. John spoke the truth. At the time the postponed meeting, after all those arduous miles, was a terrible disappointment

John continued, “My feelings were that Senator Stanford was well- known throughout the country. A man of such prominence might have something better to do than see you.” 4

John could see from the look on Olmsted’s face that his taking the Senator’s side may have gone too far. Frederick was no longer nodding his head. He decided to change the subject to another matter. “Also, there was some problem, as I remember, about the exact location of the university.”

“When finally he was able to find some time to see me,” Frederick exclaimed each word as if the missed appointment still rankled him. “The Senator and I drove in his carriage to a parched hill south of what was referred to as Coutts’ Farm. It overlooked the entire expanse of “Palo Alto,” as Stanford’s farmland is called and I told the Senator that I could imagine campus buildings scattered about those rolling hills in a configuration similar to the campus I had designed at Lawrenceville.” Frederick got up and beckoned to John. “Come with me, I want to show you something”

John got up and followed him. Walking behind Frederick, John noticed that the limb he had from an accident that happened years ago had worsened. Slowly the two of them made their way to the office’s east wall where between two large windows hung framed photographs of the firm’s notable works such as the United States Capitol grounds, Central Park, the work at Niagara Falls and the Vanderbilt estates and one photo of a desolate hillside looking down on thrashed hayfields

“There is where we stood.” Frederick motioned with eyes toward the hillside photograph. John passed by the photo several times each week but now he leaned down and looked at it more closely. With a second look he could see a handsome carriage in the foreground with its single top hated occupant, Senator Stanford. “On the day I took that very photograph, we were standing alongside his carriage on a hill overlooking his farm and when I said I wanted to use the rolling hills as the site for the university, he looked at me as if I were insane.”

“‘Olmsted,’” “he said, with his heavy paw of a hand on my shoulder, staring at me with those dark, steely eyes of his.” Frederick pretended to speak as the Senator. “‘You realize, of course, that I am not interested in building an academic village, here in the wild hills that I consider to be the background rather than the site of my university.’”

“He removed his hand, and faced away from me and looked north down on fields of alfalfa and carrots that must have been used to feed the racehorses he bred and trained in nearby stables.”

“‘There, there on the plains,’ and Frederick pointed with his finger toward some unknown object on the west wall before him, ‘is where it will be built.’ “ He remained with his face turned away from me and I could only imagine from the emotion in his voice that those steely eyes were misting” 5

Frederick continued pointing. His voice imitated the Senator’s. ‘There, where my young son once played and rode his pony.’”

John understandingly said, “It must have been an emotional moment.” He moved to go back to their chairs but Frederick restrained him.

“But John, there is more. When he turned back toward me, the softness had gone from his manner and he was once again the rough-hewn, thrifty businessman.” Frederick’s face took on a knowing look He was still speaking as the Senator.” ‘And you must agree, it would be far cheaper to built on flat rather than hill ground.’ ‘Much cheaper,’ he said. The man was a fraud speaking out of both sides of his mouth. I would have been a dullard if I had not realized that the Senator was not impressed with my thoughts of using the natural grandeur of the hillside’s slopes. He had other plans and I could see by his look and what he said that these plans revolved around what would have to be monumental and grand. The project we had taken on was really a monument for all three of them…the wife, the son and him.”

As the two men returned to their seats, John said,” I think you wrote to me that “‘There is not a word half big enough for his ideas of what it is to be.’ I did wonder at the time why you did not stand up to him. Perhaps if you had shown him some strength of your convictions, he might have backed down.”

Frederick disagreed, “I am not so sure. The strength of his feelings for immortality would have overruled any aesthetic convictions I had. I do understand from my own experience what the thought of death can do to a man. In any case, in my defense, I did what all those do who thrive on the good will of those with money. I bit my tongue. My greed for work lasting perhaps for a decade stifled any trepidation I might have had. I didn’t want to take any chance he might turn to others for advice.” Frederick paused to see how John reacted to his honesty.

John spoke what he felt, “Your letters conveyed your feelings. But I was forced to be on the Senator’s side. As the client, I thought he had the right and privilege to put his university anywhere he pleased since he was paying for it. If his heart told him to build on the plains, for whatever reasons, it was right and proper to build there. As for his grand plans, most of our projects are monuments of one kind or another even though our clients might like us to think otherwise.”

Frederick nodded his head, again. “I see your side,” he said, “but listen to what happened next. Upon my return to Boston, I proceeded to write my preliminary report in which I stressed the need to adapt the university to its warm, Mediterranean climes. I knew that Stanford born and raised in upper New York State would be inclined toward a New England style campus with large stone building set among formal lawns and gardens and I wanted to 6 discourage that type of thinking at an early stage. Appealing to his practical nature, I wrote that such plans would require lavish use of water, which I knew was not available.

John said, “I never saw the report. I was too busy at the time finishing drawings for another project so this is news for me.”

Olmsted said, “I found out General Walker had written his report recommending “cottage housing” similar to the Lawrenceville model I had originally proposed. As for the academic buildings, Walker mentioned in his report that he and I had agreed, ‘one-storied structures made of massive stone, connected by an arcade, may be singularly effective and picturesque.’”

“I am not sure you have read the recent interviews the Senator gave in Boston and New York papers where the he stated it was his idea to build a university using such arcades and single storied structures.”

John smiled at the irked expression on Frederick’s face. “A client taking credit for our conceptions is nothing new..”

Fredrick continued as if he had not heard John’s thought. “Charles Coolidge was selected to be the architect like me based on his ties to General Walker and MIT. Of the principals of his firm Shepley, Rutan and Coolidge both Shepley and Rutan were MIT men. I knew and liked Charles so it was easy for us to work out the details of the master plan.

John also liked Coolidge. “We see eye to eye on that. Charles is an excellent Architect. Soon he will be considered to be one of the best in the land.” John was glad, at last, to agree with his partner.

Frederick said, “Since I was busy with other matters and had no desire or need to again face the inflexible Senator, in April of ’87 Coolidge took the models and plans to California where he was met with less than a warm reception. We had placed the single-storied buildings around a large quadrangle. A memorial church containing Leland Stanford Jr.’s tomb was positioned on the east side with a library on the other. We softened the formality of the design by opening the quadrangle to the south providing a view of the rolling foothills which I was so endeared with. Even though I could not use them as a building site, I would have them as an integral part of the setting. Thus the long sides of the quadrangle would face east and west.

John remembered, “Harper’s Weekly’s used our drawings as the basis for illustrations that circulated throughout the country.”

“Yes, both Coolidge and I were very proud of what we had done but Stanford would have none of it. He wanted the long impressive sides to face 7

north and south with the entrance facing the approach road that would come from a railroad station yet to be built. He wanted the Church to have pride of place opposite the entrance obscuring any view of the foothills. As if to obliterate any quiet reserve we might have harbored, he adamantly insisted on building a huge Memorial Arch that would be large enough to be seen from the beginnings of the approach road. Such an arch would be massive and totally out of proportion with the rest of our design. Coolidge was ordered to revise the drawings on the spot. He could only agree and when he uttered some minor words of disappointment on behalf of himself and me, Stanford summarily told him, ‘A Landscape Architect and an Architect might be disappointed but I am going to have the buildings the way I wanted them.”

John exclaimed, “My God in Heaven, what possessed the man to say that. He might have thought it but to say that to poor Coolidge shows him to be completely callous of others feelings. I knew none of this. I always wondered why such drastic changes were made. He treated you and Coolidge as if you were hired help.”

When John said those words, Frederick’s eyes lit up. “My thoughts exactly, I really can’t remember why I did not discuss this with you. Perhaps I was ashamed of my obsequiousness but by the time I returned to California in October of ‘87, the university plans had become even more formal. A long, straight avenue led from the proposed railroad station to the mammoth memorial arch. The only compromise I was able to obtain from the Senator was paving the inner quadrangle and the creation of the eight oval planting areas.

John added, “About that time, I remember your reading me a note from that Scottish fellow, Mr. Douglas, you hired to create a nursery for propagating and experimenting with native-born California trees. I am not sure of Mr. Douglas’ exact words but I remember he fretted that they would only allowed him to hire Chinese workers who could not speak or write English. I thought it was funny at the time that these fellows, if not supervised, might set the plants wherever they pleased. I could imagine poor Mr. Douglas trying to track down where his trees had been planted.”

“I am certain Mr. Douglas didn’t see the humor of the situation. The “they” of Douglas’ note was Ariel Lathrop, Stanford’s Business Manager. I sent a note complaining to Mr. Lathrop but it was like speaking to the wind. By then Stanford had directed me to deal with Ariel in such matters.”

“That should have told you how he regarded your status when he started referring you to his underlings.” John added, “I’ll never forget the many times you rushed out of your office shouting, ’Lathrop, that bastard, has done it to me, again.’ You never fully explained what he had done but anyone hearing you could guess.” 8

“I could never hide my contempt for the ass. But let me tell you just in case you have forgotten that a year later, Lathrop informed me that Mr. Douglas’s services were no longer required. He also said that whatever work we were doing on the arboretum should cease as well as work on the town that was to be created.”

John, said, “I remember I was in the middle of a drawing and you told me to stop where I was. I wanted to know what had happened and you were on your way out the door to another project and didn’t have time to tell me. Later, I was busy and forgot the matter. Now that you bring it up, what do you think happened? Was money running out? Did the Senator find out something or do something that might have led him to cut back on his grandiose schemes?

Frederick replied, “I’d forgotten that happened. I ‘m sorry I treated you badly but I did ask myself the same questions. I know of nothing exactly but there are two possibilities. One is how treacherous our times are, economically and politically. With that nincompoop, Harrison, as President who knows which way our country is heading. Stanford shrewdly knows as much about the future as anyone. Perhaps he foresees a panic of some kind or new union problems or worse still for him, a future where the railways, he and a few others control, have to account for the millions of government dollars they received. Another good possibility is the Senator’s health is failing. Over these past three years I saw him go from reasonably good health to that of an old man who was beginning to show himself as older than his age. Perhaps it is a combination of both of these that caused him to have Ariel Lathrop act as if each dollar they spent was their last.”

John had another question, “Is only the Senator’s dealing with us affected? How has he treated others?”

Frederick answered, “I can only speak for General Walker since he and I communicated almost on a weekly basis. Walker’s suggestion for housing students in bungalow type buildings also fell prey to Stanford’s capricious desires. Pictures of a hotel the Stanfords liked in Switzerland were brought back to Coolidge and he was ordered to create a duplicate to be used as the men’s dormitory. Coolidge had no recourse. He went along with the changes.

John’s face became grave, “From my own Yale days, the Senator made a grievous error, one that might even lead to severe accidents or even loss of life. I don’t think even you, who went to Yale in milder days; realize what college men do to each other under the guise of ‘rite of passage.’ ”

9

Frederick, again, vigorously nodded his head, “General Walker would agree with you. In my presence, the General shook his head in disbelief as he told me about Stanford’s denying his recommendations. Walker said in so many words that there is no limit to the skullduggery a large group of young men will get into when housed under the same roof. The Senator may think he is saving money by using a hotel to house students but by doing this he proves he has no understanding of the devilment that runs through the minds of these young men. General Walker’s exact words were, ‘I pity the poor man that takes on the presidency of such a muddle.’ ‘Muddle’ was the word he used. But for me, the firing of MacMillan was the last straw.”

John had seen Mr. Macmillan when he stopped by the office on his way to California, he said. “A truly professional engineer. It surprised me when you said his services were no longer required. I believe he is still in California.”

Frederick looked down at his scuffed boots. “Lathrop fired him.”

John could not believe his ears. “Lathrop fired him without consulting you? You never give that privilege to a client. Senator Stanford must have understood that.”

Frederick said, “You are right, John. I had a verbal agreement with the Senator that MacMillan would report to me and to me, only. Then the ill- tempered brother-in-law stepped into the picture.”

John still had disbelief written on his face. “There must have been reason. MacMillan must have said or done something?”

Frederick answered, “No reason was given and I have seen MacMillan in person and questioned him and he knew of nothing except that Lathrop was not happy sharing his power with anyone.”

With great sincerity John said, “You know how I feel when any one breaks their word, verbal or written. I am surprised you did not end the relationship, then and there.”

“Now, I realize I should have but at the time greed and my obstinacy overruled good judgment. I attempted to save the relationship by writing a conciliatory letter to Lathrop and he had the temerity to reply to my letter with a statement that our role was restricted to “supplying drawings” to the university.

John looked down at his lap and repeated the phrase. “’Supplying drawings,’ so it has come to that. I didn’t know.”

10

“What a slap in the face he had given me but I turned the other cheek and asked the Senator in another letter to understand my position as a sculptor attempting to produce a fine statue and then being asked by Lathrop to turn over its execution to a stonecutter. I wrote words like ‘I was too old a man to be reasonably asked to put aside all that I have learned of my business, because a man of Mr. Lathrop’s training and habits has not learned as much.’ As I should have expected, yesterday I received a dismissive note from the Senator upholding his wife’s brother. And today, this,” Frederick’s eyes swept back to his desk, “is my reply.”

John asked, “May I read the letter?”

“Certainly,” Frederick swiveled around and retrieved the letter and gave it to John.

For a few minutes, John carefully read. Still reading, he smiled and said, “I like it here where you mention the Vanderbilt Project with its 6,000 acres.”

“Yes, I thought it would be good for dear Ariel to read that there were others that did appreciate our talents.”

Still holding the letter in both hands, John said. “It is a good letter that in a courteous fashion tells Ariel and the Senator to go to Hell.”

“Yes, that was the intent.”

From a slouched position, John sat bolt upright in his chair, “Frederick, do this for me. With all your talent for visualizing the future, tell me what the Leland Stanford Junior University will appear like one hundred years from now.”

Frederick ran his left hand back over his baldhead. As he gathered his thoughts his eyes squinted as if looking into sunshine. He told John, “In my mind’s eye I see the beautiful buildings we designed surrounded by mature trees and green open areas and particularly impressive is the oval we placed at the entrance. In the background, the rolling hills remain pristine lending the illusion that time has stopped and giving the university a special gift of timelessness and remoteness.

“Is it beautiful, Frederick?”

“Yes, it is.”

John stood up as he asked, “Would you be proud that you played a large role in its creation?” 11

Frederick stood up, too, and replied, “Yes, I would.”

John handed the letter in his hands to Frederick. “Then destroy this letter. Compromise. Move on. Work with Lathrop. Bow down to the Senator and his wife. Put up with all their foibles until the role you played in the project is complete.”

Frederick stood questioning, the letter in his hands. He looked incredulous as he said, “Then I have failed to convince you?

John put both of his hands on his stepfather’s shoulders. It was as close to familiarity as the two could come and said, “No, but if you send this letter whatever you have contributed will be like dust under the rug. Your contributions will be forgotten forever. You deserve better. The firm deserves better. Destroy the letter.”

Frederick breathed deeply. The letter was in his hands. All he had to do was tear it in two and bend his pride and continue on the conciliatory path he had already begun to take. He pulled away from John’s grasp, slumped into his chair.

“I am sorry, John, I can not do this. As I told you of my relationship with the Senator some words you spoke rang true in my ears. ‘He treated you like hired help.’

“Senator Stanford is a rich, powerful man. With the power of his money, he fully expects everyone he deals with to do exactly as he bids including artisans like you and me. He can break his word; his contract and we still carry on until the project is completed. And I realize we do this not only because of the money but also because we want our share of that immortality our clients seek. My obstinacy would not allow me to admit this to myself. I insisted that the Senator would appreciate the work we were doing and would take our side against Lathrop. How gullible I was to think that Lathrop would act without the Senator’s consent.”

“I am “hard as nails” and obstinate and getting to be cranky in my old age but I have had enough. Leland Stanford Junior University will just have to go ahead on its own. I am sure it will survive just fine without us.”

John, still standing, said, “Let me do it for you, Frederick.” He took the letter from Frederick’s hands, carefully folded it and went to the desktop behind them, placed it in the addressed envelope, drew a stick of sealing wax back and forth across the flap of the envelope and pressed it firmly down on the desktop with his fingertips.

12

“There,” John said, “the deed is done. I never did like those two bastards.”

^^^^^^^^^^^

13

Chapter One

Early Arrivals

The date was December 29, 1890, Lt. Fletcher Chard Martin stood next to his men and four Hotchkiss guns, on a slight rise, about 100 yards northwest from where United States’ Army officers and soldiers surrounded Chief Big Foot’s tribe.

The night before at a briefing of officers of Seventh Calvary, United States Army, Lt. Martin was told by his commanding officer, Colonel Forsythe, that next day’s operation would be a routine disarming and relocation of a Sioux tribe. The Indian Braves would peacefully turn over their weapons and the soldiers would accompany them to the Pine Ridge Indian Agency for the purpose of putting them on railway cars and relocating them to more distant parts of the Dakota Territories.

Lt. Fletcher Chard Martin had served in the Seventh Calvary of the United States Army since his graduation from West Point in 1880. He missed by four years serving under the command of General George A. Custer. From what he heard from the other officers, he would not have been fond of the man. The troops under his command killed too many Indian women and children for Fletcher’s liking.

He was a tall, 6’ 4”, thin, weathered man who looked ten years older than his thirty-three years. On the left side of his face was a four- inch scar from an Indian’s tomahawk. It just missed taking out an eye. Sometimes Martin wished it had because that would have ended his military career and perhaps his life, which was just as well since he was living out a lie. With every bone in his body, he hated being in the service. His only reason for going to West Point was his father, who fought in both the Civil and Indian wars. Since Fletcher was the only son, he could not deny his father’s wish that he should carry on the family tradition and honorably serve his country. Now he lived in dread of a moment that would cause him to dishonor his father, his family, the Seventh Calvary and his country.

There were good reasons for him to think this might happen. Some of them only he knew deep in his heart. He remembered as a twelve-year-old boy during a time when he and his sister and mother followed his father from fort to fort, walking to school, through a strip of isolated prairie, he found a young Indian boy unconscious on the ground. Fletcher would never know how he came to be there. He could only guess that he had been thrown off his horse and his head had hit a rock. 14

There was a deep gash on the side of his face that was bleeding badly. Without thinking, Fletcher took off his clean, white shirt, the shirt his mother had spent hours bleaching and washing and drying, and used it to staunch the blood from the wound and held the young Indian in his arms and talked to him in a quiet, calm voice trying to comfort him.

For an instant, the Indian boy opened his eyes and looked up at Fletcher’s young white face with a startled gaze but Fletcher’s quiet voice calmed him and he shut his eyes, peacefully, as if falling asleep.

Fletcher must have held the boy in his arms for hours until a settler happened to come by on his horse and looked down at him and shouted, “What you doing with that Indian boy, son?”

“He fell and got hurt, sir, and I’m taking care of him,” replied young Fletcher.

Even without dismounting, the settler could see the Indian boy was dead. “Well, it looks like that’s a dead one, son, sort of beyond care. Just as well, only good Indians are dead ones.”

Fletcher looked up at the settler with a look saying “What should I do?”

The settler answered his unspoken question. “Leave him, boy. Either his kin will find him or buzzards will,” and with those words of advice the settler swung his horse around and set off towards his original destination.

It was not in Fletcher’s nature to leave the boy to buzzards. He resigned himself to wait hopefully for the boy’s father to appear. He did gently slide the boy’s body off his lap and with difficulty stood up. It had been three hours and all of his leg muscles had stiffened up.

Off in the distance, on the horizon, he could see the image of a mounted man on a black and white pinto horse. Fletcher vigorously waved his arms and the man and horse started to move swiftly toward him leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. As they drew closer, Fletcher made out that it was an Indian, an Indian in full battle dress with a drawn rifle in his hand. If Fletcher had been in any other circumstances, he would have high tailed it out of there. As it was, he stood his ground, until the Indian abruptly reined in his horse only feet away from the boy’s body.

15

From the look on the Indian’s face, Fletcher knew it was the boy’s father. He started to tremble. What if the Indian blamed him for his son’s death?

At first the White Cloud did think that this boy might have had something to do with Running Deer’s horse returning without him. Then when he looked at the white boy’s blood saturated shirt and the look of concern on his face and recognized the simple fact that he had stood there waiting for White Cloud to arrive instead of running away, the truth was apparent. This white boy had cared for Running Deer while he was dieing and waited for White Cloud to come instead of deserting him. The boy was more Indian than white.

White Cloud got off his horse and picked up Running Deer in his arms as if he were still a baby and took his body and placed it on his horse so that he could steady it while he rode. He remounted and wheeled his horse so that he was close enough to Fletcher to kneel down and touch him gently on the top of his head with his free hand and made signs and said words that Fletcher guessed meant, “Thank you.”, or something like that.

With the sound of heavy hooves, the Indian and his dead son were gone and clouds of dust from the galloping horse’s hooves closed in around them.

Just as White Cloud reached the horizon he wheeled his horse about, once more and looked for the sad white boy, now a mere pinpoint in the distance. The boy was slowly making his way back home, still carrying the white shirt red with his dead son’s blood. For a moment, White Cloud had considered scooping up the boy and taking him to his camp, which was about five miles distant. He could see in the boy’s eyes that he was different from the rest. He did not belong to the white man’s tribe and never would. It would not be easy for him but White Cloud had given him a special gift. Would the boy ever realize the significance of what had just happened? It was a question he would have to ask Gray Bull, the medicine man. Fletcher walked slowly back to his home still clutching his bloodied shirt. As he drew closer to the cluster of wooden barracks used by officers and their families at the fort, he could see his father’s black stallion tied to the hitching post before his family’s barracks. As Fletcher started to open the door, it was opened for him by his father, shirtless, his dark hair in disarray. From the expression on his face, he was not happy to see his son.

“Why aren’t you at school?” was how he greeted his son.

16

Fletcher looked up at his father who towered over him, he was well over 6’4” tall. Should he tell him the truth? How could he lie with the shirt still in his hand? “An Indian boy fell off his horse and I took care of him until his father got there.”

“And what is that bloody mess you have in your hands?”

“My shirt. I tried to stop the bleeding.”

How had this child ever come from his loins? He felt like bringing back his fist and burying it in his son’s face but that would upset his wife so the thought vanished. He tried to speak calmly to his son. “Your mother spends hours getting that shirt clean and you use it for a tourniquet.”

Fletcher could see his mother standing behind her husband in the hallway. She had her light blue robe on, the one she usually wore when she was going to bed. She stood there, wordless, knowing how her husband’s rage would ignite if she did anything to defend Fletcher. Best not to say anything.

In the same tone of voice he used when he was ordering his soldiers to do something, Captain Martin said, “Take that bloody mess to the back yard and burn it and then stay there by the wood shed. Take down your pants and get prepared to get the switching of your life. Your mother has enough on her hands with your sister, Donna. She doesn’t need for her son to act stupid, too.”

Fletcher could feel the hair on the back of his neck bristle when his sister was referred to as stupid. She had been born handicapped. She could not talk and could just barely walk. Captain Martin blamed his wife for the creation of their imperfect daughter.

Fletcher trudged, with his head hanging, toward the backyard. He was not looking forward to the sting of the birch switch on his bare bottom. His father’s departing words were, “ Don’t you ever protect a heathen Indian, again.”

Even if it came to a hiding, Fletcher couldn’t change his ways. There was something inside him telling him what was right and what was wrong and during the past ten years, stationed as an officer in the United States Cavalry, in mostly the Dakotas, protecting settlers from Indian attacks, he felt that something telling him what he was doing was wrong, terribly wrong.

17

At first, when he witnessed settlers being mutilated, scalped and raped, he was incensed and enthusiastically participated in apprehending and sometimes killing Indian Braves. To his knowledge, he never killed an Indian woman or child and on several occasions he caused a gun barrel to be lifted or held back a knife that might have done so. It surprised him that the worst offenders were Indian Scouts now serving in the U. S. Army.

About five years ago in 1885, he started considering Indians as victims of broken promises and treaties, which promised them land and then took the land away. He also considered the soldiers and officers of the U. S. Army as victims of a legislative system, which constantly cut their pay and then held them responsible for enforcing unfair laws and treaties. Soldiers were also victims of a predatory banking system, which had the affront to charge them 12 to 40 per cent to convert their government paper into useable coin.

All of this caused Lieutenant Martin to decide to end his life of lies and to abandon his career in the Army. At the end of this tour of duty he would resign his commission. His plans beyond that were only concerned with the classics. His love of Greek and Roman literature and history was his only way to escape from the horrors he witnessed. While others drank and whored to forget where they were and what they were doing, he was better able to express himself using Latin aphorisms, “aequam servare mentem” or by reading the works of Plutarch and Aeschylus and others like them.

The morning of December 29th was bitter cold and snow from a previous storm was still on the ground. All of his men were dressed in winter overcoats and their deep breathes, including his own, hung frozen in the winter air. Four, new Hotchkiss machine-guns stood near Lt. Martin. They were capable of shooting two pound explosive shells at the rate of fifty rounds per minute. They were trained on the Indian village about 100 yards south of Big Foot’s tent.

Martin could see that the Indians had pitched their teepees in open plains next to Wounded Knee Creek. In the center of their village, was a tall pole flying a white flag. Colonel Forsythe, who was in charge of the US Army forces, and his staff were gathered in front of Big Foot’s tent where, inside, the chief was ill with pneumonia. The Braves were still in their village, inside their teepees with their families. Army sentinels were posted around the entire area and Indian scouts were stationed south of the village backed up by another troop of mounted cavalry. Over five hundred soldiers surrounded a gathering of 250 Indian men, women and children.

18

Shortly after 8 am, Fletcher watched Colonel Forsyth’s adjutant, Major Whiteside, ordered the warriors to come out of their teepees. About one hundred braves appeared and slowly lowered themselves to a squatting position on the cold ground in front of Big Foot’s tent. Because of the cold weather, they covered themselves with blankets but Fletcher thought the way they placed the blankets over their laps looked mighty suspicious and he was certain others felt the same way. No weapons were visible, so Major Whiteside ordered them back to their teepees to get them. About twenty braves disappeared back into their tents and, after what seemed to be hours but was actually twenty or thirty minutes, they returned with two ancient rifles. Fletcher could see the Indians were not going to cooperate and his stomach and neck muscles start to knot with feelings of fear and apprehension. “Vae victus,” he thought

Major Whiteside lost his patience. He shouted so that all could hear, “Sergeant, I want you to take forty men and tear those teepees apart. We know they have weapons in their teepees. Find them.” Forty enlisted men departed into the village. Then Major Whiteside ordered the remaining troops to draw their weapons and approach the seated Braves. They took up positions only ten yards from them. Lt. Martin thought to himself, “Those Indians are like sitting ducks in a shooting gallery.”

Captain Bourke, Martin’s commander, whispered to him. “Be ready, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” was his reluctant response.

Martin started hearing strange shrill noises. It was a medicine man known as Yellow Bird blowing on his eagle-bone whistle and making motions with his arms inciting the braves to resist. They were tense and uneasy and appeared not to know what to do next.

In the village, soldiers were entering teepees and driving out women with children in their arms who were slowly followed by old squaws and their men. Some of them could hardly move. All emerged screaming and crying and shouting to male members of their family for help. Fletcher saw soldiers throwing out family belongings on to the partially snow covered ground. The enlisted men did find more weapons, which they brought back to the gathering. It looked like around 30 to 40 mostly ancient rifles.

The squatting Indians nervously moved their arms and bodies and shouted unknown words to the troops. They were becoming more 19

and more restless. Their women and children were being abused and Yellow Bird was screaming at them to do something about it.

Fletcher thought, “Why doesn’t Colonel Forsyth quiet things down? All he has to do is stand up and make some sign of wanting peace.” But Colonel Forsyth did not move. Did the memory of former comrades butchered under Custer’s command still stir in the hearts of the assembled officers and soldiers of the Seventh Calvary?

For a second, Lt. Martin thought that Yellow Bird was looking directly at him, beseeching him to do something but there was nothing he could do and the moment passed.

As the soldiers returned with the guns they found, one of them could not resist the temptation to raise a warrior’s blanket to see what was underneath. Instantaneously, Yellow Bird kneeled, grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it up into the air for all to see and at the same time shrieked out a blood-curdling scream. This was the signal. The braves, still seated, drew their weapons hidden beneath their blankets and fired at the surrounding troops.

The standing soldiers with their rifles already to their shoulders replied with a volley directly into the crowded warriors. Fletcher watched Yellow Bird’s face become a mass of bloodied, exposed bone, veins and tissue. The soldiers were so close it was like firing at point blank range and their first volley instantly killed half of the braves. Survivors sprang to their feet and tried to overcome the whites, hand-to- hand, but the Indians were vastly outnumbered and soon they were hacked to death by bullets, knives or axes or a combination of all three. None appeared to be alive or wounded. Lt. Fletcher Chard Martin had never seen a massacre but this had all the marking of becoming one. He would have no part of it.

“Lt. Martin, have your men commence firing,” ordered Capt. Bourke in a calm, formal voice.

The moment, Fletcher dreaded, had arrived. Fletcher drew a deep breath and said, “No, sir, I will not fire on the village.” His quavering voice was a vain attempt to act calm like the Captain.

Capt. Bourke was surprised and startled. He knew Fletcher was sensitive about killing Indians, but not this. He shouted, “This is a direct command, Lt. Martin, if you disobey you will be court-martialed, commence firing.”

20

Fletcher, still desperately trying to be composed, said, “No, sir, I will not obey.”

Bourke drew closer to Lt. Martin and in loud whisper said, “Fletcher, I beseech you. Don’t make me do this in front of the men. Commence firing.” Now, he was pleading. He and Fletcher were not great friends but they were friends. The two of them had drunk together and gone through hardships together. Fletcher was truly sorry that it had to come to this but he would not order defenseless women and children shot and killed.

“No, sir, “ he said. Fletcher stood at attention, his eyes focused on some unknown object directly ahead midst the smoke and screams and carnage.

Bourke brought back his gloved hand and slapped Fletcher full in the face, as hard as he could. Fletcher felt the pain of the blow but stood fast and moved only an inch or two from the force of the impact. Sgt. Taylor, who heard the exchange, immediately ordered two men to seize Lt. Martin and placed him under arrest.

Then Bourke gave the order to fire and the first volley of the Hotchkiss guns sent a storm of bullets among the women and children and whoever else were in their path. Everyone was killed or seriously wounded indiscriminately

Minutes later, when the smoke cleared, Fletcher saw bloodied corpses of Indians and soldiers, women and children randomly strewn where once a peaceful village had stood. Its white flag had disappeared in the smoldering debris. In the distance, he heard screams of women and children attempting to escape being slaughtered in the snow by Indian Scouts and mounted soldiers. .

His view of the massacre was blocked by a dark figure. It was Captain Bourke standing before him with a drawn revolver pointed at Fletcher’s heart.

“You are a coward, a fucking coward. No court martial for you. I am going to kill you, now, here, for disobedience,” Bourke screamed at him. His voice sounded like he was speaking from Hell.

“Yes, sir”

With blood in the air, Fletcher knew that one more dead body, his particularly, would be meaningless. Bourke looked directly into 21

Fletcher’s eyes and Fletcher knew that the man before him was a killer enhanced by the all the killing going on around them.

Fletcher noticed a large black fly was attempting to light on Bourke’s thin nose. With his free hand, Bourke was attempting to brush it away. Fletcher wondered if this innocuous act would be his last view of life.

“Captain, Captain, it’s urgent, we need you,” it was Sgt. Taylor, shouting at Bourke, “Some of the Indians are escaping. We must place the guns in new positions.”

Captain Bourke’s face expressed utter contempt for Martin’s actions. Why should he spend his time dealing with this coward? There were more important things to do, like killing Indians. He wheeled about while putting his revolver back into its holster and joined the sergeant in redirecting the firing of the guns.

By now Fletcher’s heart was beating like a tom-tom and his breath was coming in great gulps. He had just faced death. “In articulo mortis.”

He would never know whether the fly or Sgt. Taylor had saved his life but he would always think that one or the other or both had done so.

For disobeying a direct command, Fletcher was imprisoned at Fort Robinson where he faced court-martial proceedings. He knew that if the authorities had decided to make an example of him, he could have been sentenced to death by a firing squad but because of the presence of the eastern press and the public’s reaction to what was then correctly termed “a massacre”, the panel of officers offered Fletcher an immediate general discharge and an immediate release from prison. Without hesitation, he accepted these terms and was freed.

He was free but was he? While he was in prison, his waking hours had been spent pouring over the few Greek and Latin books he managed to bring with him. He also thought about his eventual encounter with his parents now living in Sioux City, Iowa. His sister had died five years earlier and from his Mother’s letters, she missed her daughter, terribly. She had devoted her life to caring for Donna and now she was left alone to live out the rest of her life with a man she loathed. Major Martin had retired from the service, last year. His only life had been the Army. Now he puttered in the garden and mumbled about the food she prepared for him.

22

She wrote her son, “Come home, when you can but do not stay. Make a new life for yourself. I love you, my sweet son, but you deserve better than what we offer.” His sleeping hours were spent dreaming about dead or dying Indians, the face of his father condemning him for being a coward, the face of his mother and sister offering him comfort but mostly Captain Bourke’s face offering death.

On the train to Sioux City, he considered what he should do with his life now that his career in the Army had ended. He decided to return to college and study the subject he has always loved—classical literature. “Non sum qualis eram.”

Knowing how his family would feel about his discharge, particularly his father, he decided not to stay in Sioux City very long. Perhaps this new western college, he had been reading about, Leland Stanford Junior University, might suit him. Why not? He had nothing to lose. In the west, he would begin a new life.

^^^^^^^^^^^

Ellen Brown had wavy blonde hair and was petite, 5’ tall and only 90 lb but what she lacked in stature she made up in energy. Unlike most women of the day, she went to Cornell University and after she graduated married Orrin Leslie Elliott. Leslie, he preferred his second name, was a young English instructor at Cornell who also worked as a secretary to Andrew White, President of the university..

After a while Ellen had a baby and named it “Louis” after Robert Louis Stevenson. Her husband got his doctorate in Economics in 1889 from Cornell and for two years looked for a position that would allow him to teach Economics but he was not successful and the two young people joked that “If nothing else turns up, we’ll go to California.”

Coincidentally, on Sunday morning March 22, 1891, Dr. David Starr Jordan, President of Indiana University was offered the presidency of Leland Stanford Junior University by Senator Leland Stanford. The university was located in California.

Stanford had almost exhausted his list of suitable candidates for president of his university that was scheduled to open its doors on October 1st of ’91. His first choice, General Francis Walker had not accepted the offer, he said because of the displacement problems for his seven children. On March 19th of ’91, the Senator and his wife visited Ithaca where they offered their presidency to Andrew White, President of Cornell, who also declined but recommended they contact an alumnus 23

of Cornell who was currently President of Indiana University, David Starr Jordan. Immediately the Stanfords in their railway car with their full retinue, rushed to Bloomington. There at forty years of age, ready to take on any challenge a new university in the west might offer him, David Starr Jordan accepted their offer.

Jordan had a faculty to hire, curriculum to organize, students to cull as acceptable candidates for the student body. All this was to be done within the intervening months from mid-March to the first of October. His first order of priority was to get administrative help for the mountains of paper work that would have to initiated and answered during these first months. He asked President White if he knew of anyone he could recommend. Dr. White immediately thought of Leslie Elliott who was acting as his secretary and assistant registrar at Cornell. Leslie had previously mentioned his interest in possibly “going to California.”

Dr. Jordan only vaguely remembered the short young man with the pleasant face who always seemed to be busy when Jordan visited Cornell administrative offices in his capacity as a trustee. Based almost solely on President’s White’s recommendation, David Starr Jordan decided that Leslie Elliott would be the first person he would place on the new university’s payroll.

Later in that same month, Ellen Elliott was broiling a thick juicy porterhouse steak over a glowing coal fire on the kitchen range in her house in Ithica. Her husband, Leslie, walked in the back door with a mischievous grin on his face and said to her, “How would you like to go to California?”

Ellen Elliott, thinking it was still part of their joke, ignored him and continued tending to her steak---broiling, seasoning, buttering.

Leslie Elliott put a telegram he was carrying in front of her face. “It’s from David Starr Jordan, President of Indiana University. He’s just been named President of a university in California, founded and endowed by Leland Stanford. He requires a secretary and he’s asked me to Bloomington at once to take the post and accompany him in June to California. I am going to accept and we’re going to California.”

Ellen Elliott turned around and kissed her husband full on the mouth. They were truly going to California which sounded to her as far away as another continent.

^^^^^^^^^^ 24

Sam Cutter was born and raised in Chicago. He knew this was true because he had a creased and faded birth certificate to prove it. The certificate gave his birth date, August 17, 1871, and his father’s name, also Sam Cutter and his mother’s name, Ingrid.

He had no memories of his father and no one ever mentioned what had happened to him and Sam never asked. When he was six years old, his mother died of pneumonia in St. John’s Hospital. Later, Sam thought it was syphilis since he was certain she worked as a strumpet. He vaguely remembered she had white, blonde hair, red lips and stroked his curly hair before leaving him alone in the bed they shared at night. When she returned next morning as he was just awaking, she smelled strange. Smells, Sam would later identify, as dealing with sex and drink.

After Sam mother died, he was sent to live with his mother’s brother, Gerhard Meindl, who lived in rooms above his bakery on Polk Street along with his five children.

Chicago’s main street was Halsted Street, which was thirty-two miles long with the stockyards to the south and the shipbuilding to the north. Polk Street crossed Halsted Street midway between the stockyards and the shipbuilding. Polk Street running west from Halsted Street became more prosperous. Running east, it grew steadily worse and crossed a network of vice and crime on the corner of Clark Street and Fifth Avenue. Gerhard Meindl’s bakery was located three blocks east of that intersection.

The five children who made up the Meindl family were from three different mothers so Sam had no problem fitting in. Gerhard was not interested in them as a family. They were cheap labor for the bakery. All of the children from the ages of eight to fourteen worked there. Sam stayed clear of the bread cutters, one of his cousins lost three fingers to its blades. A series of young and old women looked after Gerhard and his family. Sam raised himself.

His uncle had done one thing for him, he could tell Sam was quick, probably too quick for his own good and certainly quicker than his own children so he insisted that Sam should go to school and study and get good grades. Why he did this, Sam never knew but Sam’s back bore the scars of the cane that Gerhard used to show his insistence. .

Chicago had an excellent school system. If a child got good grades, the system made sure that the child was provided with training in 25 all the major academic subjects: Latin, History, Mathematics, English, German or French. Because only German was spoken at home, Sam did exceptionally well in that subject. With the cane as motivation, the other subjects were also mastered.

Thanks to Mrs. Wadley, he also mastered some degree of speech, manners and etiquette, at least enough to get by in polite society. Mrs. Wadley was a regular customer at the bakery and was taken by Sam’s looks. He was thirteen years old, tall for his age and according to Mrs. Wadley, “hung like a horse.” Sam became her lover. Mr. Wadley was a traveling salesman and was generally out of town, “on the road.”

Sam remembered the first time he had visited Mrs. Wadley in their home, which was in Polk Street’s more prosperous western area.

“Don’t stand out on there on the piazza, Sam. The neighbors will see you. Get in here and be quick about it”

He rushed inside the doorway and she gathered him against her large breasts and gave him a wet kiss while fondling his prick. He was already hard.

“Now get to the drapes and pull them tightly together so we can have some privacy,” she ordered and he obeyed. He ran from window to window shutting and pulling while she was moving up the stairway to the bedchamber.

Sam guessed that the minute those curtains were drawn; the surrounding neighbors knew exactly what was going on. By the time, he had finished and up in the bedchamber, she had already disrobed, waiting in the bed for him.

He remembered the first dinner Mrs. Wadley prepared for him after he had screwed her several times.

“My God, you are a Rube,” she said to him as he lifted the soup tureen to his lips with one hand and with the other hand held a piece of bread that he bit off and chewed like an animal.

“You’ll have to change if you are to improve yourself and become someone.”

“So, I screw you and you change me,” he bargained.

She responded, “That’ll be a tall order, young Sam. You are such a hooligan but I love you or should I say I love to fuck you.” 26

“Fair enough,” he said, “Learn me how to speak right so I talk gentleman.”

“Oh, my God, what a challenge. I think you speak English as if it were German or maybe a little of both. Well, after a bit more screwing, we will see. Who knows perhaps Mr. Wadley will die or I will poison him and you shall become my man of the house.”

Since Sam did want to improve himself, and not work in a bakery the rest of his life, he listened carefully as Mrs. Wadley taught him what was the correct thing to say, when to say it and general, good manners. He practiced what she told him even at Gerhard’s home at the table with all his cousins shouting and picking up food with their hands and not wiping their dirty faces.

“Pass them potatoes, Sam.”

“Please pass the potatoes, Dieter,” Sam insisted.

“I said pass them potatoes and I mean pass them potatoes and if you don’t pass them potatoes, I will hit you on your head,” said his cousin.

“So here are them potatoes,” and Sam threw several of the boiled potatoes at the offending cousin as hard as he could and the table became the scene of a battleground until Gerhard’s fist hit the top of the table and no one moved.

Dieter complained to his father, “Sam started it. He’s acting too good for his britches.”

Gerhard responded by boxing Dieter’s ears and said, “Mind your own business. Leave Sam alone.”

Gerhard never complained to Sam about his new behavior. Sam suspected his uncle knew exactly what he was doing and by remaining silent was encouraging him to make a new life for himself.

For working in the bakery, Gerhard gave Sam food and lodging, no money or clothing so stealing came naturally and this, too, Sam mastered. The secret of his success was to plan ahead, be quick and not be greedy. From his own family and the people he knew, he took small amounts of food, clothing and later money. Uncle Gerhard’s till was a regular source of income. 27

For other crimes, the streets of Chicago, particularly Polk Street, were his training grounds. A lesson he soon learned was that people were not always what they appeared to be. Sometimes the blind could see and the crippled could run.

One day he saw an old, white-haired blind man playing a violin, a small tin of bills and coins sat before him. Sam decided to run up, grab the tin and run off with it. He got a running start but by the time he was about to grab the tin, it had disappeared and instead of the violin the blind man had a stiff cane in both hands and was whacking Sam on his head as hard as he could. For a moment, Sam was surprised but because of his superior strength he soon overcame the old fellow. He took the cane from the old man’s hands and gave him a few whacks with it for good measure and to end the matter, found the hidden tin and calmly strolled off with it.

“Stop, you bastard. Thief, thief, stop,” the old man shouted at the top of his lungs.

“He took all my money. Stop him.” He beseeched members of a crowd, who had gathered to watch the struggle. But it was in vain. Even a policeman who had joined the group was amused and acted like the old man got what he was due. Sam calmly strolled to the corner but once he rounded it, ran off as fast as he could. He would take no chance that someone might change his mind.

Sam was strong enough so he knew he could best most of his victims. Only on one occasion when he had picked the pocket of an old man and the old man chased him into a dead-end alley and the old man kept hitting him with his cane had Sam resorted to extreme violence. He had left the old man in a pool of his own blood. He never knew for sure if the old man lived but he did know he was capable of killing if he had to.

In his own mind, he knew his life would have to change otherwise he would be the one to die on the streets of Chicago. In a tattered, April 21st, 1888; edition of Harper’ Weekly, Sam saw a full page of illustrations showing the new university Senator Stanford was building as a memorial for his dead son. It showed pictures of the Senator’s mansion and the lake near the university and how the university would look. Unlike Chicago, there were no tall buildings or hordes of people. Trees and low mountains surrounded the campus buildings. Tuition would be free. Sam liked what he saw and thought perhaps, if he had the opportunity, he might attend Stanford’s university.

28

In 1890, he graduated from Chicago High School. During the next months he continued working in the bakery and stealing money and screwing Mrs. Wadley and whoever else he could. He took money and jewelry from Mrs. Wadley but she never complained.

Then he read in the Chicago Tribune that entrance examinations for Senator Stanford’s university would be held in the city during the next week. On a whim, he decided to take advantage of the opportunity.

On the day of the examinations, Sam dressed himself in his finest attire and went to the downtown Olympic Hotel. There he met Professor Swain who was administering the examinations to fifty-two candidates of which ten were women..

Sam smiled as he sailed through the tests, covering a variety of subjects.

Afterwards, Dr. Swain asked him to come to his hotel room. Sam wasn’t sure what was going to happen. He had never had sex with a man and hoped he wouldn’t have to in order to get into Leland Stanford Junior University.

Dr. Swain opened the door to his hotel room and Sam, still standing some distance outside the doorway, wondering what was going to happen next. If he wanted sex, Sam was ready to comply.

“Young man, come in, come in.”

Sam walked in. Dr. Swain grasped his hand in his and said, “I just wanted to congratulate you. You have passed all of our examinations and it appears you have the highest marks of anyone we have tested.. Between myself and others on the faculty we have tested over a thousand students all across the nation and, so far, you have the top marks.”

“Thank you, sir. I have been most fortunate to have excellent teachers, “ said Sam, trying not to show how relieved he was.

“I want to let you know that I have the authority to formally admit you to Leland Stanford Junior University as a regular student and we expect you in California a the end of September to begin classes. Here is some material from our Registrar, Mr. Elliott, telling you exactly where you should go. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you, perhaps, in one of my classes.”

29

On the University’s application he was “Samuel Hawthorne Cutter III.” He was an only child. His father was a rich Chicago banker and his mother a patron of the arts. His home address was a fictitious one near where the Wadley’s lived on the western end of Polk Street. Just in case anyone doubted him, he would have his parents’ silver- framed picture in his valise. The picture was of Mrs. Wadley and her husband. The picture had sat, prominently, on the night table next to the Wadley’s bed. He wondered but really did not care how she would explain its loss to her husband.

~~~~~~~~

As a child, Sally Brewer was strange but beautiful. From her Norwegian mother, she reaped a broad forehead, high cheekbones, a determined little chin and a nose that was if anything too small, too perfect. From the German side of her father’s family, came dark blue eyes and straight thick blonde hair that hung to her shoulders without a ripple.

The strangeness was not evident to everyone, only members of her immediate family. She had no little friends to play with. She preferred playing with her dolls. She had four of them, two male and two female and each doll had a name and each had a personality of its very own, and its own unique voice. Her father, Henry Brewer, would stand outside her room and marvel at the little dramas, unfolding as he listened. Sometimes the dolls would argue and shout at one another and Mr. Brewer would even think there were other people in the room with Sally, but he checked and she was alone.

The other strangeness about Sally, that others were aware of, was how close she was to her father, too close, the neighbors said as they watched the family walk to church in Hanford, a small California village in the fertile Central Valley. Sally and Mr. Brewer cheerfully walked hand-in-hand. Mrs. Brewer and her little son, Edward, followed them, silently and sullenly, in stark contrast to the happiness and brightness that preceded them. It was hard not to notice the difference.

Sally was seven years old when her father, Henry Brewer was shot to death by gun men hired by the railroads.

Henry Brewer was a rancher who along with several of his friends was working several thousand acres of leased land with the intention of buying them from the Southern Pacific Railway. The land was part of an area called Mussel Slough located near Hanford. When 30

Brewer began working the land, the price quoted to him and his neighbors by the railroad agents was from $2.50 to $5.00 per acre. Brewer and his friends pooled their financial resources accumulated from years of hard work in the gold mines. They excavated an irrigation ditch to bring water from the King River to the parched but fertile soil. With water and hard work, the land soon bloomed with acres and acres of barley, wheat and fruit trees.

In 1878, they approached the agents to buy the land and found the price had been revised up to $17 and $40 per acre. The agents told the ranchers they either bought the land at the revised prices or quit their improved properties without compensation. The ranchers organized themselves as the Settler’s Land League and hired lawyers. There then ensued two years of complex maneuvers by both the railroads and the ranchers in courtrooms and legislative chambers to gain control of the properties. To ranchers it seemed that the law of the land was always on the side of the railroads because of all the money they gave to legislators and judges. At each turn of the winding road of the legal and judicial process, the railroads were always victorious and of course, during the entire process, Leland Stanford one of the owners of the railroads was also governor of the state of California and wielded horrendous power.

As the day approached when eviction papers would be formerly served, Henry Brewer and his friends decided that to save their land, they had to take the law into their own hands and show the rest of the country how unfair the judicial system had become. Public outcry would have to be their judge and jury even though their own destinies might be death.

On the night of May 10, 1880, Sally Brewer heard her father and other men talking in low soft voices in their dining room. Her mother and her brother and she stayed in the kitchen. There must have been a lot of men at the big table. Usually twelve could sit there and extra chairs had to be brought from the kitchen. Every so often, her Father stuck his head in and asked for more coffee and gave her mother the big black coffee pot to fill. Sally remembered following her Mother into the dining room, holding on to the hem of her dress. Through the cloud of smoke from cigars and pipes, she watched as her mother put a fresh pot on the table and glimpsed her Father at the head of the table with at least fourteen or fifteen of his rancher friends surrounding him.

When she walked by her father, he leaned down to her and ruffled her straight blonde hair with his broad, callused hand and gave her a smile but his blue eyes were not smiling. The men were all talking at the same time. It was as if they have a secret they didn’t want anyone to know. She saw shotguns leaning against the wall. She had never 31

seen so many guns in the house. Her Dad usually left his guns in the barn.

Next day, Sally and her brother went to school and just after noon, her Uncle Bill came to get them in his buggy. He went to the principal’s office and told her what had just happened. The children’s Father had been shot and killed. The principal had her assistant go get the Sally and Edward and bring them to her office. She left Bill to tell his niece and nephew what had happened.

First, Sally was brought in and when she saw Uncle Bill sitting there looking real somber, she knew something was wrong, real wrong. He didn’t say a word until Edward walked in and stood by her. As the two little children stood before him, waiting for him to say something Uncle Bill started to cry. They had never seen their uncle cry before so they figured the bad news concerned his sister, their mother.

Uncle Bill finally pulled himself together and blurted out, “Your father’s been shot and killed and I’ve come to take you home to your mother.” Sally and her brother still stood there for a moment not quite knowing what to do.

Their little minds were thinking about pets that had died and how the little animals had lain there and were still and they buried them and then got new pets. How could this happen to their Father? Sally asked her Uncle, “When is Daddy coming back and be our new Daddy?”

Uncle Bill was not expecting the question. He tried to be as gentle as he could. “No, honey, your Daddy is gone, gone to heaven.”

Edward started to sob, gently. He did not understand what was happening and crying came naturally.. Sally’s expression did not change. She still had more questions. “Gone, gone to heaven. He couldn’t leave me. I want to see him. I want to go with him.”

“No, honey. You can’t go where he’s gone. You have to stay with your Mother and help her. You both have to be brave for your mother’s sake.”

She ran to her Uncle and began to plummet him with her little fists screaming and shouting, “No, no, he wouldn’t leave me.” She kept saying over and over until the screams became sobs and she could not speak and she slumped to the floor in a dead faint. Uncle Bill did nothing to restrain her fists. He knew of her great affection for his brother-in-law. Its unnaturalness had been a topic at his dinner table. He was afraid this might happen. He knelt down and gently raised her now 32

peaceful body into his arms and carried her to his cart. Edward followed, close behind.. They would head out to the Brewer’s home where Henry’s body was being washed before being placed in a closed coffin.

When she got older, Sally would hear that Walter J. Crow killed her Daddy along with five other ranchers at a shoot-out. The railroads brought in both Crow and another hired gun by the name of Mills D. Hart in case there was any shooting when the eviction notices were served.

On the morning of May 11th, the two gunmen in a buggy driven by United States Marshall Alonzo Poole drove onto Henry Brewer’s ranch. In the Marshall’s pocket were eviction orders, signed and sealed. Crow and Hart were acting as the representatives for the Southern Pacific Railroad and along side them road over a dozen mounted deputies. Brewer and fourteen of his rancher friends were waiting for them. They rode up on their horses and surrounded the gunmen, Marshall and his deputies. Everyone was armed.

Luckily, Marshall Poole got down from the buggy and started to walk toward Brewer with papers in his hand. When shots rang out, he was struck to the ground by a bucking horse. It saved his life.

No one knew who fired the first shot but the educated guess was that it was Walter J. Crow. He certainly did most of the killing. While still seated in the buggy, he shot Henry Brewer twice in the heart with his revolver. Crow knew who the ringleader was and picked him off, first. Then he jumped to the ground with a shotgun to his shoulder and blew two ranchers off their horses. Reloading, he killed three more. In the meantime, the ranchers were able to shoot Mills who was still sitting in the buggy. The Marshall and his deputies managed to stay out of the line of fire and with all the commotion it would be hard to say they fired a shot. None of them were killed or wounded or even, grazed.

Crow attempted to get away and fled into a nearby wheat field but in the process, he must have been shot in the back. Initially they thought he had got clean away because they didn’t find his body until the next day. It was some distance from the shoot-out so he must have been wounded and then died a slow death beating his way through the tall wheat stalks.

Everyone had to admit he was a killing machine. Blood was everywhere.

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The funeral for the ranchers was outside the big Methodist Church in the middle of Hanford. Inside, there wasn’t enough room for the six caskets and all the family members and friends in the area that wanted to attend. The Brewer family stood up front, close to Henry’s casket. Sally’s mother never stopped crying and Sally was close by her little brother and didn’t take her eyes off her Father’s closed casket.

After the service was over, she pulled away from her mother’s hand and went over to her father’s casket and stood close by it and her little mouth could be seen saying words as if her father could hear them. People sitting close by tried to hear what she was saying, but couldn’t. Finally, her mother came over and had to drag her away.

At the Hanford Cemetery outside town, when the pallbearers started shoveling dirt on to the lowered caskets, Sally couldn’t look and instead looked up at the sky. It was a gray day with black and gray clouds whipping by. It could be a spring rain coming. She saw her father’s face in one of the gray clouds. He would never leave her, she thought.

Two year’s later, Sally’s Mother remarried a man named Mr. Forrest and the new family moved to Anaheim and Sally became Sally Forrest. Her mother had two more children by her new husband and she never mentioned Henry Brewer’s name but Sally never forgot him. She kept an old photo showing him and his young family in a formal pose taken at the local photography studio in Hanford. Her mother had Edward on her lap and Sally was standing in front of Henry and he had his big hand on her shoulder drawing her close. He had a kind face with a full light brown beard and he looked serious like they always do in those photos but Sally was convinced his lips under the beard were saying, “Don’t forget me.”

As she grew older, Sally would never understand why the railroads, the people who hired Crow and Mills were never accused and convicted of murdering her father. She thought that some day she would avenge his death. Some how the people who were responsible for murdering him would pay for it. She wasn’t sure how.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the fall of 1890, two Southern California cities, Riverside and Pomona, were playing foot-ball on a hard dirt field, with goal posts at each end, next to the Riverside Grange. It was the fourth quarter and Pomona was leading Riverside 16-14. 34

They were playing foot-ball according to Walter Camp’s newly revised collegiate rules. Five yards had to be gained from the scrimmage line and a team had three tries to do it. If they were not successful, they were supposed to punt the ball to the opposing team. Yards could be gained in any one of three ways: running up the middle or around left or right end. The foot-ball could be carried by one player and handed to another. They called that a “reverse play” but mostly it was just plain hard running and knocking over people.

Opposing teams stood face to face across a imaginary line, the scrimmage line, running through where the foot-ball was placed. The offensive team’s goal was to interfere with their opponents so that they could not tackle their team’s runner. The defense’s goal was to get around the interference and force their opponent’s runner to the ground in whatever manner they could. There were no rules about what or what could not be done to accomplish these goals. As Walter Camp preached, “The most important thing was to win.”

The rivalry between the two Southern California towns was intense and over two thousand supporters from both cities surrounded the playing field.

David Frederick Cooper was Riverside’s star fullback and leading yard gainer. He was 18 years old and about to graduate from Riverside High School. Just over six feet tall and weighing about 167 lbs, he was a handsome young man. His dark, curly hair was wet with perspiration. At the moment his face with its long nose and dark eyes was disfigured with a welt over his left eye that potentially might swell up and impede his vision. He did not care as long as he could tell the difference between members of his team and his opponents. He was also limping from a sprained right ankle and the heel of one of his own teammates had mashed the middle fingers of his right hand and one of them was bleeding and he kept wiping the smears of red blood off on his jersey top.

Players on both sides of the scrimmage line were in a similar state of disrepair. Foot-ball was not for the fainthearted. Everyone like David wore heavy jersey tops that were covered with mud and dirt and some, like David’s, streaked with blood. The more blood, it seemed, the better. It was a badge of courage. The tops had the name of their respective cities and a number embroidered on it usually by the player’s mother. For pants they wore the same clothing they might wear working in the orchards, heavy denim. Shoes were high top leathers with heavy soles that could be used to run over opponents or to kick them. Some of 35

the linemen wore light leather caps that were handmade and could partially protected their ears but backfield players like David wore no headgear, it might impede their vision as they ran.

Besides injuries, both teams were heavily fatigued having just played three thirteen-minute quarters with a fifteen-minute break at the halftime. They were now almost at the end of the forth and final quarter. All the players had their hands on their hips taking deep gulps of air. One of the Pomona team members had just been knocked unconscious and a player in a clean jersey took his place. David knew this new player was doomed.

With only two minutes left to play, Riverside had the ball on Pomona’s thirty-two yard line. On first down, David made a grand run around Pomona’s left end picking up two yards. His best friend, John Reichold was the lead interferer and forced Pomona’s right end to give way, creating the advantage. Riverside needed two more yards or they would have to turn over the ball to their opponents.

In the huddle, between plays, David looked around at his fellow players and saw an assortment of sweaty faces with bloodied noses, black eyes and cut lips. Everyone was breathing heavily. John Reichold told him, “ I can do it, David. Follow me around the other side.”

Through attempts to catch his breath, David was barely able to say, “We go right. Everyone interfere left and get your man on the ground. I don’t care how.”

They broke the huddle and came up to the scrimmage line. Riverside’s Center-Rush made a clean snap of the foot-ball to David. John pulled out of his Left Guard position on the scrimmage line and both he and David made a feint pretending to go left but instead they picked up a full head of steam and made a beeline toward Pomona’s Right End. Unfortunately, Pomona’s Right Tackle slipped in behind David and made a clean tackle bringing him to the ground. No gain.

With less than a minute to play, Riverside would now have to make three yards, sizeable yardage. Back in the huddle, there were apologies for missing the Right Tackle but the team agreed their best chance was to go up the middle this time, again with John leading the way.

David looked at his team and shouted over the cheers of the surrounding crowd, “We can do it, gang.”

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John agreed wholeheartedly, “We will do it.” He hollered it out to be heard.

Another crisp snap of the foot-ball to David who, this time, feinted to his left but quickly took a direct path up the center of his line behind John’s ferocious interfering. John had the look of a wild man on his face and he was screaming, “For Riverside. For Riverside,” as he ran full bore into the mass of Pomona humanity protecting the middle of their scrimmage line. By shear strength, he managed to interfere both the Center-Rush and the Left Guard and then he went down, lost in the melee. As David crossed the line, all he could see were the faces of fans standing behind the goal post. He heard the crunch of something breaking and a muffled scream of pain.

Before he could think twice, David was clear of the line and there was only one Pomona player between him and the goal line. He feinted left. He could feel his opponent’s hands on his upper body trying to drag him down. With his left hand and all his might he gave the player a tremendous straight arm to the face that sent the Pomona player reeling to the ground. It looked like he might have been knocked out.

He was four feet from the goal and now he was over the goal and touching the ball to the ground. It was a touchdown and Riverside had won, 20-16. The game was over and a mob of Riverside fans and players surrounded David and jumped on him and everyone was on the ground, laughing and cheering. They had won the game.

When David was able to stand, he immediately went back to the Pomona player whom he had straight-armed to make sure he was all right. By then, the player had regained his feet and indicated he was fine but he pointed back to the scrimmage line where a group of anxious players and coaches and parents were gathered around a player who was still on the ground. It was John.

David rushed back to join his fallen friend.

John’s body was writhing in pain and Dr. Roberts, the local family doctor, was leaning over him with a syringe in his hand administering morphine. John’s mother was on the ground, holding her son in her arms. John’s legs were thrust out before him. His left leg was contorted, almost L-shape. Below the knee, halfway down could be seen the ragged end of a bone like a horse bone that had been broken in two breaking through John’s skin. Blood from the break covered John, his Mother and the Doctor.

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When David saw his best friend in such agony, he slumped to the ground, on all fours like an animal, sobbing.

David’s father, Frederick Cooper, and his sister, Susan, ran from their viewing spot at the opposite end of the field. David’s mother, Marva, had stayed at home. She had no desire to see her son battered even if it was supposed to be a game.

Both he and Susan kneeled beside David and put their arms around him.

Through sobs, David told them, “John broke his leg. You can see the bone. It’s horrible. Horrible.”

Mr. Cooper looked at the scene on the five-yard line where parents, team members and Riverside fans and Dr. Roberts surrounded John. His eyes confirmed what his son had just told him. He knew from his own experience that breaking a major bone in the leg was very serious. Unless John was extremely lucky, there was good chance he would never walk again

On his own, David regained his composure. He stood up with the help of his family hands and said, “I have to help him. I have to do what I can. Crying doesn’t help.”

Mr. Cooper knew his son was brave but he never knew how brave until then. All three of the Coopers joined the group at John’s side.

By now, John was unconscious. His body, still held by his Mother, was limp and his face looked as if he were deep in sleep. The bleeding was staunched and the break covered with white sheeting that someone had brought from a nearby home.

Dr. Roberts decided that it would be best if he were taken directly to a hospital in Los Angeles where he could get specialized care. Taking care of broken bones was beyond his capability. John’s brother was sent to the local livery stable to get a wagon and a fast team for the two to three hour trip to the city’s hospital. Both the Doctor and Mr, and Mrs. Reichold would go with John. He would need more morphine injections during the trip.

After about thirty minutes, the brother returned with a team of black stallions that looked like they could make good time. Mr. Knight, the owner of the livery, was driving. He was at the game and was 38

donating his services. He brought along a large canvas stretcher that was broad enough to support the contorted leg.

Since John was big, weighing over 170 lbs, it took all of the strength of six men to hoist his unconscious body into the back of the cart where Mrs. Reichold and Dr. Roberts joined him. Mr. Knight and Mr. Reichold sat up front. They all gave a forlorn wave to the group that would remain in Riverside, which included John’s brother. Mr. Knight snapped the whip over his team’s heads and the disconsolate group was off on their long trip to Los Angeles.

After they were out of sight, David looked over at the foot-ball field where only an hour before, he and John were shouting and running. It was deserted; a stray dog ran across it and there were scraps of paper that the crowd had left behind. Now, all the plans he and John had made to go to college together would be dashed.

His father, Frederick Cooper and sister, Susan, came over to him. “There is nothing more you can do, David.” They took him by his hands and the three Coopers, hand in hand, solemnly made their way to the family rig tied to an oak tree not far from the field.

One more final time, David looked back at the deserted foot-ball field and thought, “ Yes, they had beat Pomona but was John’s leg worth it?”

The Cooper family got into their rig and Mr. Cooper drove his family home.

^^^^^^^^^^

Two months after John Reichold’ ill-fated accident, during the winter of 1890, Frederick Cooper, who was president of the Riverside Board of Trade, heard Senator Leland Stanford speak at one of their meetings. Stanford along with Coliss Huntington, Mark Hopkins and Charles Crockett were the founders and owners of the Central and Southern Pacific Railroads. They were all fabulously rich. Stanford spoke at the meeting about California’s great future as a provider of products for world consumption.

After the meeting was over and almost everyone who was a member of the Board had shook his hand and congratulated the Senator on what a wonderful speech he had made, Frederick saw that the Senator’s carriage was late in picking him up and while he was waiting, 39

there was an opportunity to speak to the great man, alone. He went over to where he was standing and introduced himself and they shook hands and Mr. Cooper said, “Thanks, again, Senator, for that wonderful speech. We all really enjoyed it.” Then he said what was really on his mind, “I read in Harper’s Illustrated Weekly that you and your wife are starting up a university up north on your farm.”

It was as if the Senator was waiting for the subject to arise and he certainly wasn’t reluctant to talk about their university. He turned to Cooper as if they were old friends and in his deep and sonorous voice said, “It’s a memorial for Leland, Junior. One night, after he died of pneumonia, he came to me in a dream and said that now I should treat the children of California as if they were my children. So Mrs. Stanford and I had Mr. Olmsted, the man who laid out New York City’s Central Park, make up plans that would include space for giving our children, boys and girls, a free education at all levels, from kindergarten to university”

“That’s wonderful, Senator,” said Mr. Cooper really thinking of his own two children who would need help if they were going to college.

“And I will tell you, it’s Cooper, right, Mr. Cooper, my university is going to offer the children of California, a practical education—the kind that would prepare them for life’s work. I remember when I interviewed graduates from Harvard or Yale for jobs with my railroad and I asked them what they could do and they answered, ‘Everything.’”

Both Mr. Cooper and the Senator chuckled when he told the story and the Senator in an act of comradeship put his hand to Cooper’s shoulder and gripped it. “I can see you, like me, wouldn’t hire that sort of person and that is not the kind of graduate my university is going to turn out, Mr. Cooper.”

“I’m sure my son would like to apply.”

“Good for him. He needs to have good grades and pass our entrance examinations and if he is his father’s son, I am sure he will be accepted. Here, let write out where he should send his information on one of my cards. He took out a card and wrote on it in a square, large script: Registrar, Leland Stanford Junior University, Menlo Park, California. Then handed the card to Mr. Cooper who put it away as if it were a precious document in his vest pocket.

Stanford continued talking, “Right now Mrs. Stanford and I are trying to hire a University President and its surprising how eastern men 40

are not adventuresome like we are and are turning us down but we’ve got good reports on a young gentleman from Indiana who might just fill the bill.”

“And one more thing, Mr. Cooper, our Palo Alto Farm has a superb climate and is a wonderful place for raising racehorses and I figure if the climate is good for horses why wouldn’t it be good for students, too”

“Makes sense to me, Senator.”

That kind of talk did made sense to Fred Cooper. He knew what it took to breed and train good horses and he was particularly interested when Mr. Stanford mentioned tuition at his university would be free. Times were tough for the Coopers. He had just built a new home and the young orange groves were still not mature enough to make any real money. This might be an opportunity for his two children.

Their conversation abruptly ended when Stanford’s driver told him his carriage was now out front, waiting for him and the Senator rushed out of the meeting but as he left, his dark, intense eyes met Mr. Cooper’s and he waved good-bye to him and shouted, “I’m looking forward to meeting your son, Mr. Cooper,” he said as he left the room.

That evening, Mr. Cooper told his family about Leland Stanford Junior University. Both David and his sister, Susan, who was two years younger than David, were excited about the new university. Both of them wanted to go to college and they knew, because of their father’s financial problems, this might be their only chance.

Next day, David visited John Reichold. He was still recuperating at his home, which was three streets over, and two block up from David’s. A thick plaster of paris cast covered his left leg from his crotch to the end of his toes. From x-rays, the doctor in Los Angeles said the bone in his leg appeared to be healing. They still couldn’t tell whether it would support his weight when he walked, least of all when he ran.

David had been delivering and picking up his homework so he would not get to far behind at school. With the aid of crutches, the Doctor had told John he could return to high school next week. He told John about Leland Stanford Junior University, where it was located and that tuition was free. He wanted John to go with him to college next year but John was not optimistic.

“Nah, I better stay here near my family and Dr. Roberts until I see how it is going to work out. I don’t want to go up there with 41 crutches. I think that in a year’s time I am going to be able to walk and even run and then I will join you. You’ll have to go up there on your own for now, David.”

David knew he was right. That same day he asked that his high school records be sent to the address the Senator had given his father. The principal said he would send along a personal letter of recommendation for David.

During the spring of ’91, David graduated from Riverside Union High School with honors. Most of his friends, except John who was still on the mend, had been accepted by the State University in Berkeley. David was still hoping to hear from LSJrU but when July was almost over, he had really given up his plans and thought he would try to go to the state school at Berkeley next term and work in his Dad’s orchards during the fall months.

Then in mid-July he went to the mailbox as he had each day waiting for some response and there inside was a small envelope with “Leland Stanford Junior University, c/o Menlo Park, California” printed in the upper, right hand corner.. He tore open the envelope. His hands were sweaty and trembling. Inside was a folded, white piece of paper with the following typewritten message:

Dear Mr. David Cooper,

David Ludlow Cooper is accepted provisionally as a first year student. He should report to Encina Hall on Monday, September 28, 1891 and be prepared to take entrance examinations. Classes will begin on Monday, October 1, 1891. Please acknowledge this letter by return post.

Dr. O. L. Elliott Registrar of the University

David ran all the way back to his home shouting, “I’m accepted. I’m accepted. I’m going to Stanford.”

^^^^^^^^^^

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In April and May of 1891, while Ellen Elliott and her son, Louis, were waiting to join Leslie they stayed at her parent’s home in the town of Burdett, upper New York State. While they were there, chunks of information about their new home in the West was sent to them in her husband’s letters from Bloomington, Indiana, where he was already working for Dr. Jordan.

From his letters, Ellen learned that in California “rose vines grew to over forty feet high and reached the rooftops.” She heard of the Senator Stanford’s white picket fenced paddocks where he bred racehorses some worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Leslie wrote that the estates of millionaires were close by to the university and it was easy for her to imagine gentle and gracious millionaire neighbors dropping by to get acquainted after the Elliott family arrived.

She was told that the university would be made up of a series of great quadrangles. One of them was already up and it would be joined to others. Stone building, tile roofed, would surround garden like courts and the entire campus would be beautifully landscaped. And what sounded particularly inviting to Ellen’s ears was that stone cottages, also with tile roofs, would be erected on the campus for the faculty and their rents would be nominal.

So, in June, with great hope and anticipation, Ellen and Louis, her little son, took leave of her parents. They climbed into her father’s gig and he gathered the reins into his hands and said, “giddap” and his horse stepped off and began the journey to the nearby city of Watkins where there was a railroad station.

There would be eight more of them, traveling with Leslie, Ellen and Louis Elliott, west toward California. Dr. David Starr Jordan, President of the University, and his wife, Jessie, with two of their three children, Edith who was eleven years old and Knight, three years of age. The third boy, Harold, who was eight, remained with relatives in Indianapolis because of an illness. His wife, Emily and his mother, Mrs. Richardson, accompanied Dr. George M. Richardson who would teach Chemistry. Dr Jordan also brought along two young people who would help with the chores and who, potentially, might be among the first class of students, Albert Fletcher and Charlotte Rankin.

Even though they traveled Pullman class with berth accommodations, the train was still hot and confining and soon the two youngsters got bored. It took them eighteen hours to cross Kansas. The train kept stopping for almost half a day or overnight for no apparent reason. At Pueblo, Colorado, the party disembarked for six hours.

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Dr. Jordan arranged for a large bus like wagon to transport the group to an outlying area where the ground plan of a “city to be” had been laid out with little white stakes. Streets, parks, lampposts, buildings, people “had to be imagined” on the gray stark plain. Dr. Jordan enthusiastically embarked upon a botanical lecture---picking up small flowers with his thumb and forefinger and telling the group their Greek names and how many petals each had and how they reproduced. They saw prairie dogs sitting on their haunches, staring at them as intruders, which they were. The party of sightseers was surrounded by giant cactus and Dr. Jordan told them their names, too.

They spent a night in Leadville with its mining camps and bulky mining machinery. Dr. Jordan told them that ten million dollars’ of silver was mined there each year but Ellen Elliott was more in awe of the snow capped mountains rimming the area and the crystal blue sky above.

Traveling through the Rockies, Dr. Jordan showed them the exact spot where a drop of water would split, half to flow toward the Pacific and half to the Atlantic. The Royal Gorge impressed Dr. Jordan but not Ellen Elliott. She found it “lonesome, wild, barren and tremendously useless.” Most of the others agreed with her. Although compared with the Great American Desert, it was an oasis. This was the worst yet. Gazing at its vast nothingness, Ellen made the comment, more to herself than to anyone, “I don’t believe there is a more desolate spot on earth.”

Dr. Jordan within earshot agreed with her, “There isn’t,” he said.

During the night, traveling across the desert, Ellen slightly lifted her berth curtain and looked out upon a scene lit by a full moon. There the pale gray desert stretched before her disappearing into nothingness. For the first time, Ellen felt pangs of remorse about leaving Ithaca’s green hills. What had they gotten themselves into?

The trip took ten days but finally they were there. When they arrived at Benicia, a ferry carried their train in sections across miles of salt flats. “The salt of the Pacific,” Dr. Jordan told the group. At Oakland, another ferry took them across The Bay but this time their train section set on the upper deck, forward, so The Bay’s wonders were revealed to them.

“I don’t believe there is a more beautiful water on earth,” Ellen cried out.

Again, Dr. Jordan agreed with her. “There isn’t,” he said. 44

They saw lovely blue water wind around the harbor’s capes and islands to the Golden Gate. Everywhere there were ships, coming, going, and at the wharves, some steam or the older four masters. Other ferryboats to Mill Valley or Alviso or back to Oakland churned the waters beside them. The scene brimmed with beauty and bustle.

Mr. Herbert Nash, Senator Stanford’s secretary and major-domo of the Stanford household, met the group at the Third and Townsend Streets Station. Nash had been young Stanford’s tutor. He already had met Dr. Jordan so the two quickly recognized one another. Even without that advantage it would have been easy to pick out the disheveled group of men and women dragging two youngsters along with them. With great consideration, Mr. Nash quickly transferred them and their baggage to a local train, which would make its way south to the Menlo station. There was no station for the Palo Alto Farm, which was the name given to Senator Stanford’s home, stock farm, vineyards, orchards and hay fields and the university he was building.

There he was, standing on the Menlo Station platform, waiting to greet them, Senator Leland Stanford, Senator of the sovereign state of California, former governor of that state, part owner and founder of the Central Pacific Railroads and co-founder with his wife, Jane, of the University and considered by many to be a viable candidate for the Presidency in ‘92. He looked like the many pictures and illustrations, they had seen of him. A portly man, average height with long arms and short legs, a prominent nose, full beard, but it was his dark piercing eyes that seemed to take in all that was going on around him that was his most prominent characteristic. When he spoke to them it was in a quiet voice but one that demanded and got full attention.

Dr. Jordan introduced him to all the group’s members, which he acknowledged with shaking hands with every male and understanding nod to the females. The travelers could tell he fully appreciated the difficult journey they had made. When he saw the two little boys scampering about, he said, “So this is Knight and Louis.” He touched them lightly on the tops of their heads. Both of them were too busy to look up.

Dr. Jordan said, “Knight, Louis, say hello to Senator Stanford.”

The boys ignored him.

The Senator smiled wanly. “Boys will be boys,” he said. Even that slight smile and remark was enough for some to recognize his heart was still broken. 45

“A long trip like that is particularly hard on the children.” He looked at Dr. Jordan.. “The cottage has been prepared for you. Ah Sam is the best cook in the territory, even better than ours. I hope you and Mrs. Jordan and your guests find the arrangements to your liking.”

Dr. Jordan came up to the man that now ruled his destiny. “I am sure we will. And we all appreciate your coming here to greet us.”

“After all your trials, it was the very least I could do. I hope you don’t mind but Mrs. Stanford and I will be coming by early this evening to say hello.”

As a group, the response was, “No, it would be a pleasure to see you both, later.”

He waved his broad hand to encompass all of them. “Then I bid you good-bye and will see you all, later.”

The Senator returned to his carriage. Inside, waiting, was another elderly man who must have been brought along as a companion and to observe. As the carriage departed down Menlo’s dusty dirt roads, Senator Stanford earnestly began to converse with the man. Ellen guessed that he was asking his friend what he thought of the new arrivals.

The group now dwindled to nine since Dr. Richardson and his wife and mother departed to take up residence in another of Stanford’s cottage located in the Menlo area---Cedro Cottage. Mr. Nash loaded the remainder into a carryall with two long lengthwise seats. Nash sat up front with the black driver who was one of the Senator’s men.

He looked back at the assembly of men, women and children, now seated across from one another and said, “I know you all want to get to your destination but first, we must pick up the mail for the University.”

Leslie was not expecting the detour. He had worked diligently right up to the time he left Bloomington to pick up his family in Indianapolis to make sure all the mail for the University had been answered. Now, ten days had gone and he was certain there would be additional letter, applications, questions that needed his attention. He had expected that someone, anyone might have picked up the mail during their trip. 46

“The Post Office is only a few doors down, ” Nash shouted at them over the creaking of the harnesses and the muffled sounds of horses’ hooves.

Ellen Elliott had to contain a groan. Leslie returned her look of dismay with a look, which meant in any language, “Don’t say a word.”

The carryall maneuvered up narrow dirt roads past, because it was mid-day and the weather was warm, empty board walks, empty saloons and verandas of non-discreet hotels to a small one-storied white framed building with a small hand painted sign, “United States Post Office.”

The three men, Dr. Jordan, Leslie, and young, Mr. Fletcher began to go in and came out of the post office their arms loaded with mail, which they attempted, at first to stack in tidy piles on the floor of the little carryall. After the forth trip, tidiness was forgotten. The ladies, young girl and children found that their feet soon disappeared under the accumulation of correspondence. It was almost up to their knees. Knight and Louis could literally swim in it. The ladies were close to hysterics. The children thoroughly enjoyed all the activity.

Through it all Leslie’s smile became grimmer and grimmer. After all, it was he that would have to deal with all of it. He questioned to himself why no one had been asked to go the Post Office and pick it up, before, and then he realized that in the Senator’s eyes, it was their job to do—his and Dr. Jordan’s. and no one else’s.

Now, almost knee-deep in mail intended for the University, the disheveled group made its way on the county road, toward their future home, already named by Dr. Jordan, Escondite “Hideaway” Cottage. About a mile to the south they could see the bare outline of Leland Stanford Junior University. As they got closer, Dr. Jordan proudly had the carryall stop to point out his university to the newcomers---it was far from the splendid sight, Ellen Elliott expected to see. Across a dry, trampled hay field, she saw the bleak outline of bare buildings behind, which were hills of the same, burnt out hue. No arcades, no gardens none of the grandeur her husband had written about in his letters. Of course, she had to think we are seeing the buildings from outside, courts and gardens were inside but still it was an anticlimax. She thought, “It looks like a factory.”

As if sensing his wife’s feelings, Leslie could only look at the same dismal outline and think, “I didn’t know.” From then on he became chary of Dr. Jordan’s inclination to be overly rapturous in his 47 descriptions and overly optimistic in his anticipations. He would be the opposite.

After another half mile they were nearing a village, which Dr. Jordan told them, was Mayfield and on its outskirts they turned right and headed south back into open fields. Another half mile and they saw the first sign of trees and shade and in the midst of these pleasant surroundings was their destination, Escondite Cottage. Wearily they jumped down from the bus and proceeded to begin the unloading process.

Late afternoon, in spite of the fact that the families barely had time to wash the dust off their faces, Senator and Mrs. Stanford who were spending the whole summer at their summer home dropped by Escontite Cottage as forewarned by the Senator for a friendly visit. The Stanford’s sat on the porch with the families. Ellen told her husband, afterwards, that she thought they were kind-hearted and unpretentious in their manner…but, for Leslie, there seemed to be something condescending that reminded him that the master and mistress were visiting the hired help.

^^^^^^^^^

Francis “Frank” Batchelder in May of “91 heard from professors at Cornell that Dr. David Starr Jordan had accepted the presidency of the new university in California. Actually, Frank was two month’s late in finding this out since Dr. Jordan had accepted an offer from Senator and Mrs. Stanford in March of that same year

Frank had just completed his first year at Cornell University and worked as a stenographer, part-time, in Cornell’s Admissions Office. Sometimes he was supervised by Dr. Leslie Elliott, who acted as the President’s secretary as well as taught English.. As a stenographer, Frank was adept at taking shorthand and used the typewriter proficiently. Leslie Elliott had been very impressed with both his abilities and work ethic.

After Jordan hired Leslie Elliott as Registrar, when a need for a stenographer in California came up, it was easy for Leslie to think of Frank Batchelder. He was in Indianapolis at the time, so he sent a letter to Frank offering him the job to start July 1, in California.

At that time, Frank was thinking about going back to Cornell for his second year and having a leisurely visit with his parents who lived in Newark, New Jersey and maybe going to the New Jersey’s seaside with 48 his sister and her husband for a vacation but after he spoke to Professor Marks and Professor Wing who taught at Cornell and had been recruited by Jordan, he changed his mind and accepted Dr. Elliott’s offer.

He spent a few days with his Mom and Dad, borrowed $50 from his sister for the railroad trip, which would cost about $100 and packed his typewriter in a stout wooden box for shipment to Menlo Park, California.

Frank was a beardless youth in his very early twenties. Since he was brought up in a strict Christian environment he had never touched liquor, cursed or smoked. He was 5’ 8’ tall, sandy-haired and slender with well-kept hands and fingernails. He had the appearance of a young minister in training. His mother was a member of longstanding in the Women’s Christian Temperance Union and would have been pleased if her son had become a member of the clergy but it did not appeal to him. An adventure in the west did.

So Frank embarked upon his adventure. The railway trip from Newark to Norfolk, Virginia went quickly enough without incident but the trip from Norfolk to Knoxville, Tennessee was the worst part of the trip across country. He had to ride with emigrants, mostly German, in Zulu Cars. He felt very uncomfortable in their presence but luckily Frank was the type of person who easily befriended people and the conductor on the train from Knoxville to Chattanooga let him travel first class for nothing so that he wouldn’t have to put up with the emigrants and their families. Unfortunately, they changed conductors at Chattanooga and he had to pay the new conductor 65 cents to ride first class to Memphis but it was worth it. From Memphis to Kansas City, the emigrants were in separate cars because they were headed toward Salt Lake City and not California.

He paid $3 more to ride in a Tourist Sleeper from Kansas City westward and for that he got a berth and there were only two to three other passengers in the car and they were respectable people. The Tourist Sleeper was neat and pleasant but there was no upholstery, simply hard wooden seats and berths and thin woolen blankets for warmth. The motion and sounds of the railway cars put him to sleep.

In Colorado the trip started to get interesting. He saw real Pueblo Indians in La Junta. Their homes were made of adobe and the countryside was pretty near the mountains but as the train got deeper into the desert it became more and more bereft of vegetation. Through the train’s window he caught a brief glimpse of Pike’s Peak over 110 miles away. 49

They stopped briefly in Flagstaff and Frank had the opportunity to walk around a town that was only 18 months old. He saw lots of saloons and people drinking and smoking and heard cussing. He felt better when he got back on the train and he hoped California was not going to be like Flagstaff.

The train traveled across the Mojave Desert and out the window could be seen cactus that grew fifty feet high and no other vegetation for as many miles as you could see. The temperature went up to 115 degrees in the shade, no telling how hot it was in the sun. It got so hot that Frank’s nose started bleeding and the conductor told him that happened to lots of people and he should pinch his nostrils to make it stop. Frank pinched but it made the bleeding worse so he put back his head and put a wet towel over his face. After a while the bleeding stopped but his shirt had bloodstains and there was no water to wash them off.

After looking at the bright sun shining on the desert’s sand, Frank’s eyes were sore all the next day. The metal work inside the railway car was hot to the touch and even the woodwork and cushions. After a time, the ice gave out and Frank had to drink warm water or none at all. Finally they arrived at the Techachapi Pass, which were the beginning of the Coastal Range and the somewhat cooler temperatures of California’s Central Valley.

From Bakersfield through Fresno, he saw more desolation but now there were acres and acres of orchards and fields. Time went by slower now that he could see that he was getting closer to his destination but finally he arrived in San Francisco.

It was a let down. Frank didn’t spend very long in San Francisco but what he saw reminded him of Flagstaff. It seemed like an “ornery” place, not the kind of place for a Christian young gentleman.

He got his baggage and took the local train to Menlo Park and when he got there he asked which way was Escontite Cottage and started to walk there carrying his heavy valise. Lucky for him coming the other way on the county road was Dr. Jordan, Dr. Elliott, and Dr. Richardson in a carriage, the Senator had loaned to them. They stopped and told him they were going back to Menlo Park to get more luggage that had come in, late, and to pick up more mail. They offered to take his valise with them and they would meet him at Escontite Cottage.

About thirty minutes later, he arrived at the cottage and there was Mrs. Jordan, Mrs. Elliott, their children and the two young people they 50

brought with them, Charlotte Rankins and Albert Fletcher. They invited him to have some cold cider and said he could sleep there but he would have to find board in Mayfield because even now there was no room at the table for the Jordan’s daughter, Edith. They showed him a small room he could share with Mr. Fletcher. There wasn’t enough room for him to unpack and after a while he started walking to Mayfield to find a place where he could board.

The weather was sultry and while there was some shade at Escontite, there was none on the dusty road to Mayfield. As he got closer to town, and he saw some of its inhabitants, he thought to himself that he did not want to board with people in Mayfield, but there was no other choice. He wished he were back in the green hills of Newark, New Jersey and he thought about his sister and her husband probably enjoying the cool ocean breezes at that very moment and he wished he were with them. The thought of having to walk a mile, each way, to get board twice a day was almost too much for him to bear. He continued walking into town wondering what he had gotten himself into.

^^^^^^^^^

In mid-August, at noontime, Drs. Leslie Elliott and David Starr Jordan and George M. Richardson set together on a curb in the just completed inner quadrangle of the university that they were preparing to open on October 1st, only six weeks off.

The three men were eating their lunches from lunch pails, which they brought with them that morning. Jordan had walked the half-mile from Escontite Cottage. Dr. Richardson and Leslie had a longer walk. After two weeks, it had not worked out having the two families live together at Escontite so Dr. Richardson and his family had temporarily taken them in at Cedro Cottage but the Elliott family was boarding at a Menlo Hotel. It was a temporary arrangement so Leslie and Ellen were already looking for another place in Menlo to live, so far without luck.

As Drs. Elliott and Richardson carried their pails past workmen still putting the finishing touches to many of the campus buildings, workmen said good mornings to their “Hobo Professors.” In their eyes the only people who walked and carried their food with them were the many hobos who roamed the countryside, some of them Civil War veterans.

It was another hot day with a brilliant sun and no cooling breezes from the bay. What breeze there was, was like heat from a hot coal fire. Every day had been hot since they arrived six weeks’ before. They sat 51

in the shade of the newly constructed arcades on the north side of the Western Arch leading to the inner quad next to the administrative offices into which they had moved two weeks’ before. During the month of July, the three men had worked out of a small brick building on the Escontite property. Even entrance examinations had been given to applicants on the porch of the cottage.

At first, the threesome ate in silence, surveying the expanse of the inner courtyard, almost 600 feet long and nearly 250 feet wide. The whole area was covered by black asphalt interspersed by eight circular plots planted with different varieties of three to four foot high palm trees. It was configured like a #8 domino. Around the quadrangle sat twelve, single story buildings constructed of buff sandstone topped with reddish tile roofs; all joined and shaded by the Romanesque arcades that Leslie thought, “…were heaven sent on a hot July day like this.” One site in the middle of the building facing north had only a façade. It would be the site of a high steepled church that would rise up in the future. At each end of the quadrangle were 30’ high Spanish arches facing east and west. On the original drawings, the Western Arch would be the main entrance and would lead to both Menlo and the County Road and to the Senator’s Palo Alto Farm..

Dr. Leslie Elliott, the first Registrar, was of average height, slightly built with the young, beardless face of a man just over thirty years old. His wife Ellen said he was handsome but he never thought of himself as being any thing but ordinary looking. He noticed that when he was introduced to people when they saw him, later, they would not remember his name. He, like the other men, was dressed in dusty dark heavy trousers and a white cuffed and collared shirt with a black tie. Because of the heat, all of the men had left their dark jackets in the office but all wore hats--- Drs. Elliott and Richardson, black bowlers and Dr. Jordan a soft slouch hat of neutral shade.

Leslie broke the silence of the men’s chewing and swallowing. He spoke quietly, carefully choosing his words, “Dr. Jordan, I hate to bring up a disagreeable subject during our noon repast but we must order books for the library, if we are to have a library. Our Librarian won’t be arriving for four weeks and if we wait until then, we won’t have books for the students starting class on October 2nd. “

David Starr Jordan did not immediately reply. He continued chewing on a chicken drum leg, Jessie, his wife, has cooked for him after he had, very early that morning, caught one of their chickens and dressed it. He had a white handkerchief in his left hand and the chicken in the other. Unlike his slimmer, younger companions, he was in a slightly reclining position with his dusty, scuffed boots spread before 52

him. He was a large, imposing man, over six feet tall and weighed slightly more than 200 lbs. He had intent light blue eyes and a Roman nose under which grew a full mustache that hid his mouth but not his weak chin. Because of the girth of middle age--he was 42 years old--it was not easy for him to bend in the middle.

After a moment, he answered Elliott’s question, “Senator Stanford, from what his Business Manager says, wants only a modest beginning. Mr. Lathrop says he does not want any accumulation of materials or equipment beyond what is needed.”

“And who are we talking to the Senator or Mr. Lathrop? asked Dr. Elliott.

“I am afraid on this subject, Mr. Lathrop.”

“And what does Mr. Lathrop say about the library?”

“He thinks that a library such as a gentleman might maintain should be adequate--a library costing in the area of four to five thousand dollars.”

“And what do you think?”

Dr. Jordan finished his drumstick, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He pulled a green apple from the lunch pail and began to peal it, slowly and methodically, with a huge jackknife he always used on such occasions. His goal was to make one continuous peal. While attempting to accomplish this feat, he pulled himself up to a sitting position and concentrated on the task at hand. “I think we need a library similar to what we had at the beginning at Indiana University. Such a library would cost two or three times what the good Business Manager mentioned. I think we need to begin to lay the broad foundation of an academic library that will adequately support our students search for knowledge. That is what I think. But as you know we must get approval for all monies expended from the Business Office in San Francisco. I am sure there will be much correspondence between myself and Mr. Lathrop on this matter but I am also sure that Senator Stanford will eventually agree with my requests.” The apple was ready to eat and Jordan dropped the single peal into his pail.

“And how will the Senator ever learn of your requests when his brother-in-law is the go between?”

53

“Leslie, at the right time and right moment I will make the Senator aware of my intentions. In the mean time, we will make purchases of books that meet my goals not Mr. Lathrop’s”

Leslie Elliott could tell by Dr. Jordan’s tone of voice and body movements that the subject was to be dropped.

Dr. Richardson was not so attuned because he asked, “And what about apparatus for the chemical laboratories?”

Richardson was the only member of the Chemistry Department who was on campus. He, like Leslie was about thirty years old but he had the makings of a full beard that made him look older. “So far I see only enough for minimal instruction. It appears, from what Dr. Elliott has told me, that numerous students have indicated an interest in Chemistry and if we are going to have to purchase more equipment, it must be high quality. We don’t want to have another explosion like our sister, the University of Pacific, in San Jose.”

George M. Richardson was the Assistant Professor of Chemistry from Johns Hopkins University. Unlike most of the other young faculty men who David Starr Jordan had selected and known, personally, Richardson was still an unknown quantity and because of that Jordan had to be careful what he said to him. He had learned at Indiana University that one must be very careful about what one said. Sometimes a casual remark became a contract.

“Dr. Richardson, what we need, we will get but first we will need to educate Senator Stanford and that will not happen over night, I am sorry to say,” and he abruptly stopped speaking.

He carefully resumed his original semi-reclining position and began to eat the pared apple and put the jackknife back into his lunch pail and rummaged in it to see what else Jessie might have prepared.

Dr. Elliott continued to eat in silence but Dr. Richardson in this moment of honesty thought it would be good to bring up another tender subject he had on his mind. “I understand that Coliss Huntington has referred to our university as Senator Stanford’s “circus.”

“Yes, I have heard the same phrase and knowing Huntington and his lack of affection for Senator Stanford, I am sure he is correctly quoted. But, gentlemen,” and here Jordan theatrically looked beyond his companions at the broad expanse of the inner courtyard and the buff building with their red tile roofs framed by blue skies; it was almost like theatrical setting, all it needed were the players, the students, he thought, 54 and making an all encompassing gesture with his right hand, he said,” if we are to be a circus, I am sure we will be a magnificent one.”

Leslie Elliott smiled, cocked his head slightly and said, “That’s a good phrase, Dr. Jordan. You should write it down.”

Jordan had already taken a small notebook from his vest pocket. “I am,” he said. He also made a mental note not to have this kind of intimate conversation with Dr. Richardson, again. In a group it would be all right but the young man might quote him wrongly to others. He could trust only Leslie.

He looked over at the young man, “Dr. Richardson, any interest in the study of Ichthyology?”

“The study of fish, being a chemistry fellow, I never really thought about it but it might be worth a go?”

“Ah, hah, perhaps the dear boy will make an excellent member of the staff”, Dr. Jordan thought.

Francis Batchelder, the new stenographer that Leslie had known from Cornell, walked over to the lunching doctorates, “Dr. Jordan, your daughter just brought a note that you are to call the Business Office.”

“You know what this means. I am going to have to walk back all the way to Escontite. Why won’t they let us install a telephone system at the Office?”

Dr. Richardson had to say it. “Too expensive, Dr. Jordan.”

“And I guess my time isn’t,” as he hastily gathered up the leavings from his lunch and made his way back to the office accompanied by young Batchelder while Elliott and Richardson remained to make conversation about the Elliotts’ unfortunate attempt to find new living accommodations in Menlo. .

~~~~~~~~~

Two things bothered Bert Hoover during his railway trip from Salem, Oregon to Menlo Park, California.

55

First, he wished he didn’t have to travel with Fred Williams. Fred was the son of a Salem Banker and he constantly complained about the food, and the train they were traveling on. He was a mommy’s boy not used to the hardships of travel like Bert who, after the death of both of his parents, traveled clean across the United States from Iowa to Oregon on a Zulu train. If Fred’s dad hadn’t paid Bert’s fare in consideration of tutoring for his son in mathematics, Bert would have preferred to be on his own or with Ted or May, his brother and sister.

The other thing that bothered Bert was he missed is his new, green safety bicycle.

He sold it and everything else he could lay his hands on for money to cover his future expenses at Leland Stanford Junior University. His Uncle, John Minthorn, originally loaned him the money to buy the bicycle so that Bert could run errands for the real estate company Uncle John owned. Bert never in his life took to horses. He didn’t like riding them or sitting behind them and particularly taking care of them. He must have been kicked in the head as a child or something. But he sure liked bicycles and particularly the one he had left behind in Salem. It was one of the first safety bicycles in Salem. Unlike the high wheelers, it had brakes that worked and it was easier to steer and pump. Everyone gawked at it and people driving gigs and surreys, cursed at him because it upset the horses and they bolted when they saw him cruising past. And he didn’t have to clean up after it, either. That was what he really disliked about horses, horseshit. He didn’t like being even close to the stuff. The smell made him want to throw up.

Bert sitting on the hard bench of the car looking at the green scenery of Northern California slip by the window thought back to the events that had got him on this train to San Francisco.

An engineer from back east, Robert Brown, came into his Uncle John’s office and befriended the young, baby-faced boy who was eager to talk to him and asked for advice about what kind of work he should do in the future.

“Well, sir, if I was a young sprout like you I would do just what I did and get me an engineering degree,” said Brown to the eager Hoover.

The only engineers that Bert knew of drove trains. He was not sure that would hold his interest. “I’ve never been the type to sitting in one place too long so being one of those Locomotive Engineers might be a little too tame for me but if you say so, maybe I should look into it.”

56

“No, no, Bert,” Mr. Brown had to chuckle, “I’m not talking about a Locomotive Engineer, I’m talking about a Mining Engineer like what I do. I could be working anyplace in the world and I am going to help people find different mineral like gold and silver or copper. Minerals that will make lots of money for the company I work for and that means I could make lots of money, too.”

As far as Bert was concerned, Mr. Brown had said two magic words, travel and money. Bert liked both of those words. During the next year, Bert thought about what Mr. Brown had said and collected catalogs from colleges located all over the country that offered engineering degrees. He decided he wanted to go to Leland Stanford Junior University where he could learn how to be a mining engineer.

It wouldn’t be easy. All of his relatives were Quakers and they wanted him to go to a Quaker college, Earlham College, where he could get a scholarship and get a Quaker education but Bert found out that Earlham didn’t offer engineering courses. Another difficulty was that the Stanford catalog listed academic requirements he could not meet. Still, he had a lot of faith in himself and knew if he worked hard and got people to like him, he could accomplish his goals.

In the early summer of 1891, Bert went to Portland to take Stanford’s entrance examination and while he was there he met Fred Williams who was also taking the examinations. Professor Joseph Swain was in charge and since Dr. Swain was a well-known Quaker, Bert’s family thought that Leland Stanford Junior University might not be that bad a place for Bert and not all that ungodly.

Bert and Fred passed all the tests except the mathematics portion. Dr. Swain must have liked the boys because afterwards he called them into his room and told them they should come to the university three months early and get some tutoring in Math and English from two ladies he knew and then the boys could take the tests all over again. Bert thought Dr. Swain was about as nice a man as he had ever met.

He was just 17 years old, tall for his age, almost 6 feet, with a round, cherubic face, small nose and eyes and light brown hair. The way he looked had “country bumpkin” written all over it. His face was even younger than he was.

It was hard to see that all of his life he had to work hard and earn his own money particularly since the death of his parents. Even though he was younger than his brother, Ted, it seemed that he was the one that took care of the family, even Ted. Ted liked to drink and do non- Quaker things and May, his sister, never was that well. Bert didn’t run 57 with other boys and girls his age. It seemed like there was always work to be done and money to be earned. That was why it was difficult having Fred along.

“Bert, Bert, I’m thirsty. I need a drink of water.” It was Fred, interrupting his thoughts, again.

“You know where the water barrel is Fred, I already showed you. It’s in the back of the train.”

“Yes, I know but I don’t want to go by myself. You come with me.”

“Oh, all right.” Bert pulled himself out of his seat and the two boys lurched back and forth as they made their way to the water barrel. A tin cup on a string hung next to a four-foot barrel half-filled with what looked like stagnant water.

“All right grab that cup and be sure to put your lips next to where you hold the cup. The closer the better is what my Aunt Minthorn used to say. Never can tell whose lips have been on that cup or what diseases they might have.”

Fred did as he was told but once he tried to swallow the water in his mouth, he couldn’t do it and had to spit it out on to the floor. Everyone that was sitting near by looked at him disdainfully as if he was some kind of cur dog who didn’t know better.

“Here, let me try it.” Bert went through the same process but he rolled the water around in his mouth before swallowing but he went ahead and gulped it down and said, “Not too bad, on a train like this you got to expect it to be a little ripe tasting. Want to try it, again?”

“No, thanks. I’ll wait until we get to San Francisco. It’s only three more hours.”

When Bert got back to his seat, he started thinking about his financial situation. He was traveling with $160 of savings and money from the sale of his personal belongings, and $50 his Aunt and Uncle Minthorn gave him. Back home his Aunt had charge of the $822.67, one-third of the educational fund his parents had left their three children, which she would be doling out to him, as he needed it. This was all the money he had to last him through four years of college. He would have to start earning money immediately and he had already told Dr. Swain he would need jobs. It wasn’t going to be easy but Bert had grown used to that. 58

It was two day’s later, August 15th, when they arrived at the Menlo Park train station. Fred had money to hire a wagon. The driver’s name was Jasper Paulsen.

“We need to go to Adelante Villa,” Bert told the driver. He pronounced Adelante like it was Adel’s Aunt’s Villa and he wasn’t that sure about the villa. It could have been village. This was where Professor Swain had said they should go.

Paulsen took off his old, derby hat and scratched his head and nodded his head back and forth trying to think where that Adel’s Aunt’s Village might be. “Never heard of that Adel person. Is he new hereabouts?”

“It’s not a he. It’s two ladies from back east setting up a school,” Bert insisted. When he wanted to he could be a pretty persistent young man.

“Oh, you mean Coon House.” Paulsen’s face brightened. He did not want to lose the $3.00 fare.

“No, Adel’s Aunty’s Village or something like that.” Bert wasn’t too sure how bright this driver was and he didn’t want to end paying for a trip to the wrong place.

“Well all I know is that about two week’s ago, two young ladies arrived and I took them out to Dr. Jordan’s and then I heard they were living in Coon House where they were going to set up a school. Boys, I don’t think you will go wrong if you let me take you there.”

Fred tugged at Bert’s sleeve. “Let’s go, Bert. I’m just plain tuckered out from all this traveling.”

Bert wasn’t that sure but gave into Fred and Paulsen helped the boys load their baggage on to his cart. Bert only had a single Gladstone but Fred had two big, traveling cases.

The three of them drove south on a dusty, unpaved county road that ran parallel with the railroad tracks for a while and when they crossed a bridge over a dry creek, Jasper stopped his cart and pointed to his left back toward the bridge and railroad tracks.

“There it is,” Jasper said with some pride.

59

“There what is? Asked Bert. He looked but couldn’t see anything but a scraggly evergreen standing by itself by the bridge.

“Palo Alto, the tall tree, that’s sort of why we’re here. It’s where the Spanish used to camp in the old days. That’s what the Senator named his farm after.”

“Oh,” said Bert, trying to act impressed. There were lots of trees like that back in Salem.

Jasper started his team back up and the cart turned right on a road next to the creek that, he said, led to Coon House, three miles distant. After going a half a mile next to a vineyard, Jasper pointed to some gates and a big house in the distance and said, “That’s the Senator Stanford’s mansion.” Then, on the left, the boys saw a small building made out of white stone and Jasper said that’s where young Stanford was temporarily buried. In the distance, a cloud of brown dust emerged and they heard the sounds of new buildings going up. Through the dust, Bert saw a clump of bare buildings with a tall chimney arising behind them.

As they got closer, all kinds of commotion was going on: workmen unloading light brown rocks from a flat car; horses pulling carts loaded with the uncut rocks; masons chiseling the rock; carpenters building forms for arcades. Workmen scampering up narrow timbers pushing heavy wheelbarrows to get to the top of the buildings. Hammers swinging. Scaffolding being built and torn down. Brown dust hanging in clouds everywhere. Everyone and everything was colored with that brown dust. And where there was no rock or wood or horses or carts or workers, there was tall dry grass from the hayfields that once grew there, mostly trodden down but some of it still swaying in the slight breeze that was blowing.

Bert started coughing and sneezing from all the dust and dried hay. He had always suffered from Hay Fever.

A grizzled workman pushing a wheel barrel stopped in his tracks and shouted out to them, “Oh, you’re stoodents. First ones I’ve seen. Wondered when you would be coming. Where you heading?”

“Coon House,” Jasper shouted back.

“You know where it is. Just follow the creek. You can’t miss it. There ain’t nothing else there.” The workman turned back to his wheelbarrow and the wagon with Bert, Fred, and Jasper driving made its way continuing south, following the dry as a bone San Francisquito Creek. 60

~~~~~~~~~

After traveling on a train from Sioux City to San Francisco, Fletcher Chard Martin decided to take a small steam ship to the port of Alviso. He arrived there in the early afternoon of Friday, August 14, 1891. A bus took him to the San Jose train station. The train to Mayfield, the closest town next to Leland Stanford Junior University, didn’t leave until the next day and Fletcher wasn’t anxious to stay in San Jose and he also wanted to save the train fare so he decided to walk the eighteen miles to Mayfield. He had some money he had saved from his Army days, but he had to be very careful about how he spent it. He was carrying his valise containing some shirts, underwear, and trousers, and a blanket strapped to the outside for sleeping.

It was a warm evening and the moon was out so it wasn’t that difficult to make his way south using the county road. “Via trita, via truta,” he thought as he passed a few farmhouses with candlelight showing through the windows. After being confined to railway cars, it felt good to see the open lands as he walked; and he knew if he got tired he could always sleep under a bush. He thought how he would never take that kind of chance in the Territories and how lucky these folks were compared to settlers in the Dakotas who lived in constant fear.

The path he was following varied as it wound along the side of the dirt road. Sometimes it would meander across a hill and he would be walking through waist high dried out weeds with only the crushed, whitened path before him. At one point he met a hobo coming the other way and Fletcher gave way. Respecting one another’s privacy, neither spoke. Fletcher noted the man wasn’t dressed that much differently than he was but the hobo’s clothing were remnants of Civil War days. Even after thirty years, veterans of both armies ranged over the country side surviving through the generosity of a farmer’s wife giving them food and perhaps, a place to sleep for the night. After the hobo passed, Fletcher thought how the stories these men never told were in their eyes that only stared ahead.

Before dark he saw acres and acres of apricot and prune groves. Now he stayed clear of the few shacks and drying sheds that came up. Hearing his footsteps, a dog or dogs would start barking and he had to be careful in case some rancher came outside and shot him in the darkness thinking he might be stealing chickens out of the hencoop. After being 61

through what he had, Fletcher didn’t want to die being mistaken for a chicken thief.

In the distance, he heard the howling of a pack of coyotes moving from the low foothills into the valley.

Fletcher arrived in the small town of Mayfield around 5 am on a Saturday morning. Every other business establishment was a saloon. Wooden steps leading up to their entrances were packed with dark horizontal shapes of men sleeping off the drink they had imbibed the night before. Fletcher saw a sign for the Mayfield Hotel and went up the steps, carefully stepping over the outstretched and huddled bodies, but he found the door was bolted. Next to it was Anzini’s Barroom but it was also locked up so Fletcher decided that this might not be the proper time to introduce himself to Mayfield’s inhabitants.

Around the back of Anzini’s, he relieved himself and from the stench of urine in the air, he could tell he was not the first to use this spot. Another 100 yards away, he found a dense bush that would give him some protection from the early morning air. He untied his blanket and rolled himself into in it and immediately fell into a deep sleep on the bare, rocky ground.

He stood in the midst of a bitter battle. An Indian Brave was running toward him with an upraised tomahawk. The Brave was wearing his ghost shirt. Fletcher brought the Brave into his rifle’s sights and shot him several times but none of the bullets penetrated the shirt and the Indian continued to run toward him. It was as if he were wearing steel armor. Fletcher threw his useless rifle to the ground and stood before the Brave preparing himself for hand-to-hand combat. He looked above and could see a tomahawk hanging in the sky slowly moving down towards his head. He tried to protect himself but he felt pain and then warm blood trickling down from the side of his face. He was done for.

But the smell in his nostrils was not blood but piss and Fletcher woke to find a large, black and white dog peeing through the bush, on to the side of his exposed face. He cuffed the dog to shoo him off, got up, wiped his face with his shirtsleeve and shook the weeds and leaves off his clothes. He took his pocket watch out of his vest and saw he had slept for almost five hours. It was 10 am, bright sun, now, and all kinds of things happening 100 yards away on Mayfield’s streets.

Since it was weekend, the town was getting ready for another day of drinking. Fletcher heard sounds of horses and wagons driving up and down the narrow roads. “Ged-dap,” and “Who-a there.” He rolled 62

up his blanket, tied it back on his valise and ambled back to the main street. A stout, stern-looking fellow with a wooden leg was standing in front of a sign “P.F. Behn’s Saloon”. He looked over at Fletcher and greeted him with a,” Howdy, stranger. Looking for something?” that sounded mighty friendly.

Fletcher said howdy back, “Right now, I could use a wash to get rid of this dog piss smell and some coffee and breakfast and some directions to where I might get room and board for Stanford students.

The wooden leg fellow looked incredulous. “You a student? Look a little long in the tooth for that sort of thing. You look more like a soldier to me.”

Fletcher took no affront. He agreed with him. “Yep, you’re right. I was a soldier but I gave that up and now I’m a student. And I agree, thirty-three years of age is a bit old to be going back to school but that’s what I’m doing.”

“Well, my name is Fred Behn and this is my saloon and I appreciate your honesty.” He offered his big hand, which Fletcher took and shook. As they did this, they were smiling as if they had instantly taken to one another. .

Fred said, “If you got the money, I can help with the clean-up and breakfast and get you some transport to Coon House where young ladies live offering just what you’re looking for.”

Without thinking, Fletcher answered in Latin, “Aureo hamo piscari.”

“What’s that you say? “ Fred looked at him queerly. ” I only understand American and Danish. Any other languages is foreign to me.”.

“Sorry, yep, I’ve got the money.” Fletcher took out a single gold coin from his money belt and tossed it to him. Fred Behn caught the coin in mid air, looked at it intently and when he decided the coin was good his face lit up with a broad smile showing a few gaps in his front teeth. He took Fletcher brusquely by the arm and led him into his saloon, set him down at a table in the back that still smelled of cheap drink and smoke. A Chinaman brought Fletcher a pail of boiling hot water with soap and a rough towel so he could clean the piss off.. Then another Chinaman served him a breakfast of cups of coffee, boiled eggs, hotcakes, pitcher of fresh milk and ranch made butter and new baked bread. Fletcher thought it was the best breakfast he had ever eaten. 63

~~~~~~~

Irene Frances Butler smiled to herself. She was pleased; three new boarders had arrived that day. The first two were callow youngsters from Oregon, Fred and Bert. Fred was ready to cry from the heat and exhaustion and when he saw the object of his journey, his jaw nearly dropped to the ground. Irene had to admit Coon House, she and Lucy had officially renamed it Adelante Villa but the name had not yet been accepted by the locals, was not much to see.

The boys should have seen the place when she and Lucy first arrived.

Irene and Lucy Fletcher were roommates and good friends at Harvard Annex. People who knew them both were surprised how well they got along. They were totally unalike. Where Irene was a tomboy and let her reddish brown hair remain natural looking, Lucy was a ravishing beauty who always kept her dark brown hair beautifully coiffured.. If Irene was out-going and vulnerable, Lucy was a quiet introvert who liked to read and play her violin and kept her thoughts to herself. But the two meshed like apples and cheese. There was never a cross word between the two.

After graduation, Irene expected to be married and live out her life as a wife and mother but her fiancé, Bruce Hornsby, drowned at sea two week’s before their wedding. He was a mining engineer, stationed in China and on his return to the States for their marriage his ship went down with everyone on board.

Irene remembered thinking how someone said, “How do you make God laugh, tell him your plans,” because now she no longer had any plans. Lucy insisted that her good friend accompany her to her parent’s home in Indianapolis to consider her next step. As fate would have it, there they met Dr. David Starr Jordan who was an old friend of Lucy’s parents and was visiting them. Both of the ladies had a bit of money from savings and inheritances and Dr. Jordan convinced them that they should follow him to Stanford and start a nearby girl’s preparatory school to prepare teen age girls for the entrance requirements at the university. Both women were ready for a change and a western adventure suited them to a T. Even Lucy’s brother decided to join them and attend the new university.

Irene remembered their arrival only two weeks ago, just after the Jordan and Elliott families’. It was a blazing, midsummer day and there they were at the Menlo Park Station with only Jasper Paulsen’s wagon 64 available. He overcharged them to the tune of $2.50 to take them to Dr. Jordan’s Escontite Cottage. And then had the audacity to tell them it would have been $3.00 if they “didn’t belong to the faculty.” Neither of the ladies corrected him. They did not belong to the faculty. “They had been,” Lucy would always say, “lured,” from the green fields of Indiana to this burnt-out, dusty outpost, supposedly to be under Dr. Jordan’s protective wing.

It appeared his protection would be minimal. It ended soon after they got off the train. Once settled in the cozy front room of Escontite Cottage and gazing at the pretty French tapestries on the wall, with a cup of tea in their hands that Dr. Jordan’s sweet, pregnant wife, Jessie, prepared for them, they asked the ever-optimistic Doctor, “Where do we go from here? How do we survive until we get the school going? “

“We have faculty members and early arriving students asking me the same question. I am sorry to say that we have just begun building ten faculty homes on Alvarado Road and the limited hotel accommodations in Menlo and Mayfield are both filled and not really likely for two such ladies as you,” he responded.

Lucy was beside herself. The cup of tea rattled in her agitated hands. “Well, where, then? We thought you would have made some kind of arrangements.”

Irene learned then that Dr. Jordan was truly an optimist and the basis for this optimism was his faith in the fact that intelligent, young, healthy people would always work out something. The something in this case was a tumbled down, rotting cottage, owned by the Stanford’s, two miles south of their mansion on the other side of the San Francisquito Creek. He proposed that they take over the cottage and turn it into a boarding house at first and eventually into a school for young ladies. His own daughter, Edith, would be their first pupil.

Dr. Jordan decided it might be wise to get the agitated women out of his home as soon as possible so said he would take them directly to Coon House in his trap. As he drove through the campus grounds he pointed out the quadrangle of building just taking shape and told them that they would soon be turning away boarders because there was no other place to stay except for hotels as far away as San Jose and San Francisco.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was really only a 30- minute ride, they arrived at Coon House. What they saw made Irene’s stomach turn over. Irene could see that Lucy was also upset by the grim smile on her face. What they both saw was that Coon House was 65 crumbling apart. Dense rose vines choked off the windows and flowerbeds were overgrown with tall, hearty weeds. With difficulty, Dr. Jordan was able to get the front door open and they all solemnly went inside as if they were attending someone’s funeral.

It was no better inside. Not only was it dingy dark from lack of sunlight, but so dirty that the dirt could be measured. Lucy was ready to break down crying and Irene was no better. To calm herself, Irene decided to sit down and unfortunately sat in one of the ancient chairs. It immediately fell to pieces sending Irene, kerplunk, on her backside, flat on to the dirty floor.

A thick cloud of dust rose from her fall and for a moment, there was absolute silence as Dr. Jordan and Lucy stared at her, not knowing how to react. Irene threw her arms to the ceiling and started to laugh and cry at the same time. Dr. Jordan and Lucy couldn’t help themselves; she did look funny. They laughed until their sides ached.

Once the laughter subsided and cruel reality set in, Irene got up from the floor, took off her jacket and started to roll up the sleeves to her blouse. What else could they do? There really was no alternative. She looked over at Lucy who was also taking off her jacket and said, “Well, we might just as well get to work.”

With Dr. Jordan’s help, they got a horse, Jim, and a buggy from Jasper Paulsen, and provisions from Mr. La Peire, the grocer in Mayfield. They were able to hire Chinamen to come out and help them clean up. The ladies arrived on Wednesday and by Friday; Adelante Villa was becoming livable and they already had customers for their new boarding house that Dr. Jordan had referred to them, even though they didn’t have blankets at first and only eggs and potatoes to eat.

This was now the second day they were accepting boarders and with the three new boarders, Lucy and Irene were starting to fill up their available rooms. Irene thought the second of the two youths, Bert Hoover, even though he had a young, baby face would be better prepared to handle the early difficulties of fixing and cleaning up the house.

When she showed them the room they could have, the one who looked like he was ready to cry, Fred, blew his nose into a handkerchief and started to complain.

Sitting on the cot that would be his, he tried it out and the thin mattress barely gave as he bounced on it. “This isn’t a mattress, it’s hard like a board. I’m not going to be able to sleep on this.” 66

Bert, the other one, tried his bed and smiled. “It isn’t too bad, Fred. Think about what we have been sleeping on in the train.”

“Bert, you might be used to living like this, but I’m not,” Irene thought young Fred was ready to pull a temper tantrum. He had his face all screwed up like a baby’s. She wasn’t sure she really wanted these two as boarders if they were going to that much trouble.

“Well, boys, it’s the best we got. I guess if it is not good enough for you, I would suggest looking around Mayfield and seeing what’s available. I have heard that most of the rooms for rent have ants, even in the beds. And someone told me about big, fat maggots in the honey they had for breakfast. But if you want to look around, that is fine with me.” Irene started to leave the room and go back downstairs.

“No, mam, we’ll take it,” Bert was insistent.

“But, Bert.” Fred wined.

“Shut up, Fred. We’ll take it. How much is it for room and board.”

“That will be three dollars a week, paid in advance.”

Bert looked at Irene with a real serious expression on his face. “I think Dr. Jordan told you that I’m going to have real financial problems going to school.”

Irene remembered that Dr. Jordan did mention Bert Hoover’s lack of financial resources. “Yes, he did and he suggested that if you helped with our horse, Jim, I should reduce the charge to two dollars.”

“That’s wonderful, Miss Butler. I guess he told you how much I love horses and how much experience I’ve had taking care of horses and I’d feed and groom Jim and clean up his stall for just a dollar a week. So here is the two dollars I owe you,” and he gave her small change that amounted to two dollars. Then he looked at Fred. “Fred, give the lady the three dollars.”

Fred reluctantly got three dollars in bills out of his wallet and gave them to Irene. “Well, all right, if this is the best we can do,” he said.

67

Irene took his money and said, “Any time you want to go to another place just give us week’s notice. I don’t want anyone living here who isn’t happy.”

“No, we’re fine, Miss Butler, I’ll start this afternoon taking care of Jim.” Bert gave Fred a look that if looks could kill, Fred would have been flat on his back.

The last arrival, Fletcher Martin, was totally different from the young boys.

At first Irene thought he was a member of the faculty, he was so much older than any of the other students, slightly bearded, with refined features, black hair and friendly dark brown eyes that looked as if they had seen a lot.

Fred Behn brought him in his livery to the House and when Irene opened the door and saw Fletcher, she had to admit her heart stopped for a moment. Something about the way he held his body so straight and stayed in the background while Fred introduced him to her. She showed him his room and told him how much it would be and what time dinner and breakfast was, the two meals they served. He paid her immediately with double eagles and thanked her in a way that was almost shy. She liked that in a man. .

Not that Irene was shy herself. She was a handsome woman with an open, broad face, long, straight light-brown hair, and good skin that freckled easily in the sun. Her mouth was broad, too, and her full lips could quickly change from a smile to a frown. She always had difficulty not showing her feelings and it got her into trouble most of the time. She always thought that was one reason why she was still single. At thirty-one years, she was probably too old to get married and she had accepted her life as a spinster. The other reason was that God had dealt her a losing hand being engaged to a young man like she was and him dieing from influenza. After he died, she decided she didn’t really need a man.

There were very few difficulties she could not handle in life. At the moment, it seemed, her greatest difficulty was getting to and from Mrs. Smith, their washwoman who lived in Menlo Park, and doing the marketing at their grocer, Mr. La Peire in Mayfield.

Almost every day, she had to do either the marketing or pick up or deliver the wash and it was like running a maze. She would drive Jim and their rig, southeast on the creek path to the county road and head southwest until she got to the dirt road that was just being built from the 68

University to the place where there was now a shed. This was where the train was supposed to stop. It was to be called Palo Alto Station and the area around it was University Park. She had heard from Fred Behn that the main reason the University was headed north toward University Park instead of east toward Mayfield was because Senator Stanford didn’t appreciate all of Mayfield’s saloons. Fred told her some of the people of Mayfield, him included, were unhappy about that, but no one wanted to give up their drink. Fred thought that it was just plain foolish not to go along with what the Senator wanted.

That new dirt road from the university to University Park was not only next to impassable with deep pitfalls and dirt wagons going back and forth but sometimes the gate at the end of the road where it crossed the county road would be locked for some reason and Irene and Jim would have to brave the dangers of driving back up the drive, up and over the mounds of dirt that would be used to make the curved roads around the lawns and gardens in front of the university. Many a times she thought the rig would overturn or Jim would stumble and fall and break a leg, but they always managed to get through one way or another. If the gate was locked, Irene would try another path by the vineyards that led through the Stanford’s private grounds to the gate by the bridge, but if the Senator and Mrs. Stanford were on a trip, that gate could also be locked and Irene would be forced to turn Jim around, again, and carefully weave their way through the gravel heaps, rollers, and piles of crushed rock, and at last to Mayfield by means of the road that ran out to Dr. Jordan’s Escontite Cottage. There was a gate there, too, but it was usually open. Sometimes it might take anywhere from two to three hours to make the journey from the Villa to Mayfield. The trip to Menlo could be just as bad.

It wasn’t as if Irene could ask any of the boarders or Chinamen to take over this chore--money and the quality of what they ate were involved. It turned out that Lucy was good at the house things, the cooking and cleaning and getting the washing done. Irene was good at the outside things, dealing with the merchants and maintaining the house. Mr. La Peire, the grocer, was a very fair person but he was out for his profit and the two ladies had to watch every penny.

When her chores were done it was always a pleasure to turn Jim back toward Adelante Villa. Now, it was more of a pleasure. Irene could feel warmth inside her when she thought of Mr. Martin. She was looking forward to seeing him, soon, that evening at supper. ~~~~~

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69

Chapter Two

The Gathering

In the Zulu railroads car, only two days out of Chicago, Sam Cutter knew whom he was going to rob and whom he was going to screw. The railroad car was packed with immigrants most of them just off the boat from European ports. None spoke English. Sam picked up some phrases in German. He didn’t see or hear any of his fellow Americans. They were in the elegant Pullman cars up front.

The Zulu cars were at the back of the train, far from the Pullman cars and far from elegant-- bare wooden benches, narrow aisles, ninety passengers to a car with all their possessions and the smells from unclean men, women, children, and babies. At one end of the car was a black iron stove; at the other, a wooden barrel of water and a single crude enclosed crapper with a hole in its wooden floor revealing the black track bed, whizzing by, underneath.

The assorted passengers --sitting, sleeping, mingling, attempting to walk up and down the crowded aisles as the train swerved abruptly from side to side—were either immigrants lured by newspaper advertisements in Europe promising cheap train fares and guaranteeing land and becoming rich in America or, like Sam, those who could only afford the cheap Zulu fares. The immigrants would get off at Council Bluffs, Iowa, and catch other emigrant trains heading north or northwest. “Emigrant” trains because they were leaving the United States and heading into the still primitive territories where, in some cases, Indian tribes and gun men still ruled…Wyoming, the Dakotas, and Montana.

Sam was going in a different direction. He was heading west to San Francisco and from there to the new university, Leland Stanford Junior University.

Sam glanced at a fat German man with his wife and three children, sitting two rows directly in front of him. He saw the man constantly putting his right hand into his coat pocket over his heart to make sure his wallet or money pouch, probably with his life-savings, was still there. Picking a man’s inner coat pocket was not a problem for Sam. He did it many times on busy Chicago streets and in streetcars. All he had to do was wait for the fat German to be distracted by some sort of hullabaloo like getting off the train at Council Bluffs. Then, Sam would simply bump into him and relieve him of the money he had saved for his new life. Sam smiled to himself when he thought about how the German would feel when he checked his pocket and found nothing. The man was stupid and 70

deserved to be robbed. Hopefully, he would not realize what had happened until after he was off the train and Sam was safely on his way to California.

Screwing the girl was a different challenge. She was pretty in a Jewish sort of way with white skin, a nose that was prominent but not too much so, long, dark hair, thin lips, thick eyebrows and large dark eyes. Like everyone he knew, Sam hated Jews, but hating them and getting into their knickers was as different as night from day for him. She was alone, probably going to meet her husband or someone she will marry in the territories. She sat one row up, on the other side of aisle, facing Sam. All he had to do is look to his right and he could see her pretty face. Several times he caught her looking at him. He could understood why. He was a very handsome young man, just twenty-one, with curly, light brown hair and strong, Germanic features. His lips were too thin to be attractive because usually they were twisted in a scornful grin. Mrs. Wadley had told him as she ran her fingers through his thick hair that it reminded her of a lion’s mane. Sam liked to think of himself as a lion, king of the jungle: strong and quick and taking what he wanted.

Just thinking about the girl’s quim made his prick hard. He smiled at her and also smiled because of the hard instrument he had in his pants awaiting her. She almost smiled back but caught herself and turned her head toward the dirty, smudged windows and watched the treeless bleak plains roll by.

~~~~~~~

Towards the end of September, just as the sun rose, David Cooper and his father left their Riverside home in the family’s rig. They were traveling to the Redondo Beach depot to meet the Santa Rosa, the ship that would take David north to San Francisco and from there by rail to Menlo. To get to the port would take them almost eight hours traveling dirt roads through small villages, orchards and the wheat and corn fields of Southern California.

Once they arrived at Redondo Beach, as David prepared to go up the gangplank with his bedroll over his shoulder, carrying his Gladstone bag, Mr. Cooper clumsily embraced him. He was not the kind of man that often showed his emotions. Both men were over 6’ tall. David was dark- haired, gangling. His father had a short, clipped beard and was tall and thin and graying at the temples. He whispered in his son’s ear, “Take care 71 of yourself, David. Your mother and I are very proud of you. We will miss you.” There was the beginning of mist in his eyes.

David was only able to grunt his acknowledgment of his father’s tender words.

No one in the Cooper family had ever been to college before and his parents didn’t know how they would finance their son’s education but, positively, they thought, with the Lord’s help, it will work out.

From the ship’s railing, David watched Mr. Cooper get back into his rig. They waved to one another and Mr. Cooper turned his back to the Santa Rosa, and took off toward Riverside. It would be early tomorrow morning before he would arrive home.

After boarding, David waited another two hours before the Santa Rosa put out to sea. The ship left the Los Angeles Harbor and headed north. Its course was about two to three miles off the coastline. The weather, mild on shore, quickly became dark and cold as the ship approached midpoint in the harbor and started lurching forwards and backwards. David had been told that this motion would make him sick, “seasick”, and he might vomit and he believed it. His stomach became queasy but gradually as he adjusted to the motion, he felt better and actually started to enjoy the smell of the sea and the feel of its breezes on his face.

Others on deck were not so lucky. He saw, heard and smelled retching. The deck was crowded with people who, like himself, could not afford the comforts of a cabin. He looked around to see if there were any other passengers who might be students but there were none. They were all older people and no one was friendly since they were concerned with keeping warm and not getting seasick. For the first time in his life he felt the pangs of homesickness. He thought to himself how his sister and mother would be in the kitchen now safe and warm. He wished he were with them. He began to have second thoughts about going so far away to school. .

He decided to commandeer a small portion of the deck near the center of the ship. He could feel the hardness of the wooden deck through the army bedroll his father gave him. His father had been in his teens when he joined the Union Army. The roll had been up in the attic, gathering dust, sitting beside a rusting army rifle. It still smelled of mothballs but David was glad his Dad had talked him into taking it.

David wished John Reichold were there. John was still recuperating from the leg he broke playing foot-ball for Riverside but he was on the 72 mend and it looked like he would be going to Stanford next year. Since they had known each other a long time, David missed John. They would have had lots of fun, even on the ship, together.

Someone vomited near David and the smell almost made him ill so he left the crowded, middle portion of the main deck and found a little alcove near the bow. This was where the pitch and yaw motion was strongest and most of the passengers were moving away from this area and getting as close to the middle as possible but David liked the isolation and he preferred the ship’s movement to the smell of others’. From where he sat he could see froth on both sides of the boat as the bow broke through the waves and he could hear the smashing of the hull against the onrushing ocean as it settled in its slough and made ready to take on another swell.

Before it turned dark, he saw two girls on the deck above him who looked like they might be students. An older woman who must be their chaperon closely followed them. One of the girls had dark hair and the other sandy, light brown hair. From what he could see, both were pretty. They saw him, too and it looked like the dark one wanted to wave, but the older woman touched her shoulder and said something that made her turn away and they moved out of sight. David could understand why they did that. He wouldn’t want his sister waving to strangers, either.

David hunkered down in his little spot. He tried to read a worn copy of Moby Dick, he had in his Gladstone, but he couldn’t focus his eyes because of the roll of the ship and finally gave up. Now, again, he wished he had John to talk to. He ate some of the food his Mother prepared for the trip but his stomach got queasy, so he gave up and laid down on his Father’s bedroll to go to sleep. He was tired from getting up so early that morning for the long trip from Riverside and the roll and sounds of the ship quickly lulled him into a deep sleep. He did not wake up until the ship abruptly stopped moving.

It was so dark he could not tell what time it was. The Santa Rosa had docked at some small port near Los Angeles. David had no idea where the ship was but the crew was busy loading and unloading cargo. He went back to sleep and when he awoke this time it was bright and sunny. He could feel that he had awakened with a piss proud and still had it as he went to the side of the boat to relieve himself. He shyly tried to face away from the deck where he had seen the girls.

Time went by very slowly. He would doze off and read, doze off and read Moby Dick. The crew was still working. The fact that he was on a boat makes the book more realistic. David imagined the Santa Rosa as a whaler. Peddlers with food come aboard so for a few cents he got some peaches and apricots to eat. He looked up at the deck overhead to see if 73

the girls might be there. He didn’t see them and wondered if they had got off at this small port. It looked like a pretty area with foothills nearby and he could see homes on the hillside. He wondered what the name of the place was until he heard someone on the deck say, Santa Barbara. So this was Santa Barbara. He had heard about the town before but his world had only extended from Los Angeles in the north to San Diego in the south. He knew that Santa Barbara was a place where artists and writers lived. If he had known before, he might have got off the boat and looked around but it was too late, now.

Finally at 5pm, after twelve hours delay, the Santa Rosa got underway. As soon as it became dark, David pulled his old bedroll around him and using his Gladstone as a pillow, tried to get to sleep. It would not be easy. Some of the passengers were drinking and singing and generally carousing but their voices soon became dim and all David could hear was the slopping of the water and waves breaking on the bow.

~~~~~~~~~

About fifty feet from where David Cooper laid sleeping, Delores Payson was awake in her cabin berth. She and her friend, Betsy Franklin, who was asleep in the berth above her, were sharing a cabin. Her Aunt Isabella, who lived in San Jose and was chaperoning them, was in the cabin, next to theirs. The girls’ cabin had hot and cold running water and down the hall was a toilet and a bathtub. The Santa Rosa was not quite as nice as some of the hotels she and her parents and brother had stayed at, but her accommodations were certainly better that what those poor wretches sleeping on the deck had to endure.

During the previous twelve hours when the ship was loading and unloading freight, she and Betsy and her Aunt had visited some friends of her Aunt who lived in Santa Barbara. They had sent a carriage for them and then taken them to their hacienda on the outskirt of town on the hillside overlooking the bay. They had a lovely tea and talked about how the small town was growing. When they got back, she and Betsy had walked outside on the deck to get some fresh air and she looked for the tall, young man on the lower deck with the curly black hair who had caught her eye when they first got on board. but she did not see him. She had guessed he was also going to Stanford and almost waved to him to catch his eye on that first day but her aunt cautioned her not to be so brazen with strangers. She wished her aunt had not made the trip with them. She was nineteen years old and she and Betsy were old enough to take care of themselves.

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Delores’ full name was Delores Ynez Teresa Payson. In June, she graduated from St. Francis High School, a Catholic school for young women in Los Angeles. She and her parents lived in a Spanish-style mansion on Figuerroa Street, the most prestigious street in town. It was a beautiful Spanish stucco style home with oleanders and poinsettias lining the long driveway.

Delores’ father was the Princeton trained lawyer, Edward Bryan Payson. He came to Los Angeles from New York City to seek his fortune in 1868, a few years after the Civil War. He met Delores’ Mother, Dona Quesada de Bustamente, the beautiful daughter of a prominent Spanish family, and immediately fell in love with her and asked her parents for her hand in marriage. The parents did not approve of the marriage, not only because Edward Payson was a gringo but also because he was a Jew.

Joseph Payson, Delores’ grandfather, had emigrated from Germany in 1830. He had told her stories about crossing the Atlantic in a sail boat and being in a cabin that measured little more than six feet by six feet with five other Jews. When storms came up, they all had to go to their cabins or they would be washed overboard. The cabin became unbearable with the stench of its six, seasick occupants.

When Delores’ grandfather finally disembarked after the three-week trip, the immigration clerk got the spelling of his name wrong, and he emerged into a city where everyone bought, sold, cheated or was cheated, as Joseph Payson. Just as well, his former name was unpronounceable in English. Joseph Payson took up the trade that was available to all-- a peddler with his pack of goods on his back.

With hard work, the prosperity brought on by the growth of commerce in New York City, and good luck in lending money to other Jews who emigrated after him, Joseph Payson. over the years was able to organize the Bronx Bank and soon became one of the most prosperous men in New York City. He married Frances Weinberg, whom he met in Omaha on a trip to the Middle West, and in 1850 they had the first of three sons, Edward. From birth, the decision was made for him; Edward would be a lawyer and would go to Princeton University. His parents were determined their first-born son would have the profession and the status in life only an ivy-league college could give him.

Because of their surname and, more importantly, their light skin, light hair and facial characteristics which were more Anglo-Saxon than Jewish, the Payson family conveniently forgot their Jewish heritage. Edward even heard his Father say disparaging remarks to his Anglo-Saxon friends about the level of intelligence of the new Slavic Jews that were emigrating from Southern Europe and Russia. 75

After he graduated from Princeton Law School, Edward Payson decided to go to California and seek a new life without the prejudices he had seen in both the city and at Princeton. It hurt and surprised him that his honesty with Dona’s family turned out so poorly. He had hoped that prejudice against Jews did not exist this far west. He was wrong. Dona’s parents finally succumbed to their daughter’s pleading but they insisted that offspring of the marriage should be raised as Catholics. Edward, since he was not raised in the Hebrew faith readily agreed to this. The two children, Delores and Henry, who resulted from Dona and Edward’s marriage, were raised as Catholics.

Unlike his father, Edward Payson never forgot his Jewish heritage and part of his success as a lawyer in Los Angeles was based on his genuine friendship with Jewish clients. Also, connections with his mother’s side of the family, the Weinberg’s, helped to make his practice successful. The Weinberg Family had the largest department store in Omaha, “Weinberg’s” and constantly gave financial support to the Republican Party, particularly William Henry Harrison’s successful campaign for president in 1888.

Edward tried to instill a sense of Jewish family pride in both of his children by regularly visiting their Jewish relatives in Omaha and New York City but Delores considered herself Catholic. She was educated in Catholic schools by Catholic nuns and was baptized a Catholic and given First Communion. She did love her Jewish relatives and felt at ease with them but she became uncomfortable when matters of the Hebrew religion were brought up. She had been raised to worship the Holy Trinity.

In Los Angeles, Delores’ close friends knew about her Jewish heritage. When new acquaintances made disparaging remarks about Jews in her presence, her friends were sensitive to her feelings. Delores never discuss being Jewish with anyone.

At one time, Didi, a friend of Betsy’s said in Delores’ presence, “I was at this brand new shop in the city, and saw this lovely frock that I just had to have. The price was ridiculous so I did something I’ve never done before; I simply had to jew them down. You should have….”

Delores happened to be turned toward a mirror and saw Betsy put her fingers to her lips and with the other hand point toward Delores.

Didi, obviously flummoxed, tried to continue, “Ah, ah, well I was able to work it out with the clerk at a reasonable price, that was fair to all.” Then, she was silent until someone else continued the conversation on another subject. 76

Delores pretended not to see or hear any of what had happened and never mentioned a word about what Betsy had done to protect her. The incident did reveal to her what would happen if people knew she was part Jew.

When Delores graduated from Catholic High School for Girls, both of her parents wanted her to stay in Los Angeles and attend a Catholic Women’s College but Delores was excited about the prospect of attending a school where there would also be male students. She liked to be with men and tease them and use her feminine charms to have her way with them. Most of the men she knew were either Spanish or Catholic or both and although she tried to like them, they were dull and not exciting.

Betsy was the first one to bring Leland Stanford Junior University to her attention. As she thought about it, the idea of going to a college with a friend, four hundred miles from Los Angeles, became more and more attractive. Her parents at first were concerned about an 19-year-old girl being so far from home but her mother’s sister lived close by in San Jose and said she and her husband, Reynaldo, would keep an eye on her niece and she would accompany the girls north when they traveled to Stanford.

Then another aunt, on her mother’s side, living in Omaha, sent a letter that her son, Rubin, was also going to Stanford. With so much family around their daughter, they no longer needed to worry about Delores’ well being. On Delores’s side when she heard that her cousin, Rubin, would be a classmate, her stomach wobbled with the thought. What would she do with a Jewish relative so close by?

Delores saw the newspaper announcements about entrance examinations being given in Los Angeles and she and her friend, Betsy, took the examinations at the same time. Because of the excellent training the nuns had given them, both girls passed and were accepted as Regular Students for the fall term.

Now they were on their way to San Francisco where her Uncle Reynaldo would pick them up.

It was warm in the cabin. Delores was restless in her berth and could not sleep. She got out of her berth and went to the porthole and looked down at the deck with its scattered, huddled, dark shapes of men, women and children, most of them deep in sleep. Somewhere out there was that young, tall gentleman. She wondered if he was among the passengers who had kept them awake during the night with their drunken songs and loud voices. He didn’t look the type. For some reason, she felt he was gentle.

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In the distance, beyond the shimmering waters, she saw the dark outline of the California coast and the occasional lights of a small, Californian village or perhaps a group of lone farmhouses. She could hear Betsy’s faint snoring.

She returned to her berth and pulled the light-sleeping gown she was wearing over her head, and tucked it under her head. She was naked. She looked down at her body. A dim light shined through the single porthole and she could just barely make out the white skin of her small breasts and flat stomach and patch of dark hair between her thighs. She listened to hear Betsy’s deep breathing. Delores seldom saw her naked body because someone in her family might come into her bedroom at any time and see her. At school, the nuns taught her that nakedness was wrong but Delores never felt that way. She enjoyed the feeling of not having clothes on and ran her hands lightly over her body and between her thighs. She thought about a young man who had once tried to touch her breasts, a young nun who had intimated they should find a secret place and touch one another. She wondered what the young man asleep on the deck would do if he were beside her. What would she do? She could feel herself becoming moist and felt a surge of passion caused by her fingertips lightly grazing the delicate surfaces of her vagina. That was the feeling she so desperately wanted. She touched herself again.

~~~~~~~~

Out the window, Sam Cutter saw a sign come into view and quickly disappeared, “Council Bluffs 60 miles.” He would have to get ready for the stop and be prepared for all the hustle and bustle of the immigrants getting off the train and then hiding the money once he had it in his hands. He could not take any chances of being searched. The German was probably already suspicious. The Jewess would come later if she didn’t also get off.

During the trip, Sam befriended a young couple with a new baby boy in a wicker basket. Before the train stopped at Council Bluffs, he played with the baby, tickling him under his chin and making cooing sounds as if he were talking to him. The parents were surprised that the young man had taken such a liking to their child but if it gave them a few moments to themselves, they were happy.

When the train stopped, he abruptly left the baby and went to the front of the train and pretended to go outside for a breath of fresh air. He returned just as the German and his family with all their possessions were moving forward to get off. He accidentally bumped into the German and excused himself.

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The German shouted out, “Hey, you hoodlum, watch where you go.”

With all the turmoil of taking care of his wife and children, it was not until after he got off the train, that the German noticed his money pouch was gone and immediately he suspected the young man who kept watching him out of the corner of his eye and who had just bumped into him.

He ran up to the conductor who was helping passengers get off the train. Unfortunately, the German’s English was not that good. It was difficult to explain and he was excited.

“I robbed. Hoodlum. Pick Pocket. Back there.” And he tried by gestures to show how Sam had just bumped into him and he pointed back at the car he and his family had just left.

The conductor knew immediately what had happened. It was not the first time. With the German, close behind, the conductor returned to the car. There was Sam busy playing with the little baby under the happy eyes of the mother and father.

“He, he,” blurted out the German for all to hear. And he pointed his fat finger at Sam.

“What’s this all about, Conductor,” said Sam, innocently.

“He’s accusing you of picking his pockets, did you do it?”

“This is absurd. This man has nothing I would want.”

“Then, I am afraid you will to get off the train with your belongings and be searched.”

“I have never heard of any thing so preposterous. I am a student making my way to California where I will attend Senator Stanford’s university. I will tell the Senator about this invasion of my privacy and you may be sacked.”

At the mention of the Senator’s name, the conductor did think twice but there was something about the look of the young man that made him wary.

“Sorry, sir, you will have to come with me to the station.”

With the now, victorious German leading the way, Sam followed the conductor but as he made his way through the car, he shouted, “How dare 79 you do this. Your superiors will hear about this.” The conductor did not say a word.

He and the young man went to the baggage room where, behind a pile of freight, Sam took off his clothes and the conductor took each piece of clothing, particularly his coat and scrutinized it for the stolen pouch. He even made the naked Sam stand before him and turn around. He saw nothing other than the usual male butt. He told Sam to put his clothes back on as he quickly looked through his belongings. The German and his family stayed outside on the platform. Sam and the conductor could hear him sobbing and crying out in German. His family huddled around him, also sobbing, not knowing where to go or what to do next.

Since the conductor found nothing, he and Sam returned to the Zulu car and the train got underway heading due west leaving the German and his family to work out their own problems. In spite of the delay, the train would be only a few minutes behind schedule.

No one questioned why Sam immediately returned to playing with the baby. The young couple was pleased for the moment of freedom it gave them. Sam quickly recovered the money pouch from underneath the baby’s blankets. If it was found, Sam was ready to claim he saw the young couple take the money. Through the pouches’ leather, he could feel five double eagles…$100. He quickly put the pouch inside his coat pocket. Later, he would hide the gold coins in the lining of his coat.

The young Jewess got off at Council Bluffs. She would never know what she missed.

He had already begun to grow a blonde mustache on his young face to look older and more distinguished. With his newfound wealth Sam wondered what style of hat he should buy in San Francisco...a sombrero, perhaps

~~~~~~~

Timothy Hopkins was exhausted from his trip back east to see Edward Searles. Searles, a gigolo, had married Timothy’s mother, Mrs. Mark Hopkins who was thirty years older than Searles and the richest woman in the United States after the death of her husband, Mark Hopkins. Mark Hopkins along with Leland Stanford, Corliss Huntington and George Crocker owned the Central Pacific Railroad.

Timothy had let his Mother know that he was dead set against her marriage with Searles and she had disowned him. Last July she had died 80

and left her son not even a penny of her inheritance. All of her monies had been left to the gigolo, Searles.

Because of his urgent need for money to keep up his status in the region, Timothy immediately wanted to inspect the 400 acres of land he and his wife, Mary, owned near Menlo which bordered Leland Stanford’s property, the San Francisquito Creek and the San Francisco Bay.

Sherwood Hall had been a wedding present from Mrs. Mark Hopkins to her son, Timothy, and her sister’s daughter, Mary, who would be Timothy’s first cousin. It was huge by any standard. Besides the 400 acres of land, the mansion had 50 rooms and 17 bedrooms. On its grounds were stables, orchards, and livestock making it possible for Timothy Hopkins to have a completely self-sustaining undertaking; it even had facilities for making kerosene for lighting and heating.

At the moment, as part of the orchard operation, a large group of women were processing prunes and with today’s prices that could be a financially rewarding. Hopkins was mounted on Black Knight, a six year old black stallion Senator Stanford gave him. The horse stood fifteen hands high and when Hopkins was astride him, his wife told him he looked regal. He liked that look.

As he put Black King into a trot toward where the women were working, he thought back to how Searles would not give an inch and insisted upon going ahead with the court proceedings to determine whether Timothy could legally contest his Mother’s will. In spite of the information Hopkins told him, Searles was convinced his deceased wife was legally married to Mark Hopkins and he was willing to go to court to prove it. Timothy knew this was not true and that his deceased mother had no right to the millions of dollars Hopkins had left when he died. Eventually, Searles would find out for himself but it would not be immediately. He would leave no stone unturned. He hated Timothy almost as much as Timothy loathed him.

Timothy knew now, that he would have to wait him out. It could be one or two years before the court proceedings took place. There was no recourse. He would have to make do with the monies he had saved for such an eventuality. Mary, his wife, would know nothing about their financial problems. He had never involved her before, why should he now?

Ahead he saw Finis Hitchcock, the man in charge of drying and processing prunes. Timothy tipped his hat to Hitchcock.

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“Morning, Mr. Hopkins,” Hitchcock looked up at Timothy seated tall in the saddle. There was something about talking down to a man on the ground that Timothy always preferred.

“Morning, Finis. Looks like the lady are doing well. With the prices like they are, we should try to get the product to market as soon as we can.”

Hitchcock looked at his boss and smiled. “We’ll push a little harder to make sure we get the good prices, Mr. Hopkins.”

“Keep at it, Finis,” and Timothy waved good-bye to Finis and wheeled Black Knight around so he could get a better view of what was going on.

Hitchcock and his crew of Chinamen had rigged up several driers for the prunes. The driers were huge caldrons of boiling hot water. Pails of lye were added to the water. Women filled the perforated buckets with prunes and then swung them on light derricks over the caldrons and dipped the buckets into the boiling water. This process perforated the prunes’ skins and hastened drying. The pails of prunes were then dropped on to large wooden trays where women spread them out evenly and lined up the trays on the ground to be dried in the sun. In the evening they would pick the trays up and take them into the barn. There were about forty women engaged in this activity. Most of them appeared to Chinese and some Mexicans. All of them are working hard, perspiring in the sun’s heat and Hopkins could see, because of the lye, their hands had the same look as the dried prunes.

He moved on toward another part of the farm where women were cutting apricots to be dried in sheds.

Black Knight was a good horse. Hopkins felt he could trust the horse just as he could trust the man who gave the horse to him. He could trust Leland Stanford. The man was like a father to him. Thank God for that.

A few years ago, when Hopkins needed a loan of $60,000 to exercise a long-term option to buy the 698 acres on the other side of the creek adjacent to Stanford’s Palo Alto Farm; Searles wouldn’t allow his wife, Hopkins’ mother, to lend the money to her son but Senator Stanford had come through for him and lent him the money.

There was a good reason why Senator Stanford did this. Both Menlo and Mayfield refused his demands that they close their saloons so Stanford decided to take matters into his own hands and help Hopkins establish another town. In fact the university roadways were being reoriented to the 82

north rather than the west or east because of this. Plans were afoot that a main road from the university would run directly to a railroad station that was yet to be built at the entrance to Timothy’s properties. At the moment it was a simple wooden shack and trains seldom stopped there but the Senator said he would soon change that. To please the Senator, Timothy had “no sale of liquor” as a condition of ownership in his new township.

Hopkins new township was called “University Park.” The Senator wanted him to call the new city “Palo Alto” after his farm, but Hopkins discovered that Alex Gordon, a Mayfield developer, bought two parcels of land next to Mayfield from farmers who would not sell to Stanford and had already legally named his subdivision “Palo Alto.” Hopkins would have to think of some way to get the name. Money was the usual solution. The Senator was upset with him about it and Hopkins did not want his mentor to be unhappy. All of his life, Hopkins has sought out and obtained financial rewards from people who liked him. First, Mark Hopkins, then his Mother and now, Senator Stanford. But, realistically, he knew that eventually both Stanfords would die and then who would be his benefactor?

Dead ahead were the drying sheds and next to them were about sixty women. Most of them were cutting cots in two and laying the husks on the trays. Hopkins had tried men for the job but he found that women were faster with their hands. Hopkins liked to watch their quick sure movements. Every so often he saw a hand without a finger or a thumb. He had never witnessed an accident but he always made sure the women were properly cared for. He realized their importance.

Hopkins astride Black King trotted back toward Sherwood Hall. He felt like a cup of strong, black coffee and one of the cook’s tasty cinnamon rolls.

He thought about how the whole area was afire from the golden glow of the opening of the new college. It was almost like a new gold rush in the valley. The town of Mayfield had been the quickest to take advantage of the boon. Each week, the local Mayfield paper kept count of new construction people hired to work on the new university. Most of these men would be living and eating and fornicating in the town. There was no doubt about that. Hopkins, with his Mayfield connections, had already taken steps to take advantage of their presence but Mayfield had made a huge mistake by not closing their saloons as the Senator had requested. This was a mistake that Hopkins’ University Park would take advantage of.

The Senator had made Hopkins a permanent trustee of the new University but he knew that Stanford and the new President, Jordan, 83

would assume most of the responsibilities and of course, there would always be a Lathrop in the Business Office. Hopkins could see that not only his own financial success but also his place in history might be tied to the success of Stanford’s school. To the world he was Mrs. Hopkins’ adopted child, completely lacking in any sort of pedigree. No one knew that Mrs. Hopkins was really his mother and had come into the Hopkins household as a servant. He not only didn’t have a family name, he also did not have a college degree. Illness had prevented him from going to one of the Ivy League schools.

He needed to form a relationship with one of the students so that he could know what was going on at the university. With that information, he would have some insight into what the future holds and how he should play with the new deck of cards he has been dealt. The new university could become his new benefactor and if not giving him money directly, perhaps give him the status and place in history he wanted and so richly deserved.

~~~~~~~~~

Six shots broke the silence of the orange grove.

Benjamin Forrest was picking up the small paper target, his sister, Sally, had just shot at, standing about fifteen to twenty feet from it.

“Sally you did good. Hit the target square in the middle, three times.” They had placed the target among the dense foliage of an orange tree. The bull’s eye, made out of heavy paper, was ten inches across. It was surrounded by numerous ripening still green oranges and stood about six feet above the dust and dirt of irrigation ditches surrounding the tree. The target stood at about the height of a man.

“Benji, I shot six times. What happened to the other three?” Asked an irritated Sally.

“See,” he holds the target up for her to glimpse and all six shots had hit the target but three had hit the bull’s eye and three were on the outer fringes. “You did good. I could never hit this thing except maybe one or two times.”

“Not good enough. I want to hit that bull’s eye six out of six. Put another target up and I’ll have another go.” Benji did what he was told. He had learned a long time ago not to go against the wishes of his sister. If she wanted something, she got it. He put up the target.

Another six shots broke the silence of the orange grove. 84

Sally Forrest was determined to become an excellent shot. The significance of the gun, its power, was deeply implanted on her. Her father had been killed, shot by the railroads, using its gunmen to take over lands he and his neighbors had so carefully nurtured. The gun was always victorious and Sally, growing up in the quiet town of Anaheim, appreciated its supremecy over those who were defenseless.

It had not been easy for her to convince her step dad to buy the rifle for them. Sally had to use all her feminine charm to change his mind but even at twelve and thirteen she was developing those talents.

Mr. Forrest had been alone sitting before the fireplace reading the Anaheim Bulletin. He had a furniture store in town and wanted to know what his competition’s ads were offering. He felt two cool, slender hands on the back of his neck. He knew it was not his wife, she seldom touched him except when she had to; it must be Sally.

“Sally, Sally, what are you up to, now. Are you trying to scare your old step dad?”

“No, sir. My hands are cold and I wanted to warm them and your neck looked so warm and inviting. Do you mind?”

“No, honey, you know that you couldn’t do anything that I would mind.” Sally was still behind him so he took her two hands in his and gently pulled her around in front of him so he could see her. “You are such a pretty girl, Sally. I’ll never forget when I married your Ma, you were all legs and arms and now look at you.” He held her back so he could get a full view of the lovely girl with her shoulder length lustrous blonde hair and long slender face with it’s dark blue eyes. “Yes, you are getting to be quite the belle.”

“Papa,” she always called him that when she wanted something, “Papa, some of the boys at school are bothering me. They keep touching me, here.” She touched the nipples of her budding breasts.

In spite of himself, Mr. Forrest’s eyes couldn’t help staring at Sally’s signs of womanhood . “Well, I swear, what kind of school do we have here in Anaheim? Did you tell the teacher, Honey?”

“No, I told the boys if they did that, again, I would shoot them with my rifle.”

“You did what? You threatened to shoot them.” Mr. Forrest laughed heartily. “Well, good for you, darling. I bet those scalawags will think 85

twice before they do that, again. And if they do touch you, you just let me know.” Then he thought for a moment, “But, Honey, you don’t have a rifle.”

She took her hand from his, sat in his lap and gently stroked his reddening face. “Papa, don’t you think that I should learn how to defend myself. All those boys look at me sort of strange, now. Benjamin and I could do some target practice in the orchard and I could learn to be a good shot like you are.” She really wasn’t sure Mr. Forrest could even shoot a gun.

Mr. Forrest prayed that his wife didn’t come in and see the two of them. She was very sensitive about her daughter being with him. “Yes, you and Benjamin should learn to defend yourselves. You are so right, Sally. I’ll buy you a rifle that you can practice with.”

With that, Sally got up and turn around to go out of the room. Mr. Forrest could not contain himself. He gently patted her in a fatherly manner on her rounded bottom.

Mr. Forrest bought a BB rifle for Sally and Benjamin from a local hardware store. Then as she grew older and it was obvious to all that she was becoming a even more beautiful women, it was easy for her to convince him to upgrade to a Winchester rifle and then to hand guns like Colt Double Action Revolvers. Mr. Forrest seeing Sally maturing, felt that it was natural she should be able to defend herself from those lecherous men and boys that were always hanging around her. Being able to shoot straight was the best way for a woman to do that.

All of this was a sham so that she could prepare herself to revenge her father’s death. She never discussed her real reasons even with her brother even though he was the closest one to being a good friend. In her heart, she knew she was becoming more and more obsessive.

She kept her father’s photograph close by her at all times in her purse, on her night stand, in whatever book she was reading. One time, she lost the photo amidst some papers and she felt her body becoming sweaty and her heart pounding and she almost fainted. Then she found it and her body became normal and she was at peace, again. She found that it made her feel good to talk to the photograph and sometimes, faintly, she could hear her father’s voice speaking back to her.

When she read about Leland Stanford Junior University in the Anaheim Bulletin, it seemed logical to her that Senator Stanford and his wife should be the ones to help give her a college education even though the money they used to establish the university for their dead son and to 86 hire Walter Crow were the same. There was no other way she would get a degree. Even with excellent grades at Anaheim High School, the Forrest family would just barely have enough money to educate the three boys in the family. Without Stanford’s generosity, Sally would have had to find a husband and make her way in life as a wife and mother.

She was pretty enough that she had plenty of potential offers. Her blonde hair and fair, Anglo-Saxon features attracted men like honey and that was the nickname she got in high school, “Honey.” She didn’t mind. She had learned in her early teens that she could use her looks to get what she wanted. It had started with her stepfather. In her mind, men were fools.

She was a voracious reader but she did not bother to read popular novels. She read stories and articles about the Populist Movement and its leader, William Jennings Bryant, who was a hero in her eyes. He stood for protecting the interests of the farmers and workers who were being victimized by huge corporations, and robber barons and Jewish bankers. Bryant was a lawyer and Sally decided that she would also become a lawyer and like Bryant speak for the underdog and in this way speak for her father from his grave.

She easily passed the entrance examinations to Leland Stanford Junior University that were given in Los Angeles and in late September of 1891, was on the steamship, Santa Rosa, chaperoned by her mother, that would bring her from San Pedro to San Francisco and from there by train to Menlo Park. She arrived one day before Delores and Betsy.

~~~~~~~~

It was Dr. Leslie Elliott’s turn to get the daily mail for the university. Dr. Jordan preferred to ride his horse but Elliott liked to walk, he had never been much of a horseman, even though the mail pouch was getting heavier and heavier with applications and inquiries.

At 9am, he left his poor wife, Ellen and their two-year-old son in the room at Cedro Cottage they had rented from Professor Richardson. Each day they took board at a sleezy hotel in Menlo. Louis would spend the day digging in the graveled backyard while Ellen, supported by the trunk of an old oak tree, would write letters home, sew or read books, Leslie had bought in the city---Adam Bede or Emerson’s Essays. For some reason, none of them had brought books. Never thinking that books would not be available like apples on the trees.

Luckily the post office was not too far out of the way from the cottage. Mr. Jeffers, the postmaster, had his pouch all ready for him. 87

Jeffers never stopped complaining about all the mail they got now compared to the days before the university. Leslie ignored the complaints and slung the leather pouch over his left shoulder and proceeded to the County Road and headed south. It would be two miles to the administrative office in the Quad.

As usual for early September, it was going to be another hot day, close to 92 degrees. In spite of the heat, he wore a dark suit and tie and shirt with its attached collars and cuffs and a derby hat. Underneath all these clothes, he was sweating profusely but sweat and the smell of sweat was part of life and nothing to be ashamed of. He wore boots that could withstand the rocks and dust and dirt of all the construction that was still going on.

About one and a half miles from Menlo Park he came to the juncture with the new road they were building that led to the university. He could see the outline of the Quad and the Chimney in the distance but between him and there was absolute chaos with mounds of dirt, horses and carts crossing one another tracks, and worker shoveling or picking or leaning and shouting to Leslie as he passed by:

“So how are you and the rest of the hobo professoors?”

“When are we going to see some stoodents, Professor? Ain’t this here a school for stoodents, professor? Or are you fellows just here to spend walkin and lunchin and winein?”

“Don’t drink too much of that Senator’s wine, professor. It will make you feel woooozy.”

As he trudged through and over the makings of the roadway, he had to smile to himself about how involved the workers were with what was going on about them. And it was true, Senator Stanford in his vigorous campaign to eliminate alcohol from the surrounding cities seemed to forget that he had significant investments in the making and selling of the items he wished to ban…wine and brandy.

Several of the workmen had even approached him about entrance requirements and one fellow had been accepted for admission as a ”special” student. The “special” status was one that Dr. Jordan used perhaps more than he should have when judging a candidate. He really had no written policy regarding what “special” meant. His feeling was that sometimes a person just needed a chance to further his education and, perhaps, this was the chance. So, perhaps they couldn’t pass all the tests and requirements, now; if they could pass later, why not give them a chance? When Leslie asked him about a questionable case (In one 88

situation they had even accepted a fourteen-year-old girl.) Dr. Jordan’s usual reply was, “Let’s see what happens, Leslie.” And Leslie could see nothing wrong with that kind of philosophy.

Thinking back to their brief stay at Escontite Cottage, Leslie had found out Dr. Jordan, at times, bowed to his wife’s philosophy.

Unfortunately, it had not worked out staying with the Jordans. At first all went well. They had Ah Sam doing all the cooking and he was doing a wonderful job but after two weeks, Mrs. Jordan got upset and fired him. It seemed he was not strong and Mrs. Stanford had told him there would not be much work to do. Mrs. Jordan asked him to make beds and he would not make beds.

Leslie would never forget the poor chap telling him as he walked out the front door with his belongings, “I cook good. I no make beds.” He raised his hands, palm up, in frustration and walked out the door.

This meant that for a very brief time Jessie Jordan and Ellen, Leslie’s wife had tried to cook for the two men and three children, but Leslie could see that it was getting to be too much for Jessie and he talked it over with Ellen and they decided that to keep a good relationship with the Jordans, they should move to a hotel in Menlo Park which they did the next day and then from there they worked out something with the Richardsons..

Dr. Jordan tried to talk them out of leaving but Jessie Jordan didn’t say a word so Leslie knew they had done the right thing. Jessie was expecting a baby in a few months and Leslie felt that motherhood was a burden for her and she had a bit of a temper and liked to be the decision maker in the house. Dr. Jordan was easy going and with all the problems he faced at the university he was quite happy to come home to a place where he had all of his decisions made for him and Jessie took full advantage of the arrangement.

It was too bad. Leslie liked Edith the eldest of the Jordan family. She was a proper young lady. She and another child, Harold, were the progeny of Dr. Jordan’s first marriage with Susan who had died about six years’ before. Edith would soon leave to be a boarder at Adelante Villa and Harold had been left with friends in Indianapolis. Leslie could never undersstood why. Perhaps he wasn’t getting along with Knight, Jordan’s son from his marriage with Jessie. The scamp was into was into everything or perhaps it was again, too much for Jessie to handle in this pioneering environment. Leslie guessed that was it was probably more the latter.

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Escontite Cottage where the Jordans lived was interesting, close to the University and to the road leading to Mayfield. Dr. Jordan told them that Peter Coutts, a notorious Frenchman, had built the cottage in 1875 and then for some unknown reason gone back to France and sold the cottage and property to Senator Stanford for a song. The cottage’s furnishings were in the French style of the 18th century with its walls covered with curiously figured cloth and all the furnishing were strangely carved. It was particularly strange to have two young children darting around what must have been priceless heirlooms dating back to Marie Antoinette. Also, strange indeed that Coutts should leave such items to the new owners but Leslie had long since given up trying to determine the why’s of human conduct. He had enough of a challenge trying to understand the why’s of establishing a new university.

For one thing, why the Business Office would allow the university only one phone line at Escontite Cottage? Because of this, Edith had to walk the mile and a half to the administrative offices whenever there was a phone call. Most of the calls were from the Business Office and Senator Stanford’s brother-in-law, Charles Lathrop, questioning the ordering of a piece of equipment or the hiring of a faculty member or whether the payment of some bill or other had been approved. Dr. Jordan would then have to get on his horse and ride all the way back to his cottage to call them back. He was always patient with Charles but Lathrop was becoming a real thorn in the side of both Leslie and Dr. Jordan. What could they do? It was like working for a small, family-owned company and the families were the Stanfords and the Lathrops. Ultimately, Senator Stanford approved the ordering or hiring or paying the bill but all this took time and some of the local merchants were already complaining about how long it took to get paid.

Leslie kept these thoughts to himself. Ellen guessed what was on his mind but as long as they were living at Escontite Cottage they did not discuss the matter. Now in the privacy of the cottage, it was about all they did discuss.

In the distance, Leslie could see that the chimney for the steam plant was almost completed. It would be over 60 feet high. Underground pipes running through a complex of tunnels from the plant would provide heat and hot water to all of the university and the dormitories and the new faculty houses being build on Alvarado Row The chimney could be seen from miles away and people were saying it would be a landmark for many years to come. Leslie liked to think that but there were warning signs that the future would not be as rosy as everyone predicted.

Dr. Jordan was so optimistic. Was it Leslie’s nature to be the opposite? In his mind, he has already seen some signs that Stanford did 90

not have the intellect or really the financial where with all to be the sole founder and benefactor of a really great university. He did know how to build railroads and raise thoroughbred horses. Maybe with the right bloodlines and trainers and environment it might work for horses but with students there would be a whole new set of challenges.

The building he could see on his left, Encina Hall, was a good example of that. He understood from some of the workmen he had befriended that Mrs. Stanford was superintending its building. If she didn’t like the look of a window or porch, it would be removed and what she wanted be would be substituted. She said that she could not judge how a thing would look until she saw it. No one cared that this kind of thinking would impede the work schedule. All the workers were happy to receive a paycheck. Construction could go on forever and they would not care..

Encina Hall have to house both members of the faculty who were not married and men students, in most cases, boys. The Senator named the hall after specie of trees just as he had named the women’s hall, Roble. Encina was a replica of a Swiss Hotel Senator Stanford had liked visiting. Leslie had heard from the architectural staff that the design was not suitable for a men’s dormitory because of too many long halls and too many staircases and too much privacy for the students to scheme up shenanigans.

From the outside, it appeared to be in the final stages of completion. Workmen were putting the finishing touches to the roof and the porch and steps leading into what Leslie considered a lavish entrance hall for a men’s dormitory. All it needed was a desk to check in and bellhops to take suitcases. Looking up at the roof, Leslie could see several workers scampering from one point to the other without the use of any safety devices. They appeared to be as nonchalant as if they were walking on the ground but it was six stories high. No wonder over half a dozen of them was buried in the small cemetery beside young Stanford’s temporary mausoleum.

Encina Hall, according to the construction reports he had read, would be ready for the students arriving during the next two weeks and would be the largest solid stone structure in the Unites States. The ladies arriving at Roble would not be so lucky.

Because of the unforeseen increase in the number of women who had been admitted, the Senator and Dr. Jordan decided at the last minute to stop construction on a similar stone structure for the ladies. A smaller dormitory that used reinforced concrete instead of solid stone, which would go up faster, was being build but it was about four weeks behind 91

schedule. October First was still the date for classes to begin and the ladies would be arriving soon. They would have to be patient and put up with no electricity and no hot water for some time and the kitchen facilities for the dining room were far from completed. The ladies would soon learn to be pioneers like all the rest of us.

Arriving faculty members would also get to act like pioneers and would have to be satisfied with available housing, which was next to nothing. Even the ladies of Adelante Villa were turning out their boarders to make room for the young ladies they had signed up like dear Edith. Some of the single faculty men would be housed in Encina but the married men would have to wait for the cottages being built behind Encina on Alvarado Row which his wife, Ellen, referred to as “a ragged little string of skeletons”. When they were completed which, hopefully, was about 2- 3 weeks’ off, one of them was intended for the Elliott family. Ellen was understanding of their circumstances but Leslie knew it was time for them to have their own home.

Also, there was the matter of finances. Although, Dr. Jordan had been optimistic about his method of dealing with the Senator, there were still no additional monies for books for the library. Arriving faculty had already taken to adding their personal libraries to the collections their students might use.

Leslie was at the end of the oval that was just taking form on the north side of the Quad. On his right he could see the administrative office, his destination. The mail pouch had grown heavier and heavier and he would be glad to unload its contents on Batchelder’s desk for him to sort through.

There in the distance, he could see the prominent figure of Dr. Jordan striding toward him. It must be another crisis.

“Leslie, Leslie.” He could hear Dr. Jordan calling him, as he got closer.

“I’ll be right there, Dr. Jordan.” He shouted back.

^^^^^^^^^^

Irene wished that Dr. Jordan had told her about the ghost that inhabited Coon House. When she had asked him if he knew about the ghost, he said no, but she couldn’t believe him. He was so friendly with everyone, someone must have told him the story. Even though Irene and Louise with the help of a significant number of Chinamen had first 92

thoroughly cleaned the house and then, later, some of the boarders including Mr. Martin helped them spruce up the place with paint and polish, the house was shining but the ghost remained. Renaming the house Adelante Villa had certainly made no difference. Perhaps the ghost even preferred its new environment since it was a lady. At first Louise and Irene thought it was the foot long rats that enjoyed taking berries from the kitchen to the attic but the scurrying sounds they made and the thump, thump of the ghost were totally different.

Irene heard the story of the ghost’s origination from various sources and in various versions but the crux was that she was the disgruntled first wife of Judge Coon who formerly owned the properties before the Senator bought it. With the ghost stories going around, probably for a song, Irene thought.

Irene gleaned that for years, Judge Coon and his first wife had lived happily in their summer home, Coon House. The judge presided in San Francisco and they usually lived in the city but in the summer when the courts weren’t in session, the happy couple would make their way to their hideaway. Their happiness came to an abrupt end when the Judge’s wife became ill and she made the judge promise her that if she died, she would be buried on the grounds of their summer home and that he would grow a little hedge around her grave and keep the gravesite in good repair. She did die and the judge did bury her there with a little hedge surrounding the grave but unfortunately he decided to remarry after what seemed to many, a short mourning period.

It was also rumored that the Judge knew his new bride while he was still married to the dead one and the two of them might have had a hand in sending the first Mrs. Coon to an early departure.

The new wife also liked living in Coon House but she did not take to having the ex-wife so obviously close by, even in a grave. She showed her disapproval by having her husband cut down the hedge and burn its branches on top of the grave and then allow and encourage weeds to overgrow the tombstone and gravesite so it was not recognizable. Eventually the grave even caved in.

Soon after, the ghost made its first appearance and the Judge and his new family moved back to San Francisco. The house remained vacant until it was sold to the Senator and Dr. Jordan and Louise and Irene entered the home a few months, ago. Irene had decided to keep the gravesite in the same state of disrepair. She did not think that young girls would enjoy knowing that there were the remains of an ex-wife, nearby and active.

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The current boarders, Bert Hoover, Fletcher Martin and the rest, enjoyed the ghost and over breakfast would discuss its new activities during the preceding evening with much mirth and joking. These goings- on consisted mostly of strange, footsteps and sounds, through the upstairs’ halls and particularly up and down the third story staircase with its little gate across the top showing where a nursery was to be for progeny that were never to be.

The current boarders were boys and men. The new boarders who would replace them, soon, would be girls some just barely in their teens. Irene hated to think what the consequences might be if the ghost continued its ramblings around the house. All of the work done to get the young ladies to come to Adelante Villa could be wasted.

Irene and Louise had spent many long hours at a small desk in the new administrative office surrounded by Dr. Jordan and Mr. Elliott and their staff greeting and meeting with parents who might consider letting their young daughters board at the Villa and be taught by the ladies in preparation for entrance to the university. The most difficult thing about all this was that the parents expected that the board and training would be provided without cost. The Senator’s largesse permeated everywhere and it took some talking by the ladies to convince the parents that, “No, they were not part of the university, “ and “Yes, tuition and board would be charged.” A great deal of time and energy had been expended to produce twelve young ladies who were to move in at the end of next week including Edith, Dr. Jordan’s young daughter. Irene had already asked the boarders to vacate, including Fletcher Martin.

That evening after the dinner chores were done, Irene made her way to the unkempt gravesite and stood directly in front of it. She wanted to talk to Mrs. Coon. In a quiet but resolute voice, she said, “Now, Mrs. Coon, I’ve heard the stories about your husband didn’t honor his promises to you and I completely understand how disturbed you must be. I hope you like how we have cleaned up your home and I am sorry I didn’t feel it was right to clean up your gravesite and have all my girl boarders frightened to death about living and sleeping next to you. I hope you also understand that we are going to have young ladies moving in who have been living with their parents and now they have come to this strange and God-forsaken country and it is going to be hard enough on them without having you traipsing around every evening and making those weird thumping sounds on the third floor. If you keep doing this, those girls are going to want to move out of here as fast as they can and we won’t have any students and then I don’t know what Louise and I will do. I know you like to look around and see what is happening but please, please try to be quiet about it and don’t make those noises. Thanks, Mrs. Coon.”

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Was that a sound amongst the bushes or just her imagination? A small animal passing through or the hem of Mrs. Coon’s dress catching on a twig? Irene couldn’t tell. She walked back into the house thinking, “I’ve done all I could.”

~~~~~~~~

During the past summer months, Fletcher had at last found some element of peace in his life. Sitting in his room at the Villa in the early hours of the day and later, after walking a few miles into the foothills in a secluded, shaded spot, he managed to read parts of Herodotus; the first and second books of Thucydides; all of Polybius; a little of Plutarch; Aeschylus’ Oretean Trilogy; Sophocles’ Seven Against Thebes; Euripedes’ Hippolytus and Bacchae; and Aristophanes’ Frogs and even parts of The Politics of Aristotle. He could not believe he accomplished so much in such a little time but the atmosphere was perfect for reading and studying. His Latin comprehension was much better than what he expected, but his Greek was rusty and he spent too much time looking up words and phrases in his little, tattered dictionary.

He had helped to clean up the villa and offered to do more and Irene thanked him but did not suggest anything he might do. He had never met a woman like Irene, before. In fact, during the past decade, he had very little to do with women. He did not feel right about taking advantage of the Indian ladies even though some of his fellow officers had two or three wives at different forts in the territory.

He liked to hear Irene’s voice and watch her movements at the table where they all ate twice a day. He tried not to stare at her. She was such a handsome woman and so competent in everything she did. Fletcher startled himself by the strong feelings he was developing for this woman he had only known for a couple of months.

The boy, Bert, knew nothing about horses. Fletcher had seen him standing by Jim, not knowing what to do next and Fletcher went over to him and tactfully suggested how the horse should be properly groomed. He had to admit that Bert did receive the suggestions gracefully and appeared to put into practice, immediately, what he had suggested.

The ghost, if there was one, did not bother him. Either he was too engrossed in his studies or the ghost knew he was too hardened by the Indian Wars to be frightened by the supernatural. He understood it was a woman. “Varium et mutabile semper femina,” he thought.

One evening, after supper, Irene gave him a note from Dr. Jordan. He wanted to see Fletcher. 95

Next day, instead of taking his usual hike into the foothills, he walked the mile to the Administrative Office in the Quad and found Dr. Jordan and the rest of his staff hard at work. Irene was in corner of the office next to the registrar, Leslie Elliott. She was busy talking to prospective clients, parents with their young daughter who wanted her to be able to pass the entrance tests for Leland Stanford Junior University. California high schools were simply not prepared for the task. Irene glanced over at him for a second and gave him a friendly look but never missed a beat in her concentration and her earnest endeavors to get more live-in students for the Villa.

The minute Dr. Jordan saw him; he arose from his high top desk and greeted him. He was a large man, almost as tall as Fletcher. He took Fletcher’s hand in his and vigorously pumped it.

“Let’s go outside, Mr. Martin, and talk,” he said and put his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and guided him out of the office on to the broad asphalted terrace. As they strode outside, Dr. Jordan said, under his breath, “Bis dat qui cito dat.”

“Shall we sit on my favorite curb?” And the two sat where Dr. Jordan and Elliott and Dr. Richardson usually have lunch. Dr. Jordan assumed his lounging position with his boots thrust out before him. He made himself comfortable while Fletcher put his hands behind him and guided his posterior on to the hard curb. He was not used to sitting on cement. The ground better suited him. Once he was settled, Dr. Jordan looked over and asked, “How are you?” in a friendly tone.

“Never, happier,” answered Fletcher although he was taken aback by Dr. Jordan’ immediate intimacy and act of friendship. It was as if they had known each other for years.

“Good, good,” Jordan leaned forward,” I may need your help, Mr. Martin. We saw your army service on the application and the West Point education. Senator Stanford and I agree that our young men will need training in military science and I wondered if you could help us. We have hired a retired Civil War Army officer who lives in Menlo Park but he may need some assistance. We thought you could bring in some of the principles of warfare broached by Thucydides or something like that.”

Fletcher without a moment hesitation said, “Yes, sir, anything I can do for you and the school, I will.” Was it his military training responding or was it immediate loyalty to this man who sat before him?

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“Thank, you. I will let you know what is the next step.” And then he discussed Classical Literature with Fletcher. Dr. Jordan was proficient in a myriad of subjects. He told Fletcher that Dr. Henry Tarver Whitman would be his faculty advisor. Each student was assigned a faculty member and together they would work out a class schedule. Dr. Whitman was an expert in the Greek language and literature and would be on campus soon and Dr. Jordan would send a note to Adelante Villa telling Fletcher when he arrived and how to get in touch with him.

The men got up and Dr. Jordan took Fletcher’s hand and said, “Ave atque vale.”

Fletcher smiled and responded, “Autentes fortuna juvat.”

A few day’s later, Irene gave Fletcher another, handwritten note from Dr. Jordan which asked Fletcher to see Dr. Whitman at Room 32, his office, on Tuesday of the next week at 9am.

Precisely at 9am on Tuesday, Fletcher found the door to Room 32, open and walked in. Dr. Whitman was seated behind his new desk. He arose, greeted Fletcher and shook his hand, firmly. He was a tall, young, beardless man who appeared to be in his late twenties. He had his doctorate from Johns Hopkins and apparently only a few years of teaching experience. He asked Fletcher to sit on a chair that was next to his desk and they discussed Dr. Whitman’s recent trip across the United States. It was not his first time, but the train had ran into difficulty, one of the steam engines needed maintenance and it took them a week to find a replacement engine and all that time was spent in a hot fleabag hotel in St. Louis.

Even though the conversation was relaxed and went easily, Fletcher felt Dr. Whitman was somewhat intimidated with the older man sitting beside him seeking his advise. When Fletcher told him the extent of his recent readings, Whitman was overawed and told Fletcher to keep up the good work.

As for Fletcher’s concerns about his knowledge of the Greek language, Dr. Whitman would be teaching an elementary Greek class that Fletcher might want to take. Dr. Pease who as yet had not arrived would teach the Latin classes. Details of when the classes would be taught were still being worked on and should be completed within two weeks so he and Fletcher would have to get together again to work out his schedule. When Dr. Whitman got up, Fletcher knew the meeting had ended. They shook hands and as he walked out, Whitman said, “Age quod agis.”

Outside the door, Fletcher turned left toward the Administrative Office. 97

During the previous days while pursuing his lonely studies, he had found his thoughts interrupted by visions of Irene. Even though they had limited relationships, he was drawn to this woman by some unseen almost magical force. He had never experienced these feeling before and he decided that he must try to see Irene, again, and he had a note, folded in the breast pocket of his coat, that he had carefully penned the preceding evening. He hoped she would be able to read it, since his penmanship was not the greatest. He had written the note five times before getting it to an acceptable version. When he walked in, there she was at her small desk in the corner, luckily not busy. She immediately saw him and her face lit up in a smile.

On his prior visit to see Dr. Jordan, she had seen him and bit her lip when the parents before her continued to ask inane questions that she had to courteously answer. She could not speak to him at the time and even though they lived in the same house, it was difficult to talk to him, privately. After breakfast, he disappeared into the hills, not returning until supper and then she had work to do until tumbling into bed. This weekend, he would be moving out to make room for the young ladies who would be arriving and then their relationship, even though insignificant, might end..

Fletcher stood before her without even saying “hello” and gravely gave her his neatly folded note. She could see that his hands were trembling. She took the note and carefully unfolded it. Written on it, in a large masculine hand, slightly tilted to the left, was, “Tomorrow morning would you like to take a walk with me??? Fletcher”

Irene glanced at the note and at the innocent looking question marks and looked up at Fletcher, and whispered the words, “Yes, when?”

“After breakfast, “ he replied.

“Good,” she said and Fletcher immediate did an about-face as if he had just met with his commanding officer and quickly but quietly walked out of the office past its busy occupants. Irene’s heart was beating so hard she was sure that Leslie Elliott, sitting about ten feet away, could hear it. She looked over at him and his eyes were lowered, concentrating on a letter he was reading. Then, she glanced at Dr. Jordan who had his fold- up desk on the other side of the room from her, and he looked back at her as if he was aware of everything that had transpired and broadly smiled conveying his wholehearted approval of the proceedings he had just witnessed..

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For a moment, her thoughts drifted back to an image of Bruce Hornsby, the man she had been engaged to while she was attending Harvard Annex. She and Bruce had made such wonderful plans. After she graduated, they would marry and they would have a wonderful wedding with Lucy Fletcher as her bridesmaid and then, and then he died very quickly of pneumonia two weeks before their wedding date.

She was always thankful of one thing, they did not wait to consummate their relationship. For one night, they were one. She was no longer a virgin.

All of the invitations had been sent and there were wedding gifts to be returned and the awful, awful funeral where his parent acted like they did not know her and she stood there, alone with only Lucy at her side. She thought she would never, never stop crying but eventually she had and then she met Dr. Jordan and her life became centered on her plans for the school with Lucy.

After Bruce’s death, Irene thought she would become a spinster like one of her Aunts. Now, after meeting Fletcher she was not so sure of this. Her face lit up in a radiant smile that even Leslie Elliott couldn’t help but notice.

Tomorrow morning, her other chores would have to wait.

~~~~~~~~~

Behind Adelante Villa stood the Sierra Morena Mountains, 1300 feet high. Some of the area’s residents referred to them as the “Black Mountains.” They were cloaked with redwood, oak, and madrona trees. In the summer, their only color of green was the leaves of the trees. The rest of the mountainsides were burned from the sun’s heat except for isolated thickets of bushy plants, chemisal, which were so dense that only wildcats, cottontail and roadrunners could make their way through them. A species of cuckoo birds made its habitation in the area. With its long, thin body and long tail, it seldom flew but ran over the ground and through the bushes with remarkable speed.

It was through this countryside that Fletcher and Irene walked singly and silently with Fletcher leading the way. He wanted to show Irene where he had read and studied these past months.

It was another hot day. Even the long-time residents of the area were unaccustomed to such warm weather. They cautioned the newcomers, “It will end soon enough and then it will rain and rain until you think the sun 99

has dropped out of the sky and done disappeared for five months and then instead of sun, all you will see is mud and more mud.”

But today was bright and cloudless. Irene wore a soft, light cotton dress that she made herself. She liked bright colors and the dress was made of a yellow patterned cloth with orange and green ribbons at the neck and sleeves. The colors showed off her reddish hair and fair skin. Underneath she only had on a chemise without the impediment of a corset. This was her usual attire during the day. A commonsense pair of brown oxfords completed her traipsing outfit. She decided not to bother with a sunbonnet. It pushed down her hair too much.

Fletcher was wearing a pair of dark blue denim overalls and a light blue shirt that at one time must have been army issue. It was open at the collar and underneath was a tattered white undershirt. He had rolled up his sleeves so his browned, muscular arms were exposed and on his feet were a pair of oil grain plow boots that he had taken to wearing in the woods.

Irene looked down at the ground and could see the path they were following was well trodden. She wondered if others also came this way or was it just Fletcher? Every so often they would have to drop their heads so as not to hit a low branch and sometimes they paused as Fletcher gently pushed some brush back so that Irene’s dress would not get caught.

After hiking almost an hour, they entered a clearing surrounded on two sides with large old oak trees and overlooking another valley that stretched before them maybe for another two or three miles. Irene knew immediately this must be the place Fletcher was seeking. It had a feeling of isolation and remoteness that a man like Fletcher would need. A log, long since the remnant of an accidental strike of lightening, lay in the midst of the clearing, diagonally bisecting it. The ravages of weather and time had shredded the tree’s lifeless roots. Mounds of termite dust were scattered among the decaying branches where spider webs covered with morning dew sparkled like jewels from reflections of the sun.

Fletcher stopped; leaned back against the log, and caught his breathe. “This is the place,” he said. “I usually bring a blanket so I can sit on the ground and read.”

Irene leaned back with him and looked at the view stretching before them. “It is beautiful,” she said. “I wish I would have brought some coffee for us to drink. It would be fun to have a picnic, here.”

“Maybe, next time,” he said. With all his heart he hoped they would come here, again. 100

Irene felt good when he said that. She did not want him to leave the Villa. She did not want to lose him. She had already lost one man in her life. She knew at her age the chances of finding the right man and having a family were getting more remote. “When do you expect to be leaving?” she asked.

“If it is all right with you, tomorrow morning. I’ve been given room 37 at Encina. Because of my age, I think my roommate is a member of the faculty. I am not sure who it will be and it really doesn’t matter. After the army, I could bunk with almost anyone.”

Leaning against the log, they stood side by side in silence.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask him. She knew nothing about him except that he had been in the army and was interested in classical literature. She had studied English but knew next to nothing about the Classics. She had almost failed the Latin class she took at Williams College. She realized the significance of Latin in the study of words and learning other languages but reading and studying ancient Roman and Greek authors did not interest her. There were too many masterful modern writers to read like Henry James and Oscar Wilde and the new, Jack London. She wondered what Fletcher thought about these new writers and she was tempted to ask him but she decided to remain quiet, for a change. She usually took the lead in making conversation and she wondered if being too aggressive might frighten him off.

He smiled at her and gave her a strange look of despair as if he were a student and Irene had asked him a question and Fletcher had no idea what the answer might be.

Then she realized that this man standing beside her, this man with his great height and strength, who had fought Indians for almost ten years and endured untold hardships was desperately shy in the presence of women. Now she understood why he had found refuge in the Classics and had made very few friends at the Villa. If there was to be a relationship and she prayed to God, there would be, she would have to initiate it.

Surprisingly he did start a conversation but it was a strange one. “You know what I really like about you, Irene.” He didn’t give her time to answer. “It is your lack of inquisitiveness. Anyone else would have asked me all kinds of questions by now about where I came from and what I did, but you don’t and I really appreciate that.”

Irene was touched. She did smile to herself. If he only knew what she was thinking. If that was what he wanted that would be what he got. 101

“My father is an attorney. Does that tell you anything? When I was growing up, wherever I went and whatever I did, when I came home, I had to prepare myself to be cross-examined except in this case I had no one representing me. So, I soon found out that I could answer his questions and still not say anything and what I told him was the truth but sometimes only part of the truth.”

Fletcher nodded in agreement. “My father was in the army. I didn’t see him very much when I was growing up and when I did he was very strict with me. Sometimes I would walk into the house and he would swat me without saying a single word.”

“I am sure it was probably something your mother told him you had done. Parents are like that. Are they still alive?”

“Still alive, both of them. He’s retired now. I stayed with them in Sioux City when I got out of the army.” For a moment he thought of telling her about what happened at Wounded Creek and thought better of it. That could come at a different time.

“You didn’t have any brothers or sisters?”

“I had a younger sister, Donna. She died about ten years ago. She was born without being able to speak so both mother and I took care of her. Donna and I were very close. It was as if we didn’t need words to communicate. Mother was never that well so sometimes I would read stories to her and she acted like she knew what I was saying. Mother missed my father, terribly. Sometimes I would hear her crying herself to sleep when he was gone for a long time.”

“So you were raised on Army Posts with other Army children?”

“I liked it at the Forts on the edges of the Territories. It was fun being young there. Riding horses and taking care of them and hunting and fishing. I would take Donna for long walks and try to get her to talk but she just didn’t have it in her. I didn’t like it in the cities like Sioux City and Kansas City when my father was fighting and we couldn’t be near him.”

Fletcher looked over at Irene and smiled. She could tell he was more relaxed now. “I guess I’m just not a city boy.”

“It must be difficult having a sister who is handicapped. All of my brothers and sisters are absolutely brilliant.”

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“Having Donna as a sister changed the way I thought about other people who were different like she was.”

“How was that?”

“The other children we grew up with treated Donna like she was inferior and once I caught some of my supposed friends trying to take her clothes off.”

“What do you do?”

Fletcher wasn’t sure he should reveal this dark truth but he went ahead and was honest. “What do you think? I almost killed them. After that, I took affront if anyone treated someone else as an inferior whether it was an Indian or white man. I didn’t make friends easily and that’s why I could never manage having a relationship with an Indian woman like so many of my fellow officers.”

“My cousin, who was in the Army, told me that some soldiers had three or four wives in different parts of the territory.”

“One I knew had six. I never could figure out how he kept track of them.” Fletcher made a wide gesture with his hands and accidentally touched Irene’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he said and was silent, again, for another moment. “You know, I don’t remember ever having talked about myself so much. I don’t think I’ve mentioned Donna’s name recently to anyone except my mother. My father never talks about her.”

Irene decided to take a chance and said, “You don’t make friends easily do you?”

For the first time, Fletcher glanced at the woman at his side but still faced the view, “No, I don’t. I don’t take to people too well. I never had a friend in the Army and since I’ve been here in California the only man I’ve met and liked is a one-legged saloon keeper in Mayfield by the name of Fred Behn.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know Mr. Behn but there are many people in Mayfield that I know and like. Why do you think you like him?”

“There is just something I feel about him that I know I can trust him and that he will always be honest with me. When I am with him, I feel relaxed as if I don’t have to pretend to be someone, I’m not.”

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Up until now, both Irene and Fletcher had been side-by-side, now Fletcher turned and faced Irene as he said, “I feel that same way about you.”

Irene understood how difficult it was for him to say those words and she answered with a simple, “Thank you, Fletcher.”

They awkwardly moved closer and Fletcher gently put his arms around Irene and tenderly and quickly kissed her on the lips. Irene brought her hands up behind Fletcher’s broad back and for a moment they held each other.

Fletcher had never done anything like this in his life. It had been almost a reflexive action that he could not control. He was happy that Irene had not pushed him away. He wanted to think that she must feel the same way he did.

Irene had known love before during her courtship with Bruce Hornsby but this time it was totally different and Fletcher was totally different from Bruce or any other man she had ever met before. He was kind and gentle and innocent in so many ways.

They parted but still faced each other and still held each other hands. Both of them were smiling but Fletcher’s face suddenly turned serious. He had to tell her about Wounded Creek and this was as good a time as any. He did not want to hide anything from her so he said, “There’s something you should know about me. Because of what happened at Wounded Creek, I was almost court-martialed and some would say I was a coward.”

“I can’t believe that, Fletcher.” She knew he wanted to tell her something that was on his mind and that he felt was important for her to know. She settled back against the log and said, “Go ahead and tell me all about what happened at Wounded Creek.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Rubin Weinberg slowly dragged himself and his heavy valise toward the enormous building that loomed in front of him. There it was “ENCINA HALL” carved in stone just above the front entrance. He climbed the final ten cement steps to the front porch.

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It was 8 pm, Friday, September 25th. He tried the front door and found it locked. He pounded on the door and shouted, “Is anyone there?” Silence. All the windows were dark. There were no sounds.

Rubin knew someone was inside because a workman he saw on his way from the Menlo station asked him where he was going and volunteered that someone was already staying at Encina. Rubin pounded on the door again and shouted, again. Still no reply. He looked back at the stairs he had just climbed and the darkness beyond. He did not relish the thought of going back down those steps and sleeping on the ground in the dark but there might not be another way.

He had traveled almost 2000 miles from Omaha, Nebraska. He was nineteen years old and had long, black, thick hair and a narrow face with a long nose, a Jewish nose because he was Jewish. His wide brown eyes gave his face a soft, approachable look.

His family, The Weinberg’s, were the most prominent Jewish family in Omaha. His uncle was the owner of the only department store in the bustling city. Rubin’s father, Joel, was not interested in “the business”; he was an artist, a painter. Rubin did not know whether he was a good or not but he did know that no one bought his paintings. They hung everywhere in the house and some were stored in the cellar and attic and even in the stables.

After posing for many hours, Rubin as a ten-year-old boy remembered looking at a completed portrait his father had painted of him. The painting showed in great detail a young boy with a very adult expression on his face. He was thinking of something, not smiling. There was a dog running in the background and two people on a distant hill that always were in his father’s paintings. When he saw the completed picture, Rubin told his father, “That doesn’t look like me and who are those two people and I never saw that dog.”

His father replied with the typical whimsical smile on his face that would later drive Rubin crazy, “It is what I see, Rubin.” Words that made absolutely no sense at all to the young boy.

Four years ago, Joel Weinberg died from a stroke and Rubin and his mother and four brothers had lived in semi-poverty ever since. Their only source of income was the money his Uncle gave the family. Rubin resented this and he resented his rich cousins who were always flaunting their wealth in his family’s face whenever they had religious or social get- togethers.

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After Rubin graduated from Omaha Central High School on Dodge Street near “Weinberg’s”, his uncle suggested that he should go to Leland Stanford Junior University. Tuition was free and his uncle would help him with living expenses in exchange for a promise that he would work at “the store” when he graduated. Rubin had no alternative. Times were tough and there were no jobs and he did not want to be more of a burden to his family.

Since his uncle was a prominent donor to Senator Stanford’s Republican Party, he contacted the Senator directly and was able get his nephew admitted on a provisional basis. He would have to arrive early and take entrance examinations.

Just before he left to go to Stanford, Rubin pulled his portrait out of storage in the family attic. He could see that the young boy looked more like the young man Rubin had become. How did his father know this? For the firs time, Rubin began to appreciate his father’s talents but apparently no one else did and his Mother was talking about destroying the paintings to make more room for boarders

After pounding on the door several more times, Rubin finally gave up. He picked up his valise and started walking back down the steps. As it happened, the door swung wide open.

A large, rawboned man with a scruffy, red beard stood there with a small, lit candle that looked out of place in his big hand. “Whoa, boy. Where do you think you are going? If you’re looking for Encina Hall, this is it. Sorry I was sleeping and might not have heard you.” He opened the door wide and Rubin hustled back up the stairs and inside. In the darkness, he could just barely make out the outline of a large, sumptuous reception hall.

The men introduced themselves and they shook with their free hands. He was William Greer, a graduate student from Boston and MIT and had just arrived the day before and spent the night. He had found that Encina was not nearly ready for occupancy but there was no other place to stay. There was no bedding and the kitchen was not finished and the reason for the candle was the generator that was supposed to provide the whole campus with light was still in a boxcar waiting to be unloaded.

Both men agreed that if Greer could stay there so could Rubin.

William showed him the room next to his where he might be staying. In the candlelight, Rubin could just barely make out a bed with a mattress and there were some chairs and tables and a commode.

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William looked into the room and said, “I do have an advantage over you. There’s no bedding or blankets but I brought a bedroll with me so with that on top of the mattress, it makes a fairly decent bed.”

Rubin looked bedraggled. It had been a long, hard day and he needed to sleep. Sleeping on a bare mattress was not what he was looking forward to.

William could see that his new friend was at the end of his tether. “Here, tell you what you might do,” and he went out of the room, was gone for a few minutes and came back with a trunk rope in his hands. He took the mattress from the other bed in the room and flung it on the bed Rubin planned to use.

“We can tie these two mattresses together and you can crawl in between. I learned to do this when my roommate used to take all the blankets.”

William made a tight knot and Rubin could see he had at least some elements of a place to sleep.

William gave him his still lit candle, “Here,” and he pointed to his left, ‘down the hall there’s a lavatory with running water. Not hot but at least you can take a piss or whatever if you want to. Tomorrow morning we’ll go into Mayfield for “eats”. I’ll say good night to you, Rubin, sleep well.” He tipped the derby he was still wearing, worn back on his forehead and walked out the door into the pitch-black hallway. Rubin could hear the door open and close to the room next to his.

The candle was put to good use, as Rubin made his way down the wide corridor to swinging double doors where he knew the urinals must be. Inside, he could see the gleaming white floor tiles and eight porcelain urinals on the wall to the left and six washbasins to the right. At the back were eight narrow doors, which he knew must lead to the crappers. Since he had hardly eaten anything that day that was not something he had to deal with. He could wait until the next morning. He unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his circumcised penis, and made a vigorous stream onto the white porcelain. He thought, “I’m probably the first person that’s pissed here.”

Rubin made his way back to the room and crawled in between the mattresses. It was not comfortable. He doubted whether he could get to sleep. Tomorrow he would have to see if his cousin from Los Angeles, Delores Payson, had arrived. In the distance he could hear strange dogs howling. He had never heard that kind of sound before. He guessed he would have to get used to it. 107

~~~~~~~~~

Next day, early Saturday morning, Bert Hoover and Fred Williams used Jim and the Villa’s rig to take their belongings to Encina Hall. Bert dropped Fred off in front of the huge building and returned the horse and rig to the Villa and walked back the mile and a half to Encina. He would see old Jim again, later that day

Since Bert already was working in the admissions office on a part- time basis, he knew that he and Fred had been assigned to Room 38. Dr. Jordan told him that a man called Bert Fesler from the Business Office would be in charge of Encina and would be collecting the $18 a month charge for room and board. Bert had already decided that the $18 a month was way too much for him and he would be staying at Encina for only a brief period. It was too expensive and he was growing tired of Fred’s companionship.

Mr. Fesler worked for Ariel Lathrop, Mrs. Stanford’s older brother, in the Business Office of the University. Senator Stanford had decided that this office under the guidance of Mr. Lathrop would be responsible for the management of the dormitories. They handled all money matters.

When Bert got back, after more than an hour, Fred was still standing on the porch with their belongings. The front door was locked and apparently on a Saturday morning it was still too early for Mr. Fesler to be there. The boys waited for someone to open the door.

At about 9am, the door was opened from the inside and a red bearded man and a younger, black haired younger man walked out on to the porch. They were on their way to Mayfield to get breakfast. They introduced themselves to the boys as Will Greer and Rubin Weinberg and asked if they wanted to come along. Bert declined their invitation but put his foot forward to keep the door from closing and then propped his bag to keep it open.

“Do you have a key?” he asked Greer assuming the elder of the two would be the responsible one.

“Yes, but Mr. Lathrop said I was not to give it to anyone,” Greer said, moving on to the porch, around the bag and Bert. “Fesler and Lathrop should be here, soon. I would suggest you wait outside until they come. I am not sure how they would take it if you were inside, alone.”

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Bert agreed reluctantly because he moved the bag back out on the porch and watched the heavy door slam shut. Greer and Weinberg said their good byes and said they would be returning in about two hours.

Bert and Fred sat on the top step still waiting.

An hour later, two men appeared, walking toward the hall from the university. One of the men was older and dressed in good clothes and had a bowler hat on. He had a scraggly beard covering a florid face. Bert had already seen him around the administrative offices and knew him to be Mrs. Stanford’s older brother, Ariel Lathrop. The other fellow was Burt Fesler, a former student of Dr. Jordan’s at Indianan University and now the new Master of Encina.

The men climbed the steps and took no notice of the two boys. Not even a look or a good morning. It was as if the boys weren’t there. They opened the front door and walked in. Bert Hoover could tell that he was not going to like them.

They did leave the door open and Bert and Fred were able to drag in their bags into the lobby.

The boys could not believe their eyes. It was magnificent. Bert Hoover had never seen anything like it. It looked to be about forty feet wide and forty feet deep with a huge, brick fireplaces at both ends and four columns supported the expanse. It reminded Bert of the lobby of the big hotel in Salem that he had visited a few times when he was delivering messages for his Uncle. The furnishings weren’t all that plush: wooden chairs and tables. The room itself was paneled in dark wood and the ceiling must have been at least 15 feet high with six gilded chandeliers supporting electric light bulbs as well as porcelain candleholders, just in case the electricity wasn’t working. The floors were wooden, brand new and shiny from coats of lacquer. Red carpeting led to the left and right to hallways and swinging doors. The two men went to the right to an office with a sliding window. A single red carpet ran up the middle to a single step and a landing and then two red carpets led to double doors and what appeared to be a large dining room. On both sides of the dining room entrance were flights of oaken stairs to the next floor.

The boys stood in the lobby waiting. Eventually, the glass windows slid open. Burt Fesler stuck his head out and asked, “Did you boys see a red haired man name of Will Greer?”

At first, Bert could hardly talk but he finally got the words out, “We saw Mr. Greer and another student and they said they were walking to Mayfield and they would be coming back.” 109

Fesler turned to Mr. Lathrop and said, “I have no idea who that other student is but we’ll find out and get his money. Well, then, I guess you two will be our first official customers,” and motioned for them to come around to the office and leave their belongings where they were. When they walked in, they saw Mr. Lathrop seated at a desk and he had a list of names in his hand. “Hoover and Williams, Dr. Jordan said you would be here waiting.”

He put out his hand not to shake but for the room and board money and said, “That will be $18 a month for room and board, each, paid in advance. That’s 4.50 per week and a lot less than we wanted the Senator to charge but he is too generous. From now on, you will be coming in here at the beginning of each month and paying your money to Mr. Fesler, here. If you don’t pay, you are out that day. No excuses. My sister is paying for your tuition and that is as far as charity goes. Understand, boys?”

While Lathrop was talking he didn’t look at the boys and what he said came out rough and unkind. It was easy for Bert Hoover to continue to think that perhaps Mr. Fesler was all right but Mr. Lathrop certainly was not likeable. .

Bert and Fred mumbled something that sounded like; “Understand,” and they gave him the $18. Fred had some paper money but Bert had small bills and coins and it took Mr. Lathrop a little time to count it all out and make sure it was all there. Then he put the money into a locked tin box and made two checks on a list by their names and said, “All right, you two are assigned to Room 38,” and turned back to his desk to do work that was more important than making small conversation with the young twerps standing before him.

Bert Fesler could see the boys didn’t know what to do next. “You can take your things to the room now. It is down this hall all the way to the end and you will see the room numbers. Room 38 it is next to the corner room. Later, I’ll let you know about the dining room. It is not ready yet but we should have some food for you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I’m afraid you will have to do what Mr. Greer and that other young man did, and walk to Mayfield. It’s only a little bit over a mile. There is no electricity; yet, you will have to use candles. You can’t use kerosene lamps, Mrs. Stanford doesn’t allow it because of the fire hazard.”

Another young man opened the front doors and hollered, “Anyone there?” and Fesler turned his attention to the new arrival.

~~~~~~~~~ 110

Bert and Fred went down the hallway leading to the left off the main lobby and pushed open swinging doors into another hallway lined with doors numbered #20, #21, #22…. They could smell the smells of newness: soap and paint and varnish. The floors were bare except for rolls of coco matting. They continued to the end of the hallway and passed a stairwell with oak stairs and balusters leading up to the next floor and next to the stairway was a corner room, #37. Bert knew Fletcher Martin was going to be in with a member of the faculty. Next is their room, # 38. The boys opened the door and walked in.

The first thing that caught Bert’s eyes was the whiteness of the plastered walls and how new and clean the room looked compared to the run down conditions at the Villa. The room was about 20 feet long and 20 feet wide. The boys faced two tall windows that look out on to bright, yellow fields and way in the distance was the road leading to Mayfield. At each end of the room were two single iron bedsteads with bronze trimmings that had wire bedsprings upon which were rolled up mattresses. In the middle, next to the windows was a large study table with two oak chairs. Against the wall were a double wardrobe, commode, stationary washstand, and a single 3’ X 3’ square mirror. On the study table was a brand new Bible. Bert thought he would have to write to his Aunt and tell her about that. She would be pleased. The wooden floors were shiny with coats of lacquer. Two small rugs, brown with gray flowers were on the floor next to each bed. The room might have looked sparsely furnished to some but to Bert it was a palace.

Fred already started to unpack his bags. Since he really didn’t have that much unpacking to do, Bart decided to pull one of the chairs out from under the table and sit down and look out the window.

This was their room. He might not stay here very long but for the moment it was theirs. He looked through the window out on to a field of yellowed grass and scattered oak trees, some scrawny, some majestic. The sky was blue with thin gray clouds moving slowly to the south. In his mind, Bert thanked the Lord for getting him there and overcoming all the obstacles that had been placed in his way. He and Fred had passed all the entrance examinations except for the English test and Dr. Swain said there was plenty of time for that. Bert thought, “I am a college student at Leland Stanford Junior University.”

Fred was too busy unpacking his things but if he had looked over at Bert, he would have seen that there was a smile on his face. It was not a sight that was often seen.

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Chapter Three

Opening Day Ceremonies

There they stood ten new, bare cottages, built for members of the faculty and their families, located behind Encina Hall on Alvarado Row.

The homes were completed and Ellen Coit Elliott had selected the tenth cottage, the one furthest from the campus and, of course, Hannah Marx had selected the one next to her. The women thought they might have something to say about the colors of the inner walls so they persuaded Professor Marx, Hannah’s husband, to drive them over in his rig to see if they could persuade the tinter to do their bidding.

When she first saw the cottages being built, Ellen described them to her Cornell friends as “a ragged little string of skeletons.” Students looking across grayish, yellow fields of tramped down oats were struck with the resemblance of the buildings to the Biblical illustrations of the tablets presented by the Lord to Moses containing the Ten Commandments and they coined the phrase “The Decalogue” to depict the cottage’s isolation and starkness. Either metaphor was appropriate.

It was understandable why Ellen Elliott had been so unhappy with her husband’s new situation especially the living accommodations that were provided when they first arrived.. She and Leslie and with their son, Louis, like so many other members of the faculty and graduate students came to LSJRU from Cornell University and its rolling green hills and trees and the cultivated bushes and the lawns, fences and sidewalks of Ithaca, New York. All this was left behind for .very wide and very flat, bare fields whose only garnishment was the white flowerets of the tarweed that spread over its surface.

Still, compared with living in a small bedroom at Cedro Cottage along with Professor Richardson and his family and then moving to a room above an unoccupied store in Menlo where the mosquitoes literally ate them up; all the time taking their meals at a flea bitten hotel grandly called Oak Grove Villa Hotel, the accommodations offered by moving to Alvarado Row were glorious

The Elliotts were very pleased with their new home at 12 Alvarado Row. It, along with all the others, was two-storied with several bedrooms and ample room in the downstairs living areas. These were “pattern book” houses taken from a catalog published by Palliser, Palliser & Co., a leading Northeastern architectural firm, which gave perspective views, front and side elevations, floor plans with measurements and detailed 112 descriptions of the masonry, carpentry, plumbing, tinwork and painting required. If the weather held, a full crew of workers could turn out such a home in four to six weeks.

All the homes had redwood exteriors so the Easterners who had never been exposed to this wood before were particularly intrigued with the rich and warm feeling of its clear-varnished surfaces. Dr. Jordan informed them that what they were seeing was only Sequoia sempervirens, probably cut from the Santa Cruz Mountain forests…the true giant tree of California being the Sequoia gigantean.

On that sunny day in late September, both ladies were wearing colorful green and yellow cotton wrappers that were cool in the summer heat. They had perky hats with assorted artificial flowers atop them and carried matching parasols for protection from the midday sun. Compared to the dull colors of the workmen’s coveralls and Dr. Marx dark heavy suit and bowler, they sparkled in their Indian summer attire.

Under her arm, Ellen had brought along a yellow tablet with each room sketched out and their different prescribed harmonizing tints. The interior walls were tinted plaster and not papered as they were in Ithica. Ellen and Hannah thought that the color scheme would offset the lack of paper and give her home a sense of individuality it might not otherwise have.

Inside #12 she found the tinter about to begin his job. He was dressed in coveralls that had seen better days being splashed with paint that almost obliterated their original white coloring. From his overalls, it would seem that terra cotta was his favorite tint.

As the tinter strode toward his work station, Ellen stepped in front of him and raised her hand as if stopping an oncoming steam engine, “Sir, sir, if you don’t mind, would you hold for a moment so we can discuss the tint you are about to apply to my home’s walls.”

The tinter did not stop what he was doing. It was as if he had a pestering fly circling him and if he ignored the fly, it might go away. Without a word, he circled around this strange woman and continued on his original path. But if Ellen Coit Elliott was a fly, she was a persistent one. She circle back again and placed her five-foot figure before him so he could not budge. “Sir, sir, I do believe you did not hear me.” She held her yellow tablet before him. “Here is the color scheme I would like you to follow and I do believe Mrs. Marx has her own instruction to give to you.”

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The tinter looked down at the hat festooned with flowers and said, “Terra cotta, all walls tinted terra cotta,” he said without emotion and not looking at Mrs. Elliott.

Ellen was not to be denied, “What! Can’t I have one room different?” she cried.

“Now this haint no mansions on Nob Hill that we’re puttin’ up,” he retorted, his facing reddening with the beginnings of anger at Ellen’s interference in his work routine.

David Marx quickly stepped between the worker and Ellen saying, “See here, you! I’ll have you to understand these are ladies you are talking to.” He quickly shepherded Ellen and his wife back to his gig and back to their temporary dwellings.

The tinter growled some words of retort that no one could hear but soon he was continuing his job of tinting all the walls terra cotta and Ellen and Hannah were already concerning themselves with furnishing their new abodes.

Except for a few family heirlooms, everything both families had in their previous homes was sold or left to family members or friends back in Ithaca. Mrs. Elliott and Mrs. Marx would have to buy, literally thousands articles to start their new homes. None of the shops in Mayfield or Menlo Park could help them. Flour and pins were about all they could offer. The learned husbands would have to become learned fathers while their wives took the early trains to San Francisco on buying outings.

Even in San Francisco, the choice of stores was limited. For dry good, Doane and Henshelwood on Kearney Street; for Japanese furnishings, Ito Sotomi & Co. on Sutter; for hardware, W. W. Montague & Co. on Market and for just about everything else, The City of Paris, including luncheon, on Market. Since the time in the city was precious, Ellen compiled detailed documents of her needs from rugs and ranges to brooms and mop-pails and clothespins.

She found that frugality inherited from eastern dealing was not compatible to western ways. A “bit”, twelve cents, rather than a penny or a dime was the common denomination of exchange. Clerks would only deal in “bits.” When she asked for ten cents worth of oilcloth, an impolite clerk told her, she might just as well take a “bits” worth because that was what she would be paying.

On the last day of September, the Elliotts moved in. The first night they slept on the parlor floors looking up at the stars in the heaven because 114

the windows had no curtains. It was not by luck that the Marx moved in on the same day. Ellen and Hannah knew by feminine intuition that the families would need one another. It turned out that while the Elliotts had no blankets but mattresses, the Marxs had the reverse so by sharing, both families slept well the first night.

Ellen could look through the curtain less windows; across the expanse of dead hay that separated the two homes and could see that the Marxs were blowing out their candles at about the same time the Elliotts were. It was a warm and comforting feeling.

^^^^^^^^^^

Fletcher Martin heard that one of the boys was expelled that day. Several others had left because of the academic pressures and several others, he had heard from members of the faculty, were simply not prepared for the requirement for writing good English in spite of the fact that they may have passed the initial examinations. Mr. Fesler also asked two more boys to resign from the university when they were found pushing a study desk down the stairways. Their purpose was to see how fast it would roll down the stairs. Luckily, no one was going up.

Fletcher’s reaction to all of the student exuberance going on about him was similar to the actions of the old wolves, he had observed from afar, midst the playful antics of young pups. He was too focused on the projects at hand to be bothered by the snipping and yipping.

Fletcher Martin walked from the Adelante Villa to Encina Hall on Sunday morning, September 27, 1891. Before he left, Irene gave him a big breakfast. All of the other boarders were gone by now. The rest of the day, she and Lucy would be busy getting ready for the young ladies who would be arriving that afternoon. She offered to drive him over in their rig but he declined and said he preferred to walk.

He didn’t have that many belongings to carry. He still had the same valise and bedroll he had when he first arrived. During the summer, he bought a few more shirts and pants and underwear when he visited San Francisco but that was about it.

At the door way, after she checked to make certain no one was looking, Irene gave him a big kiss and he held her and told her he would come back later in the day and help her and Lucy. She smiled; she was hoping he would say that.

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The prior day, together, had brought them together. Once he had told her about Wounded Creek, it had been on his mind, a cloud lifted and he was able to express his feelings to her, something she had never done before. Irene had always been able to express herself so the relationship was not as cathartic for her as it was for Fletcher. But Irene felt that Fletcher was everything she was looking for and never thought would find.

With the wonders of newfound love within him, Fletcher walked north toward the country road to Mayfield. Normally, he walked the other way toward the Black Mountains, but not today. He wondered when he would have time to get back to his favorite retreat. Perhaps Irene would join him.

Numerous black squirrels were scurrying for food. They were always underfoot. A ladybug lit on his hand and he flicked it and watched it fly away.

Why was it that everything seemed so new and different, now? Was it his love for Irene? He had never known love before. All he knew was that his feelings had changed. He felt friendlier and warmer and more sensitive to what was going on around him. He wished Irene could be there so he could discuss how he felt and find out what she thought.

He hated to leave her and would die to make her happy. He had never thought that much of anyone except perhaps his mother and Donna, his dead sister. He could only guess that these were the feelings of love. It was at these moments that his mind briefly wandered back to that day at Wounded Knee when he stood before the barrel of his captain’s pistol. He was glad that he was still alive and he was glad he had told Irene all about what had happened. The best thing she said was that she would have done the same thing.

As Fletcher turned east at Roble Bridge, to his right, he saw the whitewashed wooden structures of Senator Stanford’s stock farm. This was the original reason for the Senator to bring his wife and young son to the Palo Alto Farm. Between two rows of willow trees, he had built a macadamized road, called the “Governor’s Path.” It ran from his home, a mile north, to the horses’ breeding and training grounds.

Fletcher had walked through the training area several times and was always impressed with how clean it was and how it seemed almost like a factory producing thoroughbred horses for racing or breeding that eventually might be sold for thousands and thousands of dollars. Turning right from the track, he would pass two rows of paddocks and turning right again, he would see the kindergarten track that had a little oblong roof 116

shelter in the middle built to keep the sun out of the Senator’s eyes. Sixty to eighty men were employed there---stable hands, groomers, riders, and at the top of the hierarchy were the trainers. Charles Marvin, the Chief Trainer, was in charge and his office next to the kindergarten track was always the center of activity with all decisions related to the stock farm emanating from there. Fletcher had heard some gossip that the Business Office ‘s Ariel Lathrop was getting under the skin of Mr. Marvin and he had threatened to leave if Ariel didn’t leave him alone. This was one more activity that the Senator was forced to monitor. Fletcher sometimes thought that Senator Stanford was almost like one of the Greek Gods he was studying. In this neck of the woods, he was truly god-like.

As Fletcher continued on the cement path toward Roble Hall, he became aware of a vast increase in activity. It looked like anyone who could borrow or steal a rig or cart was transporting the arriving new students to their destinations, crisscrossing to and from the dirt roads that ran from Mayfield and Menlo. All of them, drivers and occupants, appeared to be in high spirits. The young people were dressed as if they were going to church. The girls had brightly colored hats and some had parasols. The men wore their dark coats and trousers and derbies or sombreros. Several of them shouted hellos to Fletcher as they passed and, he shouted back at the top of his lungs “Welcome to Stanford.” Fletcher could feel his heart thumping faster from the excitement in the air.

Roble Hall still had some workers, even on Sunday, putting the finishing touches on the building. Those who weren’t working stood at the roadside hollering their welcomes to passersby’s. They like everyone else were caught up in the beginnings of young life coming to the campus.

A big, sprawling Spanish oak stood before him. It seemed tilted to one side but grew squarely in the middle of the cement path. Fletcher had heard that the Senator asked the workers to spare the tree even though it was in the way. The path circled on both sides of the tree as if it were a permanent obstacle. Fletcher took the right pathway.

Except for a few members of the administration, the Quad still looked deserted but there was Jasper Paulsen and his bus chuck full of men and women standing in front of the entrance at the bottom of the oval and he was conducting some kind of seminar about how big the buildings were and how much money had been spent on them. As Fletcher passed him he looked over and gave Fletcher a wink that only he could see. Fletcher guessed that what he was saying sounded a little bit on the high side but it certainly impressed his audience from the “oohs” and “ahs” he heard. .

When he looked around, compared to prior days, he couldn’t get over how many people he was seeing. Fletcher had heard from Irene, who got 117

her figures directly from Dr. Elliott, that 560 students were enrolling and both he and Dr. Jordan were excited that this figure was more than the enrollment at the nearby State University. Already, Fletcher could see, there was a rivalry building between these two institutions. It had to come. The two were so close and California had been around since the 1860’s and considered LSJRU the newcomer on the block.

Five minutes later, he arrived at Encina Hall. Fletcher turned toward the steps leading up to Encina’s front door and walked into the grand lobby. Fletcher had never seen it before. It looked to be at least 40 feet wide and 40 feet deep. There were several young men already there, in front of the sliding glass windows, talking to Burt Fesler. He was taking their money and giving them keys and telling them the rules. Breakfast might be served tomorrow morning, Monday, but Bert wasn’t sure and said he let them know, later. The young men were tousling with one another as they walked up the stairs leading off to the left, toward their rooms and Fletcher moved forward to take their places. Fesler and he already knew each other from bumping into one another around campus. He nodded his head and said hello quickly as if he was very busy and took Fletcher’s $18 and gave him a key to Room #37.

Fletcher’s room was on the second floor, facing east. He could hear the young men shouting and laughing and for a moment, he wondered how he would get along with all these young whippersnappers about. Then he thought better of it. He would get along just fine. They deserved to have their fun. It would end soon enough and in some ways he was jealous of their youth and innocence.

The door to Room #37 was locked when he tried to open it so he had to use the key Fesler gave him and when he walked in, he found that the room was already occupied. His academic advisor, Dr. Henry Tarver Whitman, was sitting on his rolled out mattress trying it out.

He looked at Fletcher and smiled. “It’s not that comfortable but it is better than what I have been sleeping on at that flea-ridden hotel in Menlo..”

“What a surprise, Dr. Whitman, no one told me. I am deeply honored.” Fletcher looked bewildered but he was pleased. All he had known was that his roommate was a member of the faculty.

“Fletcher, call me Henry when we are within these four walls. I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to be with someone, I knew and even though we only met once, I think we will be able to get along. Dr. Jordan was all for it. He thinks it is a good idea for faculty members and particularly graduate students to have close relationships.” 118

Fletcher looked around. There was plenty of room. He calculated at least 20X20 feet. He could see that Dr. Whitman, Henry, had already put up his family pictures on the wall and a few photos of his friends, Fletcher assumed, from Johns Hopkins. His diplomas including his PhD were prominently displayed. All of Dr. Whitman’s clothes were already stored in his wardrobe but boxes and boxes of books remained on the floor. Some of the boxes were open and Fletcher could read the author’s names. Homer, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes were some of them. He looked over at Henry and smiled.

“I am in seventh heaven,” he said.

“I thought you might be. It will really be to your advantage to have my personal library so accessible. I am afraid that much of what you see here you will not find at our University’s library. The collection of classical literature is extremely limited as are most of the other subjects. I will have to dole out my books to our students if they are to be adequately exposed to the geniuses you and I appreciate. My only problem is where to put all these books. I thought you might help me with that.”

Fletcher could hardly wait to get started. “We will have to build book shelves. I know some workers who have access to wood and stain. I’ll go over and see them and get started right away. I can’t wait to get those boxes open and see what you have.”

“But what about your things. Aren’t you going unpack your valise?”

“A few shirts and underwear and another pair of pants and a coat. I am sure it can all wait. I left my past in Sioux City with my parents so there are no photos. All that is behind me.” He was anxious to ready to leave and start his project when there was a knock on the door.

Henry said, “Come in. The door is open.”

In walked Bert Hoover and Fred Williams, both grinning at Fletcher and looking shy when they saw Dr. Whitman. Fletcher quickly introduced them to Dr. Whitman, remembering that the formal boundaries between faculty and students had to be maintained.

“Fletcher,” you could see Bert was excited, his face had turned pinkish, “we’ve been here since yesterday. Last night, we slept between two mattresses. Mr. Fesler said we would get bedding today. You should see all the things the other boys are bringing into their rooms. Some of them have lace curtains and tapestry bedspreads and oriental rugs. One boy dragged a velvet chair up the stairs. And there’s potted plants, book 119

cases, bear rugs, tiger rugs and I even saw some deer antlers. I can’t believe all the things they’re bringing in here.” He saw the boxes of books. “Look here, there’s enough books to make a library.”

Fletcher had never been that friendly with Bert and Fred at Adelante Villa but in his new state of mind, he treated them as if they were old friends. “Yes, these are Dr. Whitman’s books and I was going to build some book shelves for them. As for the rugs and antlers, you have to expect that, Bert, some of those boys have never been away from home and their parents want them to feel comfortable.”

Fred beamed, “I’m going to have to write my parents and tell them to send me some furnishing for our room.”

Bert looked downcast, “And who am I going to write to have them send me things? I can see I’m not long for this place. There is no way, I can keep up with this crowd.”

Fletcher knew he was right but what could he say then he saw an opportunity to not only get Bert in a better mood but also to get some help for his book case project. “You are going to do just fine, Bert. With all those jobs you are going to get, you’ll be able to buy some things for your room, too. I certainly wouldn’t worry about it. How about you boys helping me with the bookcases? Let’s get going. I have to go see some friends at The Camp that will get us some lumber and maybe we can get some grub from Ah Ming. I hear he cooks up a good feed and it is cheap. Want to come with me? “

The boys quickly nodded their heads in agreement. Fletcher Martin was a hero in their eyes with his being in the army and fighting the Indians and all. It was the first time he seemed to have noticed their existence with the exception of offering some advice to Bert about Jim, the horse. He always had his nose in a book or was hiking some place or another. As Bert walked out with him, he thought that it was good that he had the courage to knock on their door. He would have to show more gumption like that in the future.

Fletcher said, “We’ll be back, later, Dr. Whitman,” and he and boys walked out the door, together, in high spirits toward The Camp next to the Chimney where some of the workmen roomed and boarded. There, they could get vittles and tools and materials for Dr. Whitman’s bookshelves.

~~~~~~~~~~

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Later that day, in another part of Encina, in Room 204, Winko Winters, also known as Frederick Summers Winters, sat with six of his fraternity brothers surrounding him. They were sprawled in the two wooden chairs and a black velvet chair or lounging on their elbows on the tapestry bedspreads on the iron cots. All were transfers from the University of the Pacific in San Jose, all sophomores and former members of the Alpha Psi Fraternity. They were discussing how they would transfer the fraternity’s charter to LSJRU and also describing some of their fellow students they had seen moving into the dormitory as prospective pledges for the fraternity. The room was crowded with bookcases, plants, rugs, and cushions. On the walls were deer antlers and a large blue and white “Alpha Psi” sign that had been taken from the front porch of their house on the San Jose campus.

Pudge, a fat boy with a huge round face and small squinty eyes was telling them, “I could not believe that this one chap had such a large wardrobe. He was having, I think it was, one of his servants help him get it up the stairs. Some other passing boys, stopped to assist them and they were heaving and hoeing and finally one of the weaker hands at the top of the stairs let go and the huge thing started to careen down the stairs. It almost pinned one of the boys against the wall. I saw blood on his sleeve so he must have been nicked but he didn’t say a word.”

“Pudge, did you get his name?” Winko asked.

“Which one, the nicked one or the one with the wardrobe/”

“The one with the wardrobe, dummy.”

Pudge hung his head, “No, I forgot to ask, but I know which room he is in, so I’ll go see him. He must be civilized if he has that kind of furnishings to throw around and with the man servant and all.”

“He must be,” Winko smiled at the others at the obvious statement but kept his voice serious, “You have to keep on the watch, Pudge, for those types. We need new pledges if we are going to get our charter transferred.”

“So what do you think, Winko, what are our chances. I don’t want to stay in this dump forever. We need our own house, “ said a rather intent thin young man with red hair and deeply freckled face and arms.

“Don’t worry, Freck, I understand Jordan is a fraternity man and has already told our national people that he’ll go along with the transfer. He thinks fraternities are part of the development of an undergrad’s manliness. Something about ‘rites of passage’ or something like that” 121

At that moment, the door bursts open and into their midst strode a dark-haired, good-looking lad with the build of an athlete. His hair was slicked down and parted in the middle. He was wearing a white sweater, even though the weather was still quite warm outside, with a “UOP” emblazoned on it. Because of the heat, he was sweating profusely.

“I can not believe our good fortune,” he shouted out breathlessly.

Everyone had to look at him. Winko was about to say that next time he should knock but decided to keep quiet to hear what he had to say.

“You know my room is on the next floor, #132, and I’ve just moved in and imagine my surprise when I find that my room mate is perfect for Alpha Psi. We’ve just had a long, interesting conversation. He comes from the big city of Chicago and is a man of the world. He traveled with his parents all over the world---Egypt, India, Africa. All kinds of distant places, some I’ve never heard of. And, and “

By now the group is hanging on for each word. “And, he also knows his way with women. I would say from what he says much more so than any of us with the exception of you, of course, Winko.”

All the boys chuckled licentiously at his remark. They had heard all about Winko’s brothel escapades in San Francisco, over and over, again, and about the second cousin of his whom he had in a clothes closet. “And you should see the belongings he has brought from all over the world and Chicago. Our place is like a palace. The few things I’ve added seem paltry compared to the effects he has.”

“How does he speak, Mitch, is it with one of those maddening, mid- west twangs?” on the last three words Winko gave an impression of how he thought Midwesterners spoke.

“No twang at all, like a perfect gentlemen. He must be wonderfully educated. I was very impressed with him as I am sure all of you will be. I took the liberty of asking whether he might be interested in joining a stalwart bunch of young men and he was very interested.”

“Good job, Mitch, and what is his name?”

“Cutter, Samuel Cutter the Third,” answered Mitch.

~~~~~~~~

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In Room #132, Sam Cutter sat smoking a long cheroot in a high backed embroidered chair with his feet on a matching embroidered footrest. He understood from the rules that one was not to smoke in the room but as far as Sam was concerned, rules were made to be broken. He would smoke until he was told, personally, not to and then he would plead complete ignorance of any such rule and still smoke when he felt like it. Sam, long ago, had found that rules were for far less timid souls.

He was very pleased with himself. He could not believe his good fortune to have this fellow, Mitch, as his roommate.

Sam had arrived earlier in the week and when he looked around and saw all of the paraphernalia, the other boys were bringing into their rooms, he immediately stowed his few belongings in his room, locked the door and took the train back to San Francisco where he proceeded to spend almost half of his stolen fortune on chairs, rugs, pots, and all the modern conveniences a young man of the 90’s would possess. The sale was of such magnitude that the San Francisco store had been bargained into providing delivery in a cart they usually used for local customers and a young men to drive and to help with the lifting of the purchases up the stairway to his room. All of this activity had been accomplished between 9am in the morning to 5pm in the evening. In two more hours his room was transformed into a showcase of high fashion that was the envy of everyone who had entered.

Then next day, Mitch arrived. Immediately, Sam liked his clean-cut, athletic look. He looked just as Sam had imagined a college man should look--broad shouldered, muscular, even the white course knit sweater. Sam knew some of his Chicago friends would have grabbed the young man for themselves but Sam was not that type. He preferred girls and women.

He also liked the fact that Mitch was far from brilliant? In fact there was something missing, up there. As Sam spoke to him, he could see Mitch’s eyes get wild and glassy from the information he passed on to him especially when Sam told him about some of the sexual details of screwing young whores and there was even a story about Mrs. Wadley on the kitchen table that made Mitch feel for his crotch. Sam enjoyed arousing people of either sex.

When Mitch told him about the other fellows of Alpha Psi, Sam’s mind made some startling leaps and observations. Here was the potential to have a gang of young men on the campus to do his biddings. He assumed that they would be like Mitch with that same ingenuous, stupid way. .

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He was anxious to have Mitch return so that he could meet the rest of the brothers. He knew the potential maneuvers he could create with such a group could be glorious.

~~~~~~~~~~ .

When the Delores’ ship arrived at the San Francisco docks near the Ferry Building, her Uncle Reynaldo was waiting with his wagon and pair of matched gray horses. He loaded up the two large steamer trunks and various valises for his wife and the two girls and took the road south, El Camino Real, toward San Jose. It would take them about four hours to get there.

As they passed the Menlo Park area, Delores wanted to stop and see Leland Stanford Junior University but her Uncle said it was too late and they would go there tomorrow. In the distance, to her right, she could see a tall chimney that must have been near the buildings and she pointed it out to both Betsy and Uncle Reynaldo.

Later that afternoon, they arrived at the Vasquez’ spacious hacienda situated on several hundred acres south of San Jose. Everyone was exhausted from the trip and ate a light dinner and immediately went to bed and sleep.

Next day, Monday, September 28th, Delores’ other relatives and friends of her family came from miles around to visit her. Everyone was very proud of Delores. She was one of the first girls in the de Bustamente family that would be going to college and they wanted to celebrate. There was much eating and talking and it was mid-afternoon before her Uncle and a relative reloaded the girl’s heavy traveling trunks back on the family wagon. Uncle Reynaldo, Delores and Betsy said good-bye to the assembled group and headed back north toward Mayfield and the university. It was starting to get dark and Reynaldo was not familiar with the area so when he arrived in Mayfield he asked one of its residences where the college was located. He didn’t realize until too late that the man was very drunk.

“Look over that away,” said the inebriated local as he pointed with flair. “See that big chimney.” The girls and the Uncle looked and there was no mistaking, a tall chimney was visible in the distance that Delores had guessed was a landmark. “Just make your way down this road, turn left and then left, again, and you won’t miss it.” Because the man was drunk and his directions, perhaps not too reliable, Uncle Reynaldo was reluctant to ask for further instructions, specifically to Roble Hall so off 124 they went. Delores looked back and watched the man continue walking in a random fashion toward his unknown destination.

As directed, they turned left and headed west. They were passing a large racetrack with white fencing. Off to their right they could see dim lights. Disregarding the drunk’s instructions, which would lead them away from the chimney, they headed toward the lights. A rather sumptuous cottage with various outbuildings surrounded by the few trees loomed up before them and Uncle Reynaldo decided that this might be a good place to seek further instructions.

He reined in the horses before the cottage’s veranda.

By now the barking and baying of several dogs had announced their arrival to its occupants. Gaslights went on in the front part of the cottage and a rather large man with a moustache came out on the porch with a kerosene lantern, “Can I help you, sir,” he asked.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I am bringing my niece and her friend to Roble Hall and we don’t know where it is.”

“You’ve come to the right place, sir. I am Dr. Jordan, president of the university, and I am certain I can help. And who might you be, sir, and your lovely passengers?”

“I am Renaldo Vasquez from San Jose and this is my niece, Delores Payson and her friend, Betsy Marshall.”

By now, both Delores and Betsy were embarrassed and mortified by the intrusion on Dr. Jordan’s personal life but it did not seem that Dr. Jordan was bothered in the least by the fact that his dinner would be cold when he returned to the table with his family. He jumped down from the porch and walked over to the rig and shook each of their hands with pleased good-to-meet-yous’.

“Just go back out the driveway and continue west on the road you came on. Go past a rather, large building on your left. Please do not stop, as I am afraid the ladies would be very embarrassed since it is the men’s dormitory. Then you will see the campus on your left and another quarter mile and there you are, again on your left, at Roble. A Miss Leach will greet you, there, and make all the arrangements for your charges’ welfare. And sir, if I may complement you on your correct pronunciation, so many of our local residents pronounce “Roble” as if it rhymed with the Russian “ruble.”

Uncle Renaldo smiled, “Perhaps it is my heritage.” 125

“Perhaps. Well God Speed, and since it is late, if you need accommodations for the evening, Mr. Vasquez, please stop by on your return trip. I am certain we will be able to put you up for the evening. And ladies, I will see you, later, I am certain. Good evening. “ He gave them a smile and stepped back into the house and his now cold dinner.

Uncle Reynaldo was pleased with the encounter. If such a gentleman was the president of Leland Stanford Junior University, perhaps his niece had made a wise decision after all. Delores was also pleased because she knew that Dr. Jordan’s compliment would impress her uncle and he would write to her parents with the news that she had chosen wisely. Betsy was anxious to get to their destination. It was getting very dark and she could hear coyotes yipping in the distance.

Ten minutes later, the threesome pulled up to the front door of Roble Hall. They tied the horses to a railing. It was pitch dark by now and Uncle Reynaldo used the rig’s running lantern to make his way up the stairs. The front door was not locked but it was dark inside except for three candles placed strategically on tables near the doorway. There was no Miss Leach to greet them.

Uncle Reynaldo managed with many grunts and groans to pull the heavy trunks off the cart and up the stairs to the porch. Together with the girl’s help they pushed the trunks into the lobby and waited for someone to come and acknowledge their presence and assign a room to the girls.

Sounds from surrounding darkened hallways could be heard emanating from young ladies calling out to one another in the dark. One of them must have tripped on something and she cried out in pain. It was not reassuring.

Delores and Betsy and Uncle Renaldo were not expecting this kind of reception. Uncle Renaldo began to shout out in a rather forceful voice, “Is there anyone there? Is there anyone there? We are waiting to be greeted. Hello. Hello. Is there anyone there?” He turned to the girls with a look of desperation on his face. It was getting late. He had some blankets in the wagon and already planned to find some place to park , tie up the horses and sleep for the night. But it was for himself not his two charges. The sooner he got back on the road, the better.

Finally, a rather distraught woman appeared. She was nicely dressed but her gray hair was disheveled and her face looked as if it were forged into a set expression of disorganization. In a forced calm voice she said, “I’m sorry. One of the girls just fell down the stairs. Nothing broken, I think, thank the Lord. I am Miss Leach, head mistress of Roble Hall.” 126

She surveyed the large trunks in the middle of the lobby. “So here are your belongings. Just leave them here for the night and we will get them up to your room in the morning.”

“I can do it, now,” Uncle Renaldo volunteered and started to move forward.

Miss Leach looked at him as if he had just crossed some unseen threshold. Speaking sternly as if to an errant child, she said, “I am sorry, sir. No men, except members of the staff, are allowed beyond those doors. The trunks remain where they are.” Then she turned to the girls and in a more subdued voice said, “And what are your names, girls?”

Uncle Reynaldo glared at Miss Leach and then decided to let he discourtesy pass. It was not worth the effort to have words with such a woman.

After Delores and Betsy gave their names to Miss Leach, she began looking at several pieces of paper, some with handwritten notes, some typed that she was carrying in a red folder in her hand. She looked through all of the pieces and not finding what she wanted, started all over again. Uncle Reynaldo was besides himself and, again, started to say something but thought better of it. He was sure that that his face must show that he was seething mad.

Finally, Miss Leach found what she was looking for and looked at them with a triumphant expression on her face, “Oh, here you are. Delores Payson and Betsy Marshall. Room 68. Just let me get the keys. She disappeared into an office to the right of the lobby and reappeared bearing a single key in one hand and a lit candle in the other. The key she gave to Delores; the candle to Betsy. “I’m sorry, girls, you will have to sleep in your chemises this evening. The gong rings at 6am tomorrow morning and then, thirty minutes later, we march over to Encina for breakfast. We expect to serve food here in a few weeks. Your room is down the left corridor. I must get back to my fallen lady to make sure she hasn’t broken a leg or something.” And she vanished up the central stair well.

Delores and Betsy looked at one another in disbelief. So this was what it was like going to college. Both of them felt like breaking into tears. Uncle Renaldo sensed their feelings and said, “I see no reason why you should stay. The woman does not know what she is doing. Let’s return to our home and start afresh tomorrow morning. I will seek out Dr. Jordan’s help. I am certain he will be more hospitable and understanding. That Miss Leach is a doddering fool.”

127

Delores had never heard her Uncle get so upset. Usually he was the epitome of correct and gentlemanly behavior. All of the men on her mother’s side were like that. She could see that he was already moving toward the door to go and Betsy was moving with him. Delores knew this was an important moment, a moment when she would prove to her Uncle and to herself that she able to take care of an unpleasant situation.

In her most convincing voice, she said, “No, dear uncle, Betsy and I will stay,” and as if to make certain he understood her determination she reached for Betsy’s left hand and pulled her back from moving toward the doorway. Betsy briefly looked at the departing uncle and then back to Delores. Delores was her friend. She would stay with her friend..

Delores then went up to her uncle and kissed him good bye on his forehead and said, “Good night, dear Uncle. You were so sweet to bring us here. We have our candle and key and I am certain we be all right.” Betsy kissed him on the forehead, too, and he watched as Delores took Betsy’s hand and held the candle in the other and pulled her through the doorways to the halls he was forbidden to enter.

He was left standing in the lobby, alone. He faced a three-hour trip back to San Jose. He decided a night in the cart with the horses tied to a tree was still a good idea. It would not hurt him. It was still warm out. He had done it many times before.

~~~~~~~~~

The sounds did not fit into Delores’ dream and when she woke up they did not go with her bedroom in Los Angeles, either. Where was she? What were those sounds? In the semi-darkness, she could just barely make out the time on her wristwatch she was still wearing. She had not bothered to take it off, last night. It was 6 am and those sounds were gongs being hit repeatedly. Now there were additional thumps of footsteps on uncarpeted floors and the high-pitched voices of young females.

Now she knew where she was---Roble Hall, Leland Stanford Junior University.

Late last night she and Betsy had used a large WC next door to their room and then, after only taking off their dresses, tumbled into small iron cots with two thin white woolen blankets to keep them warm and immediately gone to sleep. Those voices were fellow students getting 128

ready to go to another hall to have breakfast. She could hear Betsy still snoring in the background. She would have to wake her up.

“Betsy, Betsy, we have to get up. They are going to breakfast and I am hungry.”

Betsy drug herself out of the bed and both girls put on the same dresses they had worn the previous day. The daylight from their windows was just bright enough for them barely to see in their room but when they opened the door it was still almost pitch dark in the hallways. Some of the girls were carrying candles and it gave them am eerie look. Delores and Betsy relit the single candle they had and it gave them enough light to find the restrooms to do their morning ablutions. Afterwards, they returned to their room, quickly brushed their hair, checked themselves in the mirror and joined the throng of women, led by Miss Leach, who were making their way down the stairway, through the lobby and out the front door into the early light of a new day. .

The sun had not broken through the early morning fog and it was still gray outside and somewhat chilly.

Delores saw that all the girls walked in couples, holding hands. She grabbed Betsy’s hand and they became the last couple. As they walked along, Betsy shuddered with the cold and said in a very loud voice, “Oh, I wish I had brought my sweater. It is freezing.”

A united “Ssshhhhh,” from all their companions, greeted her exclamation. It was now obvious to the newcomers that the trip to Encina for breakfast would be in silence.

As they came to a large oak tree whose broad trunk stood squarely in the middle of the path, the couples parted company and then on the other side of the trunk rejoined their partner. The parting and rejoining had become a tradition and went along with the young ladies being christened “flight of angels” by the workmen still putting the finishing touches on some of Leland Stanford Junior University’s buildings.

Silence was then also part of that tradition and to maintain the flight simile, the girls tried not to bob their heads as they walked but instead to glide, so to speak, as if in flight.

As if to further verify the groups’ nickname, as they passed the Quad, workmen already at their jobs, dropped their tools and stopped pushing their wheelbarrows and shouted out to them.

“Good morning, Angels. Enjoy your breakfast.“ 129

“There is our flight of angels.”

“How are our angels feeling this morning? Well, I hope.”

In an Irish brogue, one shouted, “And here you are, stepped right out of a cloud, our beautiful angels have.”

The girls silently acknowledged the greetings with a nod of a head and some even smiled but not a sound, not a word was spoken the entire ten minutes it took to get to Encina. Delores tried not to giggle at the absurdity of the whole scene. She knew if she did Betsy would have laughed out loud and made a complete fool of herself.

As if out of a gothic novel, the huge stone edifice emerged from the fog. It was Encina Hall and it was imposing. Neither Delores nor Betsy had ever seen such a large building in their lives or wildest dreams and they were expected to walk right up those steps and enter those doors? Well, if it had to be done, it had to be done. The girls pulled up their skirts as they stepped up the eight steps to the first landing and three more steps to the level of the front door. Their leader, Miss Leach, opened the door and strode inside as if she owned the place.

Delores was totally unprepared for what was awaiting them, inside. Close to one hundred young men, some wearing derbies, some with beards and mustaches, and others with innocent beardless faces were crowded on both sides of a huge lobby, much larger than theirs. Some of the boys were grinning mischievously. Others had a shy look on their face. Some appeared to be embarrassed by the conduct of their fellow students. All of them would have to wait to eat their breakfast until the girls were finished.

Delores followed her classmates as they made their way through a cleared path up some stairs toward two doors that swung out to, from what Delores could see, an equally large, dining room. The doors were held open by dozens of white hands with stubby fingers with dirty nails. Landings to upstairs floors stood on each side of the dining room doors. They, too, were crammed with young men wanting to view the sight of the angel’s arrival over the heads of the others. There had been much jostling for good positions near the balusters and there were still lots of pushing and shoving going on.

When it was her turn to go up the steps to the dining room, Delores was trembling but she still put her head down, grabbed her skirts with both hands and following the others made her way toward the dining room 130

doors. Unfortunately, she was not prepared for an immediate single pesky step that led up to a short landing and then five more steps to the doors. She caught her heel on the pesky step and almost fell. A spontaneous sound of concerned “Oh’s and Ah’s” emanated from the viewing throng as she righted herself with one hand, arose in a ladylike fashion and without glancing to either side, continued toward the opened doors. Once, safely inside, she heard a cheer go up. She could feel her face flushing from the humiliating incident. She had never felt so embarrassed in her life. For a moment, she wished she had never thought of going to a coeducational college. How mortifying!

Being the center of attention of hundreds of young men’s eyes did not end when the girls got inside the dining room. They were not yet rid of their youthful viewers. If one of the ladies happened to raise her eyes to the windows over the dining room entrance, which most of them learned not to do, they would see grinning faces belonging to the stalwarts who managed to maintain their positions on the stair’s landings. Because of the jostling and pushing and shoving, a smiling face would be seen and then vanish and then magically reappear. It was like the girls were animals in the zoo except in this case the viewers were the animals. Delores and Betsy couldn’t help but look at the gaping mob. They were certainly not impressed with their male counterparts. .

The young ladies and Miss Leach sat at two long tables, each seating twenty-six diners. More girls would be arriving in the next two days and they would be joining the group. Since Betsy and Delores were at the end of the procession, they sat at a partially filled table. Most of the girls knew one another from previous meals and they all started talking at once. Delores guessed that the young ladies at the other table were talking about her stumbling on the step. A girl with long blonde hair seated next to Delores spoke to her.

“I’m sorry about your slipping on that step. I did it myself yesterday at lunch. We’ve all done it at one time or another. It’s really awful with all those boys gawking at you and smiling, waiting for you to make a mistake. They all know about the first step and hope the new girls will catch their heel and stumble. I heard one girl fell flat on her face.”

Delores really appreciated the sympathetic words. “I must have looked a sight. I just barely missed falling on my head. That would have given them something to really laugh at “

The blonde girl sounded concerned, “I think we should warn new girls about that step, when we can, so those horrid boys won’t get any satisfaction.”

131

Delores could tell that she was going to like this person, at least she was friendly, “My name is Delores Payson and this is my friend, Betsy Marshall. We are from Los Angeles.”

The blonde girl extended her hand, “My name is Sally Forest, and I am from Anaheim, close by where you live.”

~~~~~~~~

David Cooper was one of the faces in the back of the crowd of young men ogling the Roble girls as they made their way to breakfast. He had been at Encina Hall since Sunday and had learned the hard way that if he didn’t line up with the rest there was a good chance the kitchen would run out of food and he would get nothing to eat. It was a good mile to Mayfield to get eats and he was told the quality of the food served at the local café left much to be desired.

Along with the girls from Roble, he was not impressed with his fellow Encinians. All they had on their minds was girls and rough housing. The group he had fallen in with, in the wing on the third floor facing the campus, was a particularly rough lot. He was rooming with a student from San Jose whose name was Jarvis Timothy Hall and whose primary claim to fame were the brown freckles that covered every inch of his body topped off, of course, with a bush of red hair. No wonder his friends called him, “Freck.”

Freck, alone, might have been all right. He was somewhat intelligent and seemed a good sort. It was his friends that were the problem. They were all former members of some fraternity from the University of the Pacific in San Jose and were constantly visiting one another’s rooms including his and Freck’s. All of them were in their second year and when they found out David was in his first year, they teased him and insinuated that Riverside was some sort of country village only producing country bumpkins. In fact, out of the blue, all the boys started calling David, “Bump.” Words and nicknames, David could handle, it was the physical part that was the toughest to accept.

Someone shouted, “rush” and that was all it took for all of Freck’s friends to take it into their collective minds to jump on David and pummel him with their fists. Of course in the process, since David was usually safe on the bottom of the pile, they jumped on and hit one another but this did not bother them. If tables and beds in the room were overturned and china vases broken, so much the better. Breaking things was fun; breaking valuable things was even more fun. Only bruises and black and blue 132

marks were produced but every so often blood was a product and when that happened, the victim flaunted his wounds proudly as if they were medals of honor. For the life of him, David could not remember his friends in Riverside acting like this. Of course there had been fights but this was usually between two fellows who didn’t like one another not for the pure joy of fighting like it seemed to be with this mob.

In their way, Freck’s friends must have liked David. Freck had already asked him if he would be interested in joining the fraternity as a pledge once they were able to transfer their chapter’s charter to LSJRU. David told Freck he would have to find out more about it and think about it He didn’t say it but he would also have to ask his Father to make sure the family finances could afford the extra expenses.

David was among those standing by the dining room door and he recognized the girls he had seen on the Santa Rosa going through for breakfast. His voice was among the ones that moaned when the dark haired one almost slipped and fell on that first step and he was the one that led a cheer when she caught herself and proudly entered the dining area. She was very pretty. He wondered what her name was.

But it was the blonde one who caught everyone’s attention. As she walked across the lobby she looked straight ahead, without smiling. It was the way she carried herself that appealed to the young eyes. Most of the boys had never seen a woman like this, before. No one said it aloud, but the name “Dolly” was already being freely bantered about the dormitory.

Freck, pressed up against David like a sardine, whispered as she passed, “Would I like to screw her.”

Someone on Freck’s other side, said, what David thought, “You’d be lucky to even get close to her.”

Freck’s freckled lips curled into a smile, “Oh, you never know, once she caught sight of Rodney, here.” And he felt for his crotch..

How detestable these boys were, David thought. And to think his sister was thinking about coming to Stanford. He might have to talk her out of it with this type of despicable creature about.

This would be his third day at Encina. It was Tuesday, September 29th, only one more day and the University would officially open.

David had already started a letter back home describing all the conveniences the dormitory offered. He was particularly impressed with the hot and cold faucets on the washstands in each of the rooms, even 133

though only one kind of water came out of the faucets, cold. He understood that the steam boilers next to the chimney needed to be fired up and that should happen in the next week or so. Lord only knows how much coal it took to heat up those boilers. Then they would have hot water, too.

Each room had both gas and electric fixtures since electricity was still on the uncertain side. Here, again, neither gas or electricity were available and candles were still the order of the day, but the intent to provide all the modern conveniences was still there and David was impressed.

Unbelievably, in the hallways were speaking tubes and electric buttons for wires that led down stairs to where dozens of Chinamen and Japanese were waiting to attend to the needs of the occupants. So far, no one had the courage to use the contraptions. Word was out that Mr. Fesler or Mr. Lathrop would be the ones to respond if someone put in a call. No one, to David’s knowledge, was willing to take the chance but knowing this lot it was bound to happen.

At the end of each hallway, next to the stairs were elevators, “Just like a first class hotel,” Freck told him. David would take his word for it since he had never been in such a place. He had never been in an elevator so it would be a new experience for him. The elevators were also not working but he had seen workmen fiddling with them so soon he might get his first ride.

Washing tubs for bathing were available on the top floor but since there was only cold water, he doubted whether he would use these facilities until he had to. Probably on Saturday night when he usually took his weekly bath at home.

When he arrived, he was given two thin sheets, and a pillow and two red blankets with LSJRU in a monogram in the middle. He was told by Mr. Fesler that the blankets had been woven from wool from Senator Stanford’s sheep and that there would be a five dollar charge if either one were not returned at the end of the school year. David considered himself lucky because he had heard the first to arrive had no bedding and had to tie themselves into the mattresses to keep warm during the cold nights.

Student Janitors were assigned to each floor. The man who did their room had already visited Freck and him and said he would do the dusting and general cleaning up each week on Fridays. He was a graduate student from MIT and had a red beard. David, thinking of the future, asked him how he got the job and he told them he knew someone in the Business Office and there was already a waiting list for applicants. He was getting 15 cents an hour and would make about $1.25 a week. When David 134 heard those numbers he wondered how the fellow could continue to pay the $4.50 a week to live at the hall. He already recognized that he wouldn’t be able to afford to live in Encina for very long.

After two days, David knew that the food would be ample but not like his Mother’s, but he was never expecting that. Three times a day, he sat at one of the twelve tables, after the girls ate, and after there was a general rush through those dining room doors. One time he stepped on the toes of a young man and it wasn’t until later that he realized the poor fellow was supporting himself on wooden legs and canes. David felt badly about that and, later, he tried to get near the poor fellow when they were waiting to get in and protect him from the rush. The fellow knew what he was trying to do and appreciated it and smiled. They exchanged names and David found out the wooden legged student was George Gardner and he was from the bottom of the state, San Diego.

David usually ended up eating with Freck or one of his gang since he still had not made friends with anyone else.

A man named Otto Wellweber was the steward and under his direction were a headwaiter and countless Chinamen who served and cooked. The food was never hot since it was prepared in kitchens located in the cellars and was transported via the stairs to the dining room. The dumb waiters, which were supposed to do the job, were also not working.

When David thought about it, there was less things working than not. You would think it would be the other way around.

Most of the meat and vegetables came from the Senator’s farms and ranches. At each meal they had mutton and more mutton and less often, beef. The vegetables served were beans and beans and more beans, boiled and baked, three times a day.

Eating beans and more beans gave cause for the boys to issue loud farts at all times particularly at night when candles were snuffed. David had been awakened several times by Freck’s offerings. It was like mating calls. One fart was answered by another and then another and the louder ones drew appreciative chuckles and laughter from everyone. One of the boys claimed to have heard an angel fart as she passed him, but everyone doubted that such a thing could have happened.

The most enjoyable item served at mealtime was fresh milk; thick and cool. Then there were lots of dried fruit, prunes and apricots, which gave rise to the creation of more WC jokes. Since David had lived all of his life on a ranch, he was used to that.

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So far, there were two kinds of pudding. One was a kind of wet cake peppered with dried currents and the other had already earned the ignoble nickname of “tombstone pudding” caused by an appearance of what looked like a blancmange floating in rose-colored hair-oil. David usually passed on it but he noticed that most of the boys relished it in spite of its name and appearance.

After breakfast, David joined the other boys walking over to the Quadrangle. Freck was already ahead with his friends, which was fine with David so he went over by himself. In the hallway, he bumped into his assigned janitor, the red-bearded one. He was walking over with a dark-haired fellow who appeared to be Jewish. They invited David to join them. They were in such a rush no one was introduced.

Their destination was a large lecture hall on the west side of the Quad near the west archway that had been converted into a temporary chapel. It was mandatory for each student to attend a short, ten-minute non- denominational service, which consisted of hymns, scripture reading and a prayer and a short sermon. So far, Dr. Jordan had led each of the services. The services were supposed to be non-denominational but David wondered about the Jewish fellow and what he must think about all this.

David thought that Dr. Jordan used the time to get to know the students and also to encourage them to put up with some of the inconveniences. He kept referred to what they were going through as “pioneering days.” During his sermons, Dr. Jordan would mention how Abraham Lincoln had studied by candlelight and that they should use his study habits as an example. David guessed that meant candlelight might be their only source of light for a while. Oh, well, if Mr. Lincoln could do it, so could he but that must have been over eighty years ago.

Once the service was over, everyone stepped out into the bright sunshine. David thought the red bearded janitor and his friend might move on but they waited for him outside. The one who was his janitor put out his hand to David.

“My name is Will Greer and this is my friend, Ruben Weinberg.”

“My name is David Cooper and I am very glad to meet both of you and I appreciated your walking over here with me.”

Ruben, the Jewish one, was tall like David and had a long beardless, thin face with very dark eyes that looked intently at the person he was talking to. He turned to David and said, “I have seen you in the dining room and watched how you protected the boy with wooden legs from the mob.” 136

“I stepped on his feet once and felt real bad about that. He is a good lad. His name is George Gardiner.”

Will Greer, with the red beard, said, “At first I thought you were with that bunch from University of the Pacific and I must admit I don’t think much of them. I am the one that has to clean up the mess they make. “

David agreed with him. “No, I just happen to be Freck’s roommate. They call me “Bump” since they consider me a country bumpkin. They are not my type. Sorry, fellows, I have to cut this short. I have an appointment in the next five minutes with my Faculty Adviser to work out my study schedule.”

Ruben suggested, “Why don’t you stop by and see us in Room #148 on the second floor after dinner this evening?”

“I’d be happy to.” He waved to both of them. “See you, tonight.” They waved back and continued on their different ways.

David felt good. They were the first students, other than George Gardner, that he felt he could like. It would not be too much longer and he would have to tell Freck that he was not interested in joining the Alpha Phi’s.

With the help of his family physician, Dr. Moore, David had already decided that he would be taking science classes during his first year at Stanford and preparing to train as a physician. Once he arrived at LSJRU, he found that there were two avenues that he might take to arrive at his goal, he would have to decide, now, which one was right for him. He was meeting with Dr. Oliver Peebles Jenkins to discuss his options.

David was fortunate to have Dr. Jenkins as his faculty adviser. He was one of the key professors that Dr. Jordan had brought with him from the University of Indiana. He, like Jordan was in his late 30’s, early 40’s. His areas of interest were Physiology and Histology.

David walked across the arcade to the Science corner on the northwest side of the Quad. Next to the classrooms, faculty members shared several small offices. Dr. Jenkins was in Room #91. He knocked at the door and heard a deep male voice asking him to, “Come in, please.”

Dr. Jenkins was seated in the far corner at his roll top desk, waiting for him. He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and starched collar and dark, thin tie. Since he was seated it was impossible to know how tall he was. He did not get up when David entered the room. 137

His one distinguishing feature was a tiny white handkerchief that just peeked above his coat’s breast pocket. He had a broad face with a small mustache similar to the one Dr. Jordan sported and his wide set eyes and his head was supported by an extra long thick neck. The eyes intently watched David as he entered the room. The other faculty member, Dr. Charles Henry Gilbert who taught Zoology and shared the office was not there.

“Mr. Cooper,” he greeted David stiffly and did not get up from his desk seat or offer him his hand. “I believe yesterday when we met you had not decided whether you should take the chemistry approach to your goal to be a doctor or the route, I offer, through Zoology and Physiology.”

David realized that Dr. Jenkins was not going to offer him a chair and he was to remain standing before him at his desk.

“Yes, sir. I have thought it over and if you remember, my life has been on the ranch and that is where I learned to take care of animals and decided to become a doctor.”

Dr. Jenkins took a good look at the tall, dark haired boy standing before him. They all wanted to be doctors. Jenkins had wanted to be one, too, at one time. Then he realized how precarious a profession it was. Many of his fellow students who spent many years preparing for that profession found it was impossible to survive these days without patients. To sit in an empty office waiting for the sick or wounded to drop out of the sky was not for him. He preferred to have classes to attend to and papers to grade and young men like Mr. Cooper seeking his wise advise.

Obviously the boy was sincere and exceptionally earnest in his desire to be a doctor. Compare with some of the callow youth he had recently seen, this one knew what he wanted to do. The rest only had a faint idea of what was going on.

“If you don’t mind if I give you a little advise, it sounds to me that you have a real advantage if you go the Physiology path. You can take Chemistry I and see what you think of it but I would advise that your schedule consist of Latin 2 with Dr. Pease at 8:30, then my class at 9:30. English I will be taught by Dr. Griggs at 10:30 and finish up the morning with Dr. Richardson’s Chemistry I. Of course you would have three hours of lab with my class and Dr. Richardson’s in the afternoons.

“Dr. Jenkins, do you mind if I sit down. I have a problem to discuss with you,” it was something that troubled David and he might just as well get it off his shoulders. 138

“Of course, pull that chair over here and let’s hear what you have to say.” Dr. Jordan had told him that he should get close to his students. Here was an opportunity.

David pulled the wooden side chair that was next to the other desk that must have been Dr. Gilbert’s over to sit next to Dr. Jenkins.

David sat bolt upright in the chair and cleared his voice and said, “I realize that if I am going to graduate at the end of four years, I am going to have to take 15 units of work each semester. And I read in the catalog that for each unit of class, I have to allow two hours of preparation and then, so if you put that together with the 5 hours in class it makes 35 hours of class and study each week And if you add the lab time of 3 hours for five days, it is almost 50 hours. Now, if I am to get through school, I am going to have to work and I think I will have to work a minimum of twenty hours a week to help pay for my room and board and that makes 70 hours a week.

Taking all the hours for 6 days since I don’t want to work or study on the Sabbath, there are 144 hours and if you subtract eight hours for sleep you have 96 hours minus 70 hours for class, studying and working which leaves me 26 hours or roughly four hours a day to eat and probably work out with the football and baseball teams. That doesn’t seem to be a lot of time to enjoy my college days. I just wonder how am I going to do this. All that time and all that pressure to stay in school and get good grades.”

Dr. Jenkins could identify immediately with David’s problems. He, too, had financial problems at Indiana University during his undergraduate days. When he responded to David his voice was softer and David could tell, he was honestly concerned.

“About all I can say is the obvious, David. It won’t be easy for you and it won’t be easy for your classmates and if you plan to go out for the teams, it will be even tougher. But if you pattern your life with railroad precision, you will be able to do it. The first thing you will have to learn is discipline. I would work out a schedule and follow it as if you were running a railroad. Your classmates who fail will be the ones who can’t learn how to schedule their lives.

You know, David, most of us have faced the same problems and you can count on our support if it really gets tough on you. Somehow it will work out and I am glad that you have decided that your Sundays will be saved for non-Academic activities and that you are going out for sports. One of my personal failings is that I neglected that portion of my college life. I have always regretted it and would hardily recommend that you keep your personal priorities high along with completing your studies. As 139

you know, we will not be grading your performance. You will receive either a pass or no pass so that should make it easier on you without the class competition.”

Another student knocked on the door to see if Dr. Jenkins was available. With only 15 members of the faculty stretched over 500 students, everyone was exceptionally busy, especially now, setting up class schedules for the opening day of class. David’s session with his advisor had ended.

Dr. Jenkins presented David with the class schedule he had already made up and had David sign it at the bottom. He stood up and stuck out his hand and David and he shook hands as he said, “Thanks for coming by, David, please drop by and see me again if you have any problems. My office hours are posted outside.”

David walked out the door, again, to be greeted by bright sunlight and a blue, blue sky. A fellow student brushed by him, going in, intent on meeting his adviser and beginning his formal path toward a college degree.

As David walked across the broad arcade with its eight ovals planted with young palm trees, he thought to himself, “What else could be said. Dr. Jenkins verified what he had thought to himself would be the solution to his problem. He would have to discipline himself. His parents had always taught him to use good judgment and moderation in his activities now they were no longer at his side and he would have to make his own decisions. He hoped he was wise enough to make the right ones.”

He walked through the eastern archway that faced a broad hayfield and followed a direct path through the field that was getting well-trodden from the soles of many shoes that led directly to Encina Hall where the jungle and all its temptations awaited him. The thought of joining a fraternity was growing more and more remote. He would have to tell Freck of his decision. He would not even bother to ask his father.

~~~~~~~

As part of the traveling outfit Sally Forrest was putting together to go to college in the north, she asked her Step Father to buy her a Colt 32 caliber, pocket revolver with a 2-½ inch barrel. By now with her beguiling looks, she had the poor man twisted around her little finger and he would deny nothing that she wanted. Outwardly he told his wife, Sally’s mother, that a young girl as pretty as she should be able to defend 140

herself. He never considered that she might use the pocket revolver to kill someone.

Tomorrow’s, October 1st, Opening Ceremony would be an excellent opportunity to shoot the Senator. The public was invited and already the campus was alive with people preparing for tomorrow’s activities. A holiday had been declared in the northern part of the state and thousands were expected to attend. With all those people milling about no one would suspect a young female student’s desire to get closer to the Senator so she could hear every word he said. She knew, after the shots were fired, any escape would be futile. Someone would surely subdue her and eventually they might hang her, but she did not care and accepted her fate as being inevitable.

On the morning of September 30th, immediately after Chapel, which was located at the western end of the Quad where the ceremonies were to take place, Sally decided to stroll past the site and see where she might have the best opportunity for the assassination. She saw workmen erecting a platform for Stanford and his wife and other notables directly under the westerm arch of the Quad. Facing the platform were rows of wooden chairs that were temporarily being brought from classrooms by the student janitors who had been hired to take care of the quadrangle’s buildings. Red, white and blue bunting and flags was already attached to the surrounding sandstone walls and some women who appeared to be farm laborers were starting to put up palm fronds and pampas grass and vines and grape clusters from the Senator’s farm and vineyards.

Workmen had filled in the arch, which was directly behind the seats on the platform with a wooden partition that was empty, and when Sally asked one of the workmen what the space was for he answered, “A painting of the dead son.”

Yes, she thought, a small repayment for all the evil the railways had done. Now, she would even the score.

The Colt Revolver would be accurate at 20 to 25 feet. She would have only one or two shots and she wanted to make certain she hit Stanford and killed him. She checked on possible sites where she might stand and the circular plot closest to the platform among the low, newly planted trees seemed to be the best possibility. Perhaps she would use one of the low hanging limbs to steady her hand as she pulled the trigger.

~~~~~~~~

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Sam Cutter was also busy preparing for tomorrow’s activities. He was getting ready to take care of his victims but in his case they were plural and they would not be losing their lives, just their watches and money.

During the past few days, he had instituted the practice of “feeds.” In order to ingratiate himself with as many of his fellow students as possible, he had taken to inviting friends, fraternity and others, to partake of food in his room that he had specially prepared by a group of Chinamen he had befriended in Mayfield. The fare was exceedingly better than what was offered in the Dining Hall: tender meats, fresh fruits-- not dried, and tasty desserts-- not hair-oil, wine and beer. He had talked one of the saloon keepers into providing beer so that habits could be formed and then reinforced. .

This generosity had raised his status as a benefactor to new heights but it had also lowered his financial resources. He was now almost broke- -down to one golden, double eagle. It was not enough so he immediately began to plan how he could quickly replenish his wealth and picking pockets seemed to be the best possibility. To resort to extortion and outright thievery was too blatant, too quick and too precarious at the moment, although he already had plans afoot for such cards to be put into play. He would need fellow conspirators to implement all the dastardly plans that were formulating in his mind.

Suddenly, his multitudinous friendships were in the way. In order to gather and hide the consequences of his industry during the next day, he needed to be alone and to have complete privacy in his room. Mitch, his roommate, would need other accommodations for the day.

In order to accomplish this, he contrived two lies. The first lie was dealt with in a casual manner during one of the treats he was holding in his room. About a dozen Alpha Phi’s and potential pledges were lolling about gagging themselves with fruits and tidbits his Chinese friends had concocted when Sam jumped to his feet. “I’ve got the runs,” he exclaimed and ran out of the room down the hall to the multi-seated men’s room. He slammed the door behind him and scrunched down on the toilet seat and started to make moaning sounds of a painful dispatch that even someone in the hallway might hear.

During the afternoon, he did this three more times so it was apparent to all that Sam was not feeling well and that this case of diarrhea would definitely carry over to the next day and he would be constantly running back, and forth from the ceremony to his room and the nearby WC’s. 142

The second lie was a bit more involved. After everyone had left he confided in Mitch, his roommate, “I hope you don’t think too badly of me, old boy, but the runs bit was all a sham.”

“A sham, you certainly had me fooled, I thought you were going to die for a moment.”

“Tomorrow, I’m not going to be spending too much time with the gang because in my wanderings I have befriended a Mayfield wench who has promised to sneak up to our room tomorrow during the ceremony and allow me to mount her.”

“To mount her, in our room. In your bed, I would assume.”

“Yes, rest assured in my bed. I would not want your virgin lair to be tarnished with love juices.”

Mitch put his hand to his head in disbelief. “Love juices, mounting, all in our room,” and in a pleading voice, “dear Sam, could I assist in any way?”

Sam was pleased. Mitch had made it easy for the next step in his plan. “Only by being absent, Mitch. The girl is shy and wants no one to know of her transgression. So I will require your key just to reassure her that we will not be seen or interrupted.”

“Certainly, certainly, here is my key. Take it now and I promise you as your almost fraternity brother, I will not enter this room until later in the day.” And he raised his hand as if taking an oath.

“After six, to be precise.”

“That long, Sam. The love juices will be flowing.”

“That they will and, Mitch, to reward you for your discretion, I plan to mention your name to this wench and suggest that she would also find you to be a worthy partner.”

“Sam, Sam what a good friend,” as Mitch reached down to his crotch and stroked a lump that was beginning to protrude. Sam noticed that this was a common way that Mitch reacted to anything even remotely related to sex.

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In a sense this lie was partially the truth, Sam did plan to seduce young Mayfield ladies and he did plan to allow his friends to participate, but for a price.

Just incase he ran into any of the gang, Sam covered himself by letting everyone know, that in spite of his affliction, he would still try to see some of ceremony. In fact, that would be his busiest time as he relieved others of their purses while they were concentrating on what was going on before them and not what was happening to them.

He used his skills with thread and thimble to specially fit a pair of his pants with long, reinforced pockets to stuff his takings into. He hoped that his stiff-legged walk did not draw too much attention but why should it? Who would think that the illustrious student body of LSJRU had a pickpocket in its midst and a masterful one, at that?

~~~~~~~~~

The grand day arrived. Three times the people of California had been promised by the press that the university would open on a certain date and three times that date had arrived and gone with only a weak explanation involving unforeseen construction delays. Now with the Governor of California declaring a holiday and the motivation to witness an historical event and to hold their children high above their heads so that they, too, could boast, one day, of being there; thousands and thousands of people were arriving on campus from the south bay area and as far away as San Francisco and Sacramento. They came in gigs and wagons and carriages and special trains that used the freight switch to bring them directly to the Quadrangle.

Fletcher awoke at eight that morning. He had missed breakfast. Henry, Dr. Whitman, was still asleep. Fletcher had slept late because the previous day, he had worked hard all day at the Villa, cleaning up the outside and garden. He wanted to be close to Irene.

Once he was awake, Fletcher lathered and shaved himself quickly. He looked out the windows and saw another beautiful day; the sun was shining brightly and the sky was still a brilliant blue. Fred Behn had told him that he had never seen such good weather this late in the year. He and his new wife, a widow with four children, were also coming to the ceremony.

For some reason, he felt some unknown calamity in the air similar to what he had felt before the massacre at Wounded Creek. His neck muscles were tense and he even had a dull headache for which he had no explanation. When he looked at himself in the mirror, as he tied his black 144 string necktie, he could see that his face was drawn and taunt. The deep crevices in his face were even more defined and he was beginning to take on the appearance of the heroic president who presided during the war of the states. Something was wrong but he did not know what it was. Certainly an opening ceremony should not cause him this much concern

He put on his derby hat and walked out into the hallway where he met students hurrying to get ready. He had promised Irene that he would be back at the Villa at around nine am so they could walk to the ceremonies. Lucy Fletcher would be joining them.

Down the hall, Bert Hoover had already left to report for work at the Business Office next to the powerhouse and its chimney. All of the Student Janitors, including William Greer, had been asked by Ariel Lathrop to be there, sharply, at 7 am. There was still much to be done. More chairs had to be brought out from the classrooms. There were still decorations to be completed and the painting of Leland Stanford, Jr., had to be placed on the wall behind the speaker’s platform.

Bert and William walked to the west end of the quadrangle where they found Charles Lathrop, Mrs. Stanford’s younger brother, and the painting of Leland Stanford, Jr. waiting for them. It was lovingly draped in his mother’s favorite blue and red bedspread. When they unwrapped the painting, they could see that it was of a seated Leland Stanford, Junior in a moment of contemplation. His left hand was lightly touching his forehead as if in deep thought and he was looking but not seeing something to his left. The background was an Italian or Greek classical setting complete with ancient Ionic columns

Charles Lathrop’s rasping voice broke the early morning silence as Bert and William Greer were still studying the painting. “Don’t just stand there, boys. We don’t have all morning to do this. You, there,” pointing at the Bert, “grab one end and… ,” William had already taken hold of the other end of the painting. He could tell he was not going to like Charles Lathrop, the moment he spoke. He was no better than his brother, perhaps worse.

Charles Lathrop led the way toward the Western Arch.. “Follow me,” he ordered. His sister wanted Leland, Jr. to be placed right behind the speakers rostrum so that everyone would be aware of her son’s presence. Lathrop led the way from the chapel, climbed the single step to the platform that had built for the founders, trustees, the President and special guests like the Governor of the state and him self and his family. Lathrop looked back to make certain that Bert and Will were following him and cautioned them about the step, “Careful, careful,” he said.

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A workmen with a hammer and 5” nails joined the group as Charles pointed to an area on the temporary wooden wall that enclosed the arch where the painting was to be hung. Charles strode about twenty paces in front of the rostrum, stopped and turned around and shouted back to Bert and William. “Pick it up. Up. Up. Stop. Good. Raise it slightly. Not too much. Good. Over to the left, good.” After each instruction, he would step back and survey how it looked and thought, “Will my Sister like it, here?”

After five different placements, the right spot was found and the waiting workman drove three parallel nails into the wooden partition at the proper height. Thank goodness. The painting was getting heavier and heavier and Will could see that Bert’s side was beginning to droop.

The two student janitors raised the painting so that the frame hung over the nails and once that was accomplished, the workman drove two more nails underneath the frame for it to sit on and give it stability. Then, all four men stood back to gaze at the product of their endeavors. Yes, Leland, Jr. was properly placed, in absentia, to review the proceedings for which his premature death were directly responsible.

^^^^^^^

David Cooper did not miss breakfast. The angels were still strolling over to Encina for their breakfasts, lunches and dinners and David did not want to miss seeing his dark-haired beauty. She still kept her eyes lowered particularly when she stepped up the pesky step so there was no way he could say, “hello.” Still he wanted to see her as often as he could. David planned to ditch Freck and his friends when they went over to the ceremonies so that he could look for this girl even though he didn’t know her name. If only he knew someone who knew her so that he could meet her.

Another student watched Delores as she strolled into the Encina lobby and then into the dining room. It was her cousin, Ruben. He could not get over how she had ignored the notes he had left for her at the Roble Hall office. He checked with Miss Leach and she assured him that Delores had picked up the notes. All he could think of was that she didn’t want to acknowledge her relationship to her Jewish cousin and admit to others she had Jewish blood. He could understand why she felt that way. Being Jewish at LSJRU was going to be a real obstacle. He had not seen any other Jewish students at Encina or on the campus, not even a person with a swarthy complexion that could have been taken as a Jew. Ruben was the only one. Stanford was to be a haven for Anglo-Saxons.

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This disparity had been made acutely apparent to Ruben on several occasions.

When he was walking in the Encina hallways and particularly in the stairwells, several times an unknown assailant had brush up against him, hard and attempted to push him off balance.

“Hey, hey, what are you up to,” Ruben would say and when he attempted to push back he would find his assailant or, at times, assailants had disappeared and he was talking to himself.

Sometimes, he felt only the presence of William Greer, his red bearded roommate, saved him. William said nothing but he was very protective of his young roommate. Once in the hallway immediately after a very obvious knock had been administered, William raised his heavy hand pretending to administer a blow to the perpetrator. He did not strike but everyone in view knew that he might have and the word must have spread.

As he walked over to the Quadrangle, he ran into David Cooper and they decided to go to the ceremony, together. He liked David and considered him a friend. Both men wore derby hats and their dark suits and as they got closer to the Quadrangle they could see most of the men students had derbies or straw hats on.

About that same time Delores and Betsy were leaving Roble Hall and heading toward the site of the ceremony. They were also dressed in their Sunday best. Delores wore a pretty green calico dress with a long, full skirt and full bodice and Betsy had a similar dress in magenta. Because the sun was bright by now, they both carried matching parasols with mother of pearl handles and they looked like sisters except one was dark haired and the other light. Delores especially looked lovely with her glistening long dark hair and delicate features. She had pinched her cheeks to give herself some color. With the warm sun and the heavy dresses, both of them were already perspiring.

By now it was nine am and most of the out-of-towners were arriving. With some difficulty they found a post or tree for hitching their horses. Some of the boys from Mayfield were offering to hold the horse’s reins for ten cents while the ceremonies took place. There were only a few takers. The boys did not look trustworthy.

When the guests got to the Quadrangle they found that all the seats up front were for the students. They weren’t officially students, yet, but that afternoon, they would register. Out-of-towners had to stand in the back where it was difficult to see or hear or sit on the curbing where it was 147 impossible to see. Some of their enterprising children were sent to the circular gardens where young trees had just been planted and they proceeded to climb them to get a better view. A few of the trees were not strong enough to take their weight and toppled over. They would have to be replaced. The children survived their slight fall and tried another tree.

In order to get a better view, photographers had erected wooden stands in the circular plots that would hold the weight of themselves and their heavy cameras. Other, more daring photographers obtained ladders and climbed to the top of the tile roofs to get a better view. It was precarious up there but the danger was worth it. Copies of their photographs might be worth 20 cents apiece, on sale at their shops in San Francisco or San Jose. Soon other more agile guests joined the photographers on the roofs.

As Ruben and David were about to sit down in a few vacant seats toward the back of the student section, Ruben saw Delores walking in with Betsy. He vigorously waved to her and shouted, “Delores, Delores.”

Delores saw and heard Ruben. She also saw that the tall, dark-haired boy was with him. There was no way that she could gracefully ignore her cousin. She would have to take her chances. Betsy knew about Ruben, but no one else did. She told Betsy that her cousin was shouting to her and they would have to join him. Betsy made a little squinty face that revealed she was not looking forward to the meeting.

As they approached, the two boys moved over two seats so that there would be room for the girls. By now, David’s mouth was agape in surprise. He could not believe his good fortune. Ruben greeted Delores and Betsy and introduced them to David Cooper, his friend from Riverside, California and then he introduced Delores and Betsy to David.

“David, I would like to introduce you to Delores Payson and her friend, Betsy Firestone. Delores is an old acquaintance. Her parents knew my parents in Omaha.”

Both Delores and Betsy were greatly relieved.

At nearly nine thirty, Mayfield’s University Band started to play. It was made up of eighteen of Mayfield’s most prominent residents, businessmen and professionals, all dressed in the bright yellow and red uniforms complete with tousled headgear that Senator and Mrs. Stanford had bought for them. The band members, unlike many of the other Mayfield’s residents, realized the importance of the town’s relationship with LSJRU.

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To put the crowd into a good mood, the University Band struck up a rollicking tune. They were seated, facing the crowd, to the right of the Western Archway. The speakers and honored guests were under the arch, in its shade, along with the painting of Leland Stanford, Jr. A chorus from the Presbyterian Church in San Francisco was seated on the far left side of the Archway.

Dr. Jordan and his wife, Jessie, sat under the arch. She was just able to get around being with child but it would have taken wild horses to keep her from this celebration. Dr. Jordan was still tinkering with his speech and to his left was President Kellogg from the California State University, along with Judge Shafter and other appointed University Trustees, including Timothy Hopkins. Leland and Jane Stanford had not arrived, yet, but two chairs in front and on the end were vacant, saved for them.

Faculty members and families were in front of the platform, level with the ground of the Quad and facing the crowd. Because of the increased number of entering students, the number of faculty members had been risen from fifteen to thirty to the consternation of Charles Lathrop in the Business Office. One of the new members of the faculty who had just arrived at Stanford from New York State was Mr. Bolton Brown who would be an instructor in Freehand Drawing and considered himself a frustrated artist.. Mr. Brown was the brother of Ellen Elliott, Dr. Elliott’s wife. In the faculty seating area, Bolton was next to his sister who taking care of the Jordan’s children, Edith and Knight and Dr. Leslie Elliott was next to Bolton. Three seats were vacant next to Leslie so when Irene, Lucy and Fletcher came in, they decided to sit there. Leslie introduced Bolton, his brother-in-law, to them and it became quite obvious to everyone except the children that Bolton was immediately smitten with Lucy Fletcher. It could be easily understood why. Lucy was the most beautiful woman there and Bolton appreciated beauty. If Irene was gold, Lucy was diamonds. Her cool English beauty with dark hair and brown eyes was set off by skin that was almost translucent.

Dr. Elliott soon found him self being talked over and around by the two younger people seated on his either side. Actually shouted over was more like it because they were all sitting right next to the band. Leslie didn’t mind. The crowd and the music and everything that was happening at once fascinated him. It was as if he were watching a circus.

Fletcher Martin sat at the end of the row next to Irene whose left hand privately sought out his right hand. Martin’s head was constantly turning from left to right, the problem was: he didn’t know what he was looking for. He saw Fred Behn, his Mayfield friend, and his wife and family in the crowd and waved to them. He would have to stop by and see Fred at his saloon now that he was living so much closer to Mayfield. Thinking about 149

Fred for a moment got his mind off the sense of foreboding that had crept up on him like dark shadow. Irene could sense something was wrong.

She whispered, “Are you all right?”

He struggled to put a smile on his face, “I’m fine. Just not use to all these people.”

At that particularly moment one of the camera’s lights exploded with a sound similar to that of a rifle shot. “Bang!”

Fletcher jumped out of his seat as if he had been shot. Everyone in the area, Irene, Lucy, Bolton, Leslie, Ellen, even Lewis, Edith and Knight looked at him, with a questioning look on their faces and then they resumed their conversations or whatever else they had been doing. Irene gently pulled him back down to his seat. She knew what he had been through had left its scars.

Fletcher could feel the wetness of perspiration on his hands and brow and it was not from the heat. Something was wrong, very wrong, but what?

Dominating the scene were the over 400 students of the university. The students were seated in front, facing the faculty---the girls with their brightly colored hats and parasols and the men with their derbies and sombreros and some were wearing straw hats with colorful headbands. At first they were uncommonly quiet and subdued. Then, as the young men and women started to share acquaintanceships and places they were from or visited, the hum of conversation steadily increased in volume. In the background the male voices of the Alpha Phi fraternity rose above the rest. Pudge, Freck, Mitch and the rest were exchanging stories and gossip. Then someone shouted out, “There are our University of California friends,” and as a group their heads turned toward the eastern end of the quadrangle as the whole student body of the Berkeley based university strolled in accompanied by their entire faculty. By that time the quadrangle was almost filled from one end to the other.

At the magic hour of ten am, Leland and Jane Stanford arrived by carriage near the Western Arch entrance. Hand in hand, they emerged from the shadows into the alcove and stood for a moment under the portrait of their beloved son. Stanford appeared unsteady on his feet and needed a pearl handled cane and Mrs. Stanford’s shoulder to support his steps.

When they came in view, young Stanford men sprang to their feet and gave them a lusty greeting, 150

“Wah hoo! Wah hoo! L-S-J-U! Stan—ford!”

Dr. Jordan sitting on the platform helped the Senator drop into his seat. He could see the smile light up both of the Stanford’s faces. Jordan thought how they had just heard the first Stanford cheer. What a glorious way to begin. Already the college spirit that was so important to a university was beginning to stir.

Senator Stanford looked directly at the bright, perspiring young faces before him and tipped his hat.

For a moment there was an awkward silence then the Presbyterian Chorus boisterously sang, “Glory be to God on High.”

While the chorus was singing, Sally Forrest gained a position next to the camera whose lighting equipment had just exploded. She reasoned that the sound of her first pistol shot would not be so exceptional in such a location. In the seconds it took for someone to recognize it was not a camera explosion, she might be able to get off two or three more rounds to make certain her target had been properly hit.

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Chapter Four

The Flatcar Prank

From where she stood, Sally could see the Senator clearly. He was conversing with his wife and several of his political friends who were leaning over the couple to shake their hands. Dr. Jordan was on his left, concentrating on a piece of paper he had in his hands. While Stanford was so close to his wife and Dr. Jordan, shooting was not a possibility. Mrs. Stanford was not part of the plot that resulted in the death of Sally’s father. There was no reason why a woman should pay with her life for the transgressions of her husband and Jordan, though he seemed a fool at times, was not involved in the railroad’s skullduggery.

On the other hand, she knew that Mrs. Stanford was a strong willed woman. Witness how Miss Leach, Roble’s Mistress, was constantly passing on to the girls what Mrs. Stanford thought about this and that and what they should wear and how they should deport themselves. And someone had mentioned how ostentatious Mrs. Stanford was at the parties she attended in the Washington, D. C., wearing countless diamonds at her throat and on her ample bosoms. Diamonds paid for with the blood of her father and others like him. No, Sally thought, she could not be completely innocent. If she had disagreed with what her husband was doing, would such a woman stand by and allow her husband do dastardly deeds without intervening?

Sally stood next to the wooden stilts that had been constructed for the camera’s scaffolding. She would be able to support her purse with the revolver inside of it on a railing of the scaffolding. To go along with the costume she was wearing, she had a bright yellow parasol that she would use to fend off the initial attackers once they were aware of what she had done. The photographers at her side would obtain photographs of the happening that would be prized by historians.

She reached inside of her purse with her right hand and felt the cool handle of the revolver. Her fingers grazed the photograph she had placed next to the gun. It was a photo of her father and his family. Just in case she was mortally wounded, on the back of the photograph she had inscribed, “This is Henry Brewer’s Family. Gunmen hired by Leland Stanford killed him. I have avenged his death. Sally Brewer, Henry’s daughter”

The chorus finished their hymn and there was a pause while Reverend Robert Mackenzie, pastor of the Congregational Church of Oakland, made his way to the front of the platform. At the other end of the Quad could be 152

heard raucous voices and laughter of those who could neither see nor hear what was transpiring. For them, it did not matter. Today was a holiday, an event that should be celebrated with food and drink and laughter.

Reverend Mackenzie looked down at the Bible before him and in a voice that would render the living to sleep said, “Let us pray.”

Sally had not bargained on the ceremony preceding the Senator’s speech particularly a lengthy prayer. She wanted to get on with it and get the deed done. Everyone around her lowered their heads and most of them grasped their hands together in a prayerful attitude. With her right hand still grasping the handle of the revolver in her purse, this was impossible for her to do. She placed her left hand over her heart and shut her eyes attempting to create as blissful a state as she could muster, with her heart and pulse racing like a steam engine, at the time. Her prayer was that no one would notice her hand in her purse. Briefly, she raised her eyelids to see that the vociferous Reverend was still at the rostrum, still beseeching his redeemer. Stanford will soon be seeing his, she thought.

Finally, the crowd in unison began the “Lord’s Prayer”. “Our Father, who are in Heaven…” Sally was able to utter these words and then silently added, “I will avenge you, today.”

There was more to come. A new minister, Reverend Stowe took his place at the rostrum and in a loud, dramatic voice gave a reading from Proverbs, “Get Wisdom, get understanding…Take fast hold on instruction, let her not go.” Then, finally, he proudly introduced “The ex-Governor of the sovereign state of California and the current Senator from that great state and the founder of Leland Stanford Junior University,” the pastor paused for dramatic affect, “Leland Stanford.”

Men, women, children cheered; only one person remained silent and that was Sally. Still attempting to mimic the crowd’s exaltation, she opened her mouth wide as if shouting without uttering a sound.

Leland Stanford, appearing much older than his fifty-six years, rose slowly from his seat and faced the crowd. Everyone around him looked up at him, including Mrs. Stanford, their faces beaming with admiration. He supported himself with one hand holding on to the backs of the chairs he passed and a few shoulders. When he finally reached the rostrum it was as if he breathed a sigh of relief, appearing to be relieved that he had made the passage without mishap. He solemnly looked at the crowd as if he were talking to another person across the room and began to speak in a voice that was somewhat gruff but earnest. He did not lower his eyes to see his notes; it was a speech he did not need to memorize because it came from his heart. But the sun, now at its midday zenith was shining into his 153

eyes. He thought about raising his arm to shade his eyes but decided not to because it would be an unseemly way to appear before the gathering.

“For Mrs. Stanford and myself, this ceremony marks an epoch in our lives, for we see in part the realization of the hopes and efforts of years. We do not believe there can be superfluous education…”

Sally gripped the revolver’s handle and slowly moved its barrel in alignment with the front of the Senator’s body. If she was sighting correctly, the bullets should enter near the groin and stomach. Death might not be instantaneous; it would come slowly and painfully. Perhaps how her father had died. “Prepare to meet your Maker, Senator,” she thought.

“…the knowledge man has acquired through education will be not only of practical assistance to him, but a factor in his personal happiness and joy forever.”

Mrs. Stanford could see that her husband was having a problem with the bright sun shining in his eyes. In an instant, she got up from her seat and quickly stood by his side, protecting him with her lavender parasol. The Senator glanced at her with deep appreciation in his eyes but continued his speech without interruption.

Sally watched what had just occurred with disbelief. Sally could not believe her eyes. The stupid woman had stepped into her revolver’s line of sight. Silently, deep within her, a scream of despair racked her body. If she pulled the trigger, Mrs. Stanford would be dead and Leland Stanford, alive. That was not supposed to happen. Sally looked in vain for another spot to move to but the crowd hemmed her in on all sides. She could only hope that the woman would give up her position and sit down. If not, all could be lost.

“…You, students, are the most important factor in the university. It is for your benefit that it has been established. To you our hearts go out especially, and in each individual student we feel a parental interest…”

Sally could not help but think to herself, “If only you knew that one of your children was trying to assassinate you.”

“…Remember that life is, above all, practical; that you are here to fit yourselves for a useful career; also, that learning should not only make you wise in the arts and sciences, but should fully develop your moral and religious natures.”

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He was finished. With Mrs. Stanford still at his side, the Senator slowly returned to his chair on the platform. With both of the Stanford’s backs turned toward her, Sally again argued to herself whether she should kill both of them. Certainly a shot fired now had a chance of killing one or even both of them but there was also a chance that some innocent person like Mrs. Jordan might be killed or seriously wounded. But as Sally watched, the decision was made for her, once Senator Stanford regained his seat he dropped into it and there was relief in his eyes that his part of the ceremony was over and he had successfully completed it. Now for him, he could relax and that meant shutting his eyes and slumping down into his chair and appearing to be dozing off during the rest of the ceremony. The upright speakers that took his place at the rostrum now protected his semi-reclined body from being mortally wounded..

At that moment, Fletcher Martin felt the heavy weight of anxiety lift from his shoulders. Whatever might have happened did not. He looked over at Irene and grinned and she looked at him, smiled and returned his feelings and squeezed his hand, tightly. The unknown cause for apprehension that made her man anxious had passed.

Sally had failed in her mission. “If only a cloud passed by,” she thought, “ but there will be other days when Stanford and I will both be present and next time only one of us will survive.” Her right hand was still inside of her purse.. She moved her fingers to the photograph and held it and said in a low voice that only she could hear, “I will not forget you, dear father. Your death will be avenged.” It was a vow.

The next person on the program was President Kellogg, President of the University of California, who conveyed his words of greeting and good wishes. “…Today we see the birth of a university which unites the memory of the departed with the vigilant supervision of the living. To the living we offer our congratulations; for the lamented dead we are sure there is raised a worthy and enduring monument.”

When Dr. Kellogg returned to his chair, a rousing UC cheer arose from the assembled visiting students and faculty, at the rear of the Quad.

“UC Rah! UC Rah! California, Rah, Rah, Rah. Cal-i-forn-ia Rah!”

Kellogg raised his hand as a sign of appreciation and, in light of the serious words he had just spoken, contained his inclination to smile. It would be difficult to say which of the two college cheers had been the loudest. It was the first contest and it had been a draw.

It was Dr. Jordan’s turn and he was fully prepared for the challenge. Unlike the others, he literally bounded to the rostrum and took firm hold 155

of both of its sides with his long, slender hands. “It is the personal contact of young men and women with scholars and investigators which constitutes the life of the University. Ours is the youngest of universities, but it is heir to the wisdom of all the ages. It is ours at the beginning to give to the University its form, its tendencies, its customs…”

Sally had taken her hand out of her purse but still had it supported on the scaffolding. She felt her body beginning to tremble. What was that? Some one was pulling at her purse and attempting to take it. Both of Sally’s hands now held firmly and the pulling sensation was gone in a second and Sally could have thought it was imagined if she did not see the blur of a small girl’s gray clothed body among the new vegetation and then disappear into the safety of the crowd. The little girl had attempted to take her purse with its contents---the revolver. It was pure luck that Sally was able to hold on to it. What if the purse had fallen on the ground and the gun discovered? If Sally were found out, then all chances of vengeance would be over and done with. She had to be vigilant at all times. She was more of culprit than any waif pickpocket.

Dr. Jordan continued, “The student has no need for luxury. Plain living has ever gone with high thinking.” Those students suffering through the initial hardships of life on the campus could only wonder if these words were specifically directed to them.

“But grace and fitness have an educative power too often forgotten in this utilitarian age. These long corridors with their stately pillars,” and here he used his arms and hands to point to what he was describing, “these circles of waving palms, will have their part in the student’s training as surely as the chemical laboratory or the seminary room.”

For his part, moving midst the circle of palms, Sam Cutter had very successfully relieved over twenty of the visitors of their purses and money pouches and several watches and bracelets. He had returned to his room three times to lighten himself of the booty and now it was carefully locked away. Later, he would examine it. The cash was easy to handle but the watches and bracelets had to be fenced to another party and this was a problem to be solved.

He was standing in the midst of a crowd when he blurted out, “Hey, there,” and several on-lookers turned toward him to see what was happening. He could not believe it. Someone had just tried to take his wallet. He had felt a small hand go into his pocket and in an instant he had reacted otherwise the hand would have been gone. He quickly decided to let the matter pass as he watched the wrongdoer disappear into the crowd. She was a small slip of a girl, dressed in gray. Then on a lark, or was it professional curiosity, he decided to follow her. 156

Jordan’s voice ascended with emotion as he said, “The Golden Age of California begins when its gold is used for purposes like this. From such deeds must rise the new California of the coming century, no longer the California of the gold seeker and adventurer, but the abode of high-minded men and women, trained in the wisdom of the ages, and imbued with the love of nature, the love of man, and the love of God. And bright indeed will be the future of our State if, in the usefulness of the University, every hope and prayer of the founders shall be realized.”

Those that could hear, cheered

As the cheers subsided, the University Brass Band of Mayfield briefly struck up another catchy tune and then faded out to silence. As Reverend Mackenzie reassumed the podium. He asked everyone to rise, and then gave a reasonably short benediction. He sat down and it was not until some of the notables on the platform got to their feet that the crowd realized that the ceremony had ended. There was an audible sigh from the crowd as if the air had been let out of a rugby ball. The ceremony had not produced the drama they were hoping for.

^^^^^^^^

Immediately, the band started playing a patriotic tune, American, by John Gilmore. No one on the platform moved until the Senator and Mrs. Stanford and their honored guests, including Timothy Hopkins, filed off the rostrum and made their way to several carriages that were waiting for them in the rough, dirt road that ran next to the west side of the Quadrangle. Later, they would be attending a generous luncheon that had been prepared by Mrs. Stanford’s Chinese cook and his sixteen assistants.

The carriages that would be taking honored guests to the luncheon did not leave immediately. Their departures were delayed by the time it took for Will Greer and Bert Hoover to carefully take the portrait of Leland Stanford, Jr. down from its place of honor, rewrap it in his mothers’ bedspread and transport it to a special cart driven by the Senator’s valet, Charles Montague. He would immediately deliver it to the Stanford’s household where it would resume its location on the wall facing the main entrance to the home. The painting would arrive and be in position before the guests did.

As the Senator and Mrs. Stanford left the scene of the ceremonies, waves of plaudits, hands clapping and cheers, accompanied them. Even when they were in their carriage going west toward the Governor’s Path, crowds of people as they walked to their carts and buggies, applauded them and called out congratulations. The people of California appreciated 157

what had been done for them and their children. For the Senator and Mrs. Stanford, it was an extremely gratifying moment.

Many of the attending throng had brought picnic lunches. They commandeered wooden chairs left vacant by departing students and faculty and arranged them into more hospitable groups under the shade of the arcades. Others improvised by using the curbs as a place to spread their table clothes and place their hampers. As desert, most of them took the Senator’s grapes used as decorations on the now deserted platform. The grapes were ripe and extremely sweet to the taste almost too sweet but everyone still enjoyed the fruit particularly since it was free for the taking.

Bert Hoover and William Geer were then part of the clean up group that had been ordered by Mr. Lathrop to put the grounds back into order by one o’clock that afternoon. All the students were to register that afternoon. Class would begin the next day. Chairs had to be taken back into the classrooms. Decorations were to be taken down and piled up at a nearby site and burned. The grapes were to be sorted out and saved but because of the crowd’s appetite only several handful remained and the janitors quickly ate those.

Several of the attending throng were reluctant to give up their wooden chairs and had to be forcibly nudged from their comfortable seats by irretractable student janitors. They retreated to the curbs. Out of deference to the Senator there were no altercations.

None of the students had brought lunches. They broke up into small groups and began to make their ways back to their dormitories. Murmurs of conversation and laughter could be heard. Some were discussing what had been said. Most were exchanging thoughts about how Senator Stanford looked ill and Mrs. Stanford’s doughty appearance, “She looks like Queen Victoria.” Without bothering with conversation, other students hurried to get back. They didn’t want to miss mid-day dinner.

Still lingering in the oval closest to the platform, Sally did not know what to do. She knew she could no longer stand there, alone, in the midst of the circle’s greenery. She felt that if she moved, she might swoon. The photographer and his assistant were disassembling their perch. Her body began to tremble and she could not control herself. She tried to take a step, stumbled and almost fell clutching the purse to her breasts.. The hand of the Photographer’s Assistant steadied her. He could see that the pretty young blonde girl was not well,

“Can I help you, Miss?” he said.

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“No, I’m all right.” She surprised herself how normal her voiced sounded.

“There are some friends of mine.” As she spied Delores and Betsy talking to two boys and decided that was her best way to escape. She would walk up to the group and return to Roble Hall with them. She called out to them. “Delores, Betsy, hello. May I walk back with you?” She turned back to the Assistant and gave him a dazzling smile, “Thank you, for your concern,” and moved out of the circle on to the Quad’s asphalt surface still clutching the purse with both hands. She knew she was making somewhat of a spectacle of herself and she wanted the sanctity of being with other students.

Delores was not sure she wanted to introduce Rubin to Sally but she could not think of an alternative so she nodded in agreement and motioned with her hand for Sally to come over to where the foursome were standing.

When she got there the girls briefly embraced and then Delores introduced Rubin and David to her. Delores, pointedly, made no distinction between the two boys. Rubin and David were both friends, acquainted with Betsy and her on the same basis. Rubin was not surprised by this lack of any reference to any relationship between them. He knew where she stood and why his cousin was doing what she was doing.

Sally noticed that one of the boys, David, was tall and thin, curly- headed and looked like a nice enough boy. The other one was a Jew. She wondered why and how Delores had ever befriended a Jew. Sally had never met a Jew, before, and didn’t know quite how to deal with him. She did know that Jew bankers along with the Robber barons were part of the plot to take all the money people like her father had earned through hard work. She considered withdrawing her hand when he offered his but decided, because of the circumstances, against it. Whatever happened she did want to make a scene.

Then Rubin whispered to the group in lowered tones so that they all had to draw closer to hear what he was saying..

“I have never have seen the man, before, except in pictures. He didn’t appear to be the villain I always thought him to be.”

David did not understand what he was talking about and said loudly so that anyone nearby could hear, “Villain, villain, who are you talking about?”

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Rubin looked at him for a moment and a worried expression crossed his face. He had slipped and forgotten where he was and whom he was talking to. “Oh, right, forget it, David. I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

Delores guessed who her cousin was referring to and quickly turned the conversation to other matters. “So has everyone had their schedules of classes approved?”

Rubin realized he had overstepped his boundaries. Some people like David were completely unaware of how the railway barons had accumulated their wealth. This was not the place or time to educate him.

Sally immediately knew that Rubin felt the Senator was a villain and she was impressed. Here was a person that thought like she did. Who cared whether he was a Jew or not. How unlikely that she would meet someone like Rubin. As the group walked back to the north side of the Quad to take their separate ways back to their dormitories, she purposely walked beside him.

“Where are you from, Rubin?”

Rubin was taken aback by her friendliness. Why would the most beautiful girl he had ever seen want to talk to him?

He was usually not speechless but this time the words barely came out, “I’m from Omaha. Where are you from?”

Sally could not understand a word he said, “I am sorry, what did you say?” In her relief of being safely on her way back to her dormitory, she had forgotten about the contents of her purse. Rubin turned around to repeat what he had said and inadvertently knocked the purse out of Sally’s relaxed fingers. The purse fell to the ground. Rubin, always the gentleman, reached down to the ground and retrieved it. Luckily, the clasp had held and its contents remained intact. The rest of the group looked and waited while this inconsequential moment took place.

Rubin was surprised by the weight of the purse. It looked so light and delicate. What was inside that was so heavy? Still it was not his to question what a young lady might be carrying. But he could tell by the look in Sally’s eyes that she was concerned about letting the purse out of her possession. He returned it to her outstretched hands without comment. He noticed her hands were trembling. She was very concerned.

Sally’s almost screamed when the purse dropped to the ground. She was waiting for some comment from Rubin that would alert the group to 160

the fact that its contents were uncommonly heavy. When he did not say a word, it made her think, “He is sensitive to my situation or he too stupid to notice the weight.”

After a moment, he said, returning to her original question, “I’m from Omaha. Where are you from?”

Sally, paused, then attempting to be blasé said, “I’m another Californian like all the rest, from Anaheim. I wager you never heard of our little village?” Before he could respond, she had another question. “I’m lucky. Tomorrow, my first class isn’t until 9:30. How about you?”

“Me, too,” He blurted out. Why was his tongue so thick, now?

She loved how backward he was and that she had to take the incentive to continue the conversation. His naivety made it even more important to see him, again. “My class is French I from Dr. Todd.”

“Mine is, too”. Rubin couldn’t believe his good luck.

“Well, then, we will have to sit together.” They had arrived at the beginning of the oval driveway to the north of the Quad that was still being constructed. Here the boys would go right and the girls, left.

“See you tomorrow at class, Rubin, “ Sally said and then waved good- bye to David as the everyone said their good-byes.

As Sally and Rubin had chatted away, Delores, Betsy and David had not said a word.

After the two groups parted, when they were out of earshot, David could not help but congratulate his newfound friend on his success with Sally. Every man and boy in Encina was dying to know “Dolly’s” name and Rubin was beyond that. The two might even sit next to one another in the French class. David asked, again, who was the villain, Rubin told him to forget that he had said the words. Without further thought, David agreed to forget the matter, which he did.

Rubin was pleased with himself. He thought he would be friendless at Stanford and he not only had William Greer as a friend but also David and now, Sally. Why had she reacted as she did when he returned her purse? Was there something in the purse that he did not want him to know about? If so, what? All these were unanswered questions; he would seek the answer to, at another time. It was enough that she had spoken to him.

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As for David, his nickname of “Bump” for country bumpkin was somewhat appropriate. Rubin would have to remember to guard what he said to him. In matters of social history he was not a giant.

As they walked, David asked, again, who was the villain, Rubin told him to forget that he had said the words. Without further thought, David agreed to forget the matter, which he immediately did.

The girls, as they walked toward Roble, were also not direct and honest with one another. Delores and Betsy wanted to ask Sally why she had been so forward with Rubin but did not know her well enough to ask such a question. Instead, the time was spent in idle, somewhat forced conversation. Something about what Mrs. Stanford was wearing, “doughty” and how “cute” Dr. Jordan was.

Delores thought about how her cousin had completely spoken out of turn about the villain whom she guessed was Senator Stanford. She had heard from Rubin’s sister that he had socialistic tendencies and, now, it was verified. Just her luck, she not only had to put up with a Jewish relative on her doorstep but he had to be a socialist, as well. Delores hoped Rubin had learned a lesson to keep his mouth shut about his socialistic views

She did like the curly-headed one; David was his name, who had spoken right up to defend Senator Stanford. Delores wished she could be as forward with David as Sally was with Rubin but it was not her way. She needed the man to be the aggressor.

Sally did not to share any of her inner thoughts with these young women. She might be able to trust Rubin but time would tell. He obviously didn’t like the Senator. How would Rubin react if he knew that Sally had wanted to assassinate his villain?

Betsy did not appreciate any of the chattering going on. She wished her companions would hurry. She wondered what they would be serving for dinner at Encina. She was hungry.

~~~~~~~~

Sam found that it was extremely difficult to follow the little girl who had attempted to pick his pockets. She quickly surmised he was following her and used every trick to elude him. She dodged in and out of trees, building materials and equipment, which had been left by the 162

workmen who had been given the day off as a holiday. Gradually, though, she made her way on an easterly course toward Mayfield with Sam about a half a mile behind her. At one time, she hid behind a parked, flat bed railway car but when she saw that Sam was headed in her direction, she scooted out of her hiding spot and ran as fast as she could toward the safety of Mayfield Road.

Once on the road, she ran until she was out of breath, and then walked for a while to regain her breath and ran, again. Sam was forced to do the same. By now, with the noonday sun beating down on him he was covered in sweat and his once, clean trousers were dirty and dusty. He had long since, taken off his coat and undone his shirt. Sweat was dripping off his brow and his exposed chest. His tie was in his pocket and his derby hat was tilted way back on his forehead and came off several times and he was forced to stop and pick it up. If it had not been new, he might have left it on the ground.

Visitors to the ceremony were walking back home to Mayfield or riding in their carts and rigs using Mayfield Road to get to the County Road and from there, south, to Sunnyvale and San Jose. They saw the child running away, they assumed, from an aggravated parent. They paid no attention as the gasping child passed them, followed, shortly by the equally gasping young man. Long ago, they learned not to meddle in some one else’s business particularly when it involved a child and its parent.

As Sam drew closer to the outskirts of Mayfield, he realized if he did not catch the girl, now, he would certainly lose her midst all of its narrow streets and buildings. He exerted the last remainder of his endurance and began to catch up with her and, after a few minutes, finally caught her.

The minute he touched her, she turned on him and began to flail at him with her thin fists, elbows, knees and arms.

“Why you little vixen!” he said.

It was surprising to Sam how strong she was and how hard she struck him with all her weapons.

“Come on. Come on.”

He pulled her behind a deserted barn while she was striking him full force in the head.

“Ouch. Ohhhh! She drove her knee into his groin causing him excruciating pain. 163

“Listen, listen, I am not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you,” he said, trying to calm the child.

“You’re going to stick your Johnny into me. That’s what you are going to do.”

Sam realized that the child thought he wanted to rape her. Even for Sam, that was the furthest thing in his mind. Men and little girls were not for him. All the others were.

“No, no, no, I don’t want to do that. I want to know who taught you to pick pockets. You are very skilful and I want to meet your teacher,” he assured her trying to talk calmly as he caught his breath and dodged punches to his face and body.

The girl quieted somewhat and stopped flailing away with her fists but was still trying to squirm out of Sam’s strong hands.

“You’re a constable and now you want to me and I will never tell you. I’m no snitch.”

Sam could see that he was getting nowhere. He would have to use a little persuasion that he had, himself been treated to on the streets of Chicago. He grabbed her left hand and started to bend back her fingers. The child screamed in pain and immediately kicked him with all her might but as she kicked, Sam pulled back her fingers more severely so she realized she was trapped and became very still. Like a wild pony, he had broken her. She did not want her fingers pulled back anymore.

“Ow, ow, ow. Don’t do that. It hurts terrible. I will tell you. I will tell you, “ she screamed. “What you want?” She spoke in a voice that was beyond her years.

“Who taught you?”

“My mom.”

“What do you do with the things you steal?”

“I give it to my Mom.”

Her mother was obviously the person; Sam would have to talk to. She could help him with the articles he had just stolen.

“Where do you live?” 164

“On Third Street. Let go my fingers and I will take you there.”

Sam let the child lead the way but he continued to hold tightly the fingers he had managed to mangle. It would be surprising if he had not broken some of the tiny bones in the process. It was not her pick pocketing hand so she would survive. The child was still suffering and holding back her tears from the pain.

She and Sam turned right on the dusty “County Road” then passed four of Mayfield’s blocks to Sheridan Avenue. Next to the railway station was Third Street. The girl stopped in front of a small white wooden house that had seen better days. With her free hand, she pushed open an iron gate attached to a surprisingly beautifully cut stone pillars with intricate designs similar to the ones he had seen at the university. The front garden was grown over with weeds and most of the house’s glass windows were either broken or partially broken. All of the dark curtains were drawn. Sam looked to see if any one was looking out, but there was no one. The girl knocked loudly on the front door that looked like it was formerly painted blue but now was faded and washed out.

She shouted, “Mom, mom, it’s me Maggie. I’ve got someone here with me.”

If Sam had been quicker, he would have seen, for a second, a woman’s face behind a broken window checking to see who was with her daughter. As it was, he was taken aback when the door was suddenly opened and there was a grotesque old lady with a huge shotgun to her shoulder pointed directly at his crotch. Immediately he let the girl go and she ran and huddled behind the woman’s skirts joining several other children of varying ages.

“You bastard, get out of here and don’t ever touch my daughter, again. If I shot you, no one will mind and if you lived you’d never use your prick, again.”

Sam knew one thing--- with his manhood at stake, it was not a moment to be glib.

~~~~~~~~

165

Timothy Hopkins moved easily among the group that assembled at the Senator’s home after the Opening Ceremonies. Mrs. Hopkins was indisposed; she had caught a chill over the weekend and was told by Dr. Woods to remain in bed for the week. No matter. Being alone, gave Timothy a certain preferred freedom. He ordered his driver to pick him up in two hours rather than have the poor fellow sit out in the sun like most of the attendees’ servants were forced to do.

Timothy had always preferred his Sherwood Hall to the Stanford’s summer house. It was such a makeshift affair. The original house that went with the Palo Alto property, the George House, was relatively small and then there was such a hodgepodge of additions added in 1888 for President Harrison’s visit. Of course, the Stanford’s mansion in San Francisco was duly palatial, and this home was really only a summer home but with the founding of the university, and the Senator no longer spending time in the city as President of the Central Railway, it was becoming more and more their full-time residence. Perhaps Hopkins should offer to sell Sherwood Hall to the Senator for a good price. But he would have to wait for the Senator to make the first move. He might be old and not well, but he was still crafty and struck a hard bargain.

The lawns before the home were packed with honored guests and their families. Anyone who was anyone in the state was there. The Governor of California, Henry Markham, and his wife, were to Hopkins’ right with his entourage and there was the junior Senator from California, Clark N. Felton. Dignitaries from all the surrounding cities, even Mayfield’s mayor was in attendance. David Starr Jordan and his wife wandered amidst the group with their families. Jordan’s youngest was into everything but his father appeared unconcerned and let him be off as he wished. The wife was expecting another bundle of joy. Lord knows what this one would be like.

Roast beef and lamb had previously been cooked in open fires behind the house and the meats were now arranged on large plates on top of long tables, which stood on the porches for guests to help themselves. Along side the meats, were potatoes, cooked in a variety of ways and vegetables and fruits from Stanford’s Vina Ranch. All of this food was arranged tastefully for the guests to eat on large embossed china plates with heavy silverware.

On a separate table, arranged in straight tidy rows were sparkling, large wine glasses. Once taken, these glasses would be filled and refilled by numerous Japanese waiters silently moving among the throng, carrying wine bottles filled with wines from the Senator’s own Vina Vinyard located in Warm Springs, near San Jose. Berger, Blaue Elben, Charbonneau, Malvoisie and Zinfadel were among the varieties being 166

generously poured. Timothy thought the Berger was excellent. It was a sweet, white German wine that he had heard was making all kinds of money for the Senator. Everything the Senator put his hand to turned to gold. Why couldn’t he have that kind of luck?

Timothy could see the Senator and his wife were seated next to the steps leading up to the porch surrounded by friends and admirers congratulating them. As a matter of courtesy, he strolled over to the group, briskly made his way through and embraced Mrs. Stanford and vigorously shook the Senator’s hand. Both of their faces lit up. Timothy Hopkins was one of their favorites. They almost thought of him was as their son might have been. The Senator strong hand pulled Hopkins down so that he could whisper in his ear. “I must talk to you. Follow me into the house.”

Hopkins was surprised by this show of familiarity coming at such an exalted moment but he obeyed his mentor. With his wife’s aid, the senator slowly got out of his chair, excused himself and said there was some matter that he had to discuss with his young friend. His wife nodded as if she was aware of what was about to happen. He cautiously used his pearl handled cane to support himself, and made his way up the steps to the porch and through the main entrance to the original part of the George House. Timothy followed at a discrete distance. When they entered, there on the facing wall was the portrait of Leland, jr. to greet them. Hopkins noticed that Senator Stanford always paused and looked up at the portrait when he passed it. He wondered what the Senator was thinking. They stepped into a large room off the hallway that served as the Senator’s study.

“Please shut the door, Timothy. I do not want us to be disturbed.” Hopkins gently shut the heavy door behind them.

Hopkins had been in the room many times, before, but he always mentally noted that it was furnished the same as his with all types of manly artifacts: weapons, spears, some western Indian regalia, a headdress and wildly painted skin-covered shields and, of course, prominently displayed, the original mounted gold spike celebrating the joining of the two railways in Utah. Timothy thought his own study was more opulent.

Senator Stanford slumped into his favorite dark brown leather chair and motioned Hopkins to sit beside him. Now that he was closer to him, Timothy noted that Stanford’s coloring was grayish, deep pouches under his still penetrating eyes. His entire demeanor showed signs of fatigue and weariness. The man was simply not well. There was no other way to describe it. Hopkins had noted the same characteristics just before old Mark Hopkins had died. 167

Timothy sat beside the Senator in the other leather chair and waited for him to speak. He knew Stanford did not enjoy small talk. Surprisingly, the Senator reached over and pulled out a gold box filled with cigars and offered the box to Hopkins who happily took a cigar and the Senator took one for himself. Hopkins raised a nearby lighter to the Senator’s cigar, lit it and then lit his own. Both men sat back and relaxed and exhaled at the same time. Several moment of silence and, again, they simultaneously exhaled. Unfortunately, the spell of comradeship was abruptly broken by the Senator coughing, coughs that originated from deep within his lungs, several of them, forcing him to discard his cigar on the ashtray. Reluctantly, out of courtesy, Hopkins did the same.

When he had recovered and cleared his throat several times, Senator Stanford leaned toward Timothy and gently placed his hand on his arm and smiled. It was said that when the Senator smiled, there was nothing he could not get. Hopkins believed it. “Wonderful day! Timothy. Wonderful day! Our university is a reality!”

“Yes, sir, you and Mrs. Stanford must be very proud.”

“She did if for me, Timothy. I almost lost my mind after little Leland died. Why do I always think of him as a child? When he died he was almost as tall as me. If he had lived he would have had about the same stature as you. We would have been very proud of him. After his death, I almost lost my mind. I think you know what I went through, attempting to use charlatans to communicate with him in the hereafter. And then, as I know I have repeated to you many times, the dream when he came to me and said that the children of California would be our children, Jane and mine. We vowed that nothing; nothing would stop us from fulfilling that dream. From a wheat field, we created a university. And most people said we couldn’t do it including my so-called friend and colleague, Coliss Huntington. Calling it “Stanford’s Circus.” Imagine, a circus, no less. What an affront! I hate the man and he hates me.”

Hopkins decided not to speak. The old man had tears in his eyes but those same eyes showed the deep resentment and hatred he had for Huntington. Then, in a moment, his whole demeanor changed and he turned to the purpose of the meeting and the subject at hand. Hopkins could appreciate how Stanford’s singular purpose of mind had created so many successes.

“Timothy, as you and everyone can see, I am not well. My days, as it comes to all, are numbered.”

“Senator, have you consulted your physicians?” 168

“Physicians,” and the Senator chuckled and coughed at the same time, ”Timothy, I am not sure you remember but about ten years ago I did that and they nearly killed me. Because of Jane, I consulted a San Francisco doctor and I ended with five of them each presenting a separate bill. They nearly killed me with their doses of quinine, arsenic and strychnine. We, both thought I was going to die, so I swore off the medication and came back to Palo Alto where our family doctor diagnosed my ailment as blood poisoning from medicine. Blood poisoning from medicine.” He emphasized the last word and, again, chuckled. “Those five doctors had poisoned me with all their supposed antidotes. For weeks, all I could eat was chicken broth. I lost almost forty pounds. So you can see I also lost all confidence in the medical profession.”

“That is something, I hear myself. The medical profession seems to be in sad disarray when the cure is more life threatening than the ailment,” Hopkins said but thought when will the Senator get to the purpose of this conversation?

Stanford continued, “No, Timothy, my life is just catching up with me. Those years when I constantly worked through the night and slept on store counters in Sacramento or in the open air during the building of our railroad have taken their toil It is only through God’s will that I am still here to finish His and little Leland’s bidding.”

Hopkins continued to wonder where was this conversation going? Behind everything the Senator did there was a reason.

“Timothy, I need your help.”

At last. Hopkins could feel himself leaning toward the Senator so he could better hear what was about to be said. He already knew that his answer would be, “Yes, yes, I will do whatever you want.”

“ Jane is completely aware of my feelings and I have already begun her education in the details of the various assets that will provide her and the university financial support in the future but I am not the type of man who leaves the future to chance. I have carefully planned for the future but I need someone like you that I can trust to help Jane with her task.”

“What of the brothers, Ariel and Charles? Those two have Mrs. Stanford’s confidence and I am sure her welfare at heart.” In his heart, Timothy disliked both of those gentlemen. They were crude and ill mannered. Except when required he had little to do with either of them. But he always pretended to admire them. .

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“I would not speak ill of either of those two relatives. They love their sister, dearly. But Ariel has the misfortune of liking the product of our vineyards too well. He has already antagonized many of the people who work for him and he has created a very bad relationship with Mr. Marvin, my Head Trainer, who has threatened to resign his post, because of him. I am afraid that within the year, Ariel will retire and return to his eastern home. Charles will be placed in charge of the Business Office. As for young Charles, for whatever reason, he has developed a deep and abiding hatred of the university including its President, faculty, and students. I can only guess that the reason for this hatred is that he feels the whole endeavor is draining the resources that might be better used for his sister’s benefit. It may be more involved than that but I do believe he is sincere in his beliefs and is most irretractable when it comes to changing them.

“And what do you want of me, Senator?”

The senator placed his hand on Timothy’s arm and said, “I have an immediate problem that I need your help with. As you know, Alexander George opened a tract of land near Mayfield and gave it our name “Palo Alto,” our name for our farm and its lands.

“Yes, I’m aware of that. There was nothing I could do.” Hopkins had worried that the Senator would be unhappy with George’s unseeming action but without the money to pay him off, there was little he could do.

“I realize that, dear Timothy, but Mrs. Stanford is besides herself thinking that her eastern friends will read about the antics of the drunk besotted denizens of the so-called “Palo Alto” and think it is goings on at our Palo Alto Farm.”

“Senator, what can we do? Mrs. Stanford would have no troubles if the name were associated with our University Park where no drink or saloons will be allowed.” How quickly he had used the “we” to denote his union with the Stanford’s. Here, perhaps, was the opportunity he was looking for. A way that he could wrest the name from George and reap the profits from the lots he owned north of the campus in the still unpopulated University Park.

“This is what I want you to do for us, Timothy. Go to Mr. George. Tell him that Mrs. Stanford and I are unhappy with use of our name. Tell him we would prefer for him to use the name “College Terrace” and if he accepts this new name, we will change the front entrance of the Quad to face Mayfield and use the eastern Spanish Arch instead of the western for that purpose.”

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Hopkins felt his stomach drain to his toes. All of the wealth he might derive from his holdings to the north were about to be poured down the drain. “But, Senator, what about all the work done by Mr. Olmstead to give the university such a breath taking oval entrance to the north?”

“I know, I know. Listen, Timothy, I know where your interests are. With the weight of my good will in the offing, I know Mr. George will give up the “Palo Alto” name and when he does, I want you to immediately appropriate the name for University Park so that we can rest in peace regarding who will be the university’s closest neighbor. Something as important as this, I do not want to leave to chance and I certainly don’t want Mrs. Stanford bothered when something happens to me.”

So the old goat was not above hoodwinking a neighbor if the results warranted it. Hopkins had always suspected this was part of his business acumen. He dutifully said, “I will go see Mr. George, tomorrow and will pass back to you, what is said and what will be done immediately afterwards. I am certain the results will be what you want.”

“And Timothy, for doing this and for other tasks I may have, you will find that a sizeable amount has….”

Timothy interrupted him, “No, no, sir, there is no reason for you to do that. I will not accept. I will do this as your friend not as your servant.” The words said, Timothy could only hope that his real need for monies would not be denied.

Unexpectedly, the senator’s demeanor changed. He was no longer smiling. His hand left Timothy’s arm and was raised palm out in a gesture of admonishment. He looked like St. Peter scolding his flock. “Timothy, you will take this sum and whatever sums I decide to give to you and you will do this for me because I have asked that you do it. I am not a man to take anything for granted and as long as I am living, I will not leave the destiny of my wife’s and my son’s heritage to the winds of fortune. Are you with me?”

The Senator would not be denied. He arose and Timothy stood up with him. The Senator thrust out his hand in a bold move for a man seemingly so frail and looked squarely at him. Timothy offered his hand in return and felt the Senator’s steely grip, another surprise. A contract had been forged.

“I am with you, sir,” was all Timothy said but his mind was racing, happily, with thoughts about how much the Senator had put into his account and his future was now intertwined with the Senator and Mrs. 171

Stanford and their university. But he would have to watch his back. One never knew with the likes of Senator Stanford.

No further words were spoken by either man. They returned to the celebrations still going on outside both feeling highly satisfied with themselves.

~~~~~~~~~

Sam spoke to the old woman who held the shotgun trained on his manhood. “I am a thief and a pick pocket just like your daughter. I am a student and there is much money to be made and you and your family will gain from knowing me. Let me tell you my plans.” Sam stopped talking and waited to see if his bluntness had the effect he hoped for.

“Kill him, Mom. Kill him, Mom,” the girl now protected by her Mother’s skirts shouted. “He hurt me terrible. He did. Don’t believe what he says. Shoot his Johnny off, Mom.”

Was there some glint in his eyes that Maggie O’Grady recognized as being of her own ilk or was it simple curiosity? Whatever the reason, she denied her daughter’s request and said, “Yes, yes, be quick about it. This old gun is getting mighty heavy and this finger is itching to end the conversation. How, might a scoundrel such as you give gain to my family?”

Sam had no plans in mind. He had to make up something, “Johnny on the spot”, that would convince the old hag to drop the gun. Once safe, he could forget the whole matter. He began to say what came to mind, “I have merchandise already in my possession I need resold. I need fellow culprits to take advantage of the Stanford sheep waiting to be fleeced. I need help and I believe you and your family are the ones who can offer me that assistance.”

As he unfolded his newly concocted scheme, the matter began to make sense even to him. Yes, he did need help and perhaps this ragamuffin family could assist him. His alacrity, sometimes, surprised himself.

The old lady was also quick. She said, “That we can. That we can.” She had already fancied the possibilities if she only had a student as an accomplice. She slowly and carefully took the stock of the shotgun from her shoulder and placed it on the floor. Even with care, it made a heavy 172

“thud” sound as it hit the thick wooden planking. As it was, the barrel was already quivering from Maggie’s lack of strength. If her trigger finger also quivered, Sam might have become the victim of an accidental discharge.

At that precise moment he could have made his escape, but Sam remained in her doorway. In honesty, he did need her help. He breathed a sigh of relief and waited for her to make the next move.

The old woman also wanted to see what he would do next. If he turned around and ran now, she would never see him again but he did not run. Her sensitivity to the presence of a fellow criminal had not failed her. What could pass as a smile crossed her disfigured lips as she said to him in what was almost a friendly voice, “Come inside,” and she pushed her brood back into the semi-dark room and opened her doorway to him, “ and I’ll make you a cup a’ tea. My name be Maggie O’Grady and this be my family.”

^^^^^^^

She was forty years old. Her name was originally Maggie O’Farrell and she was born in 1858 in Boston, Massachusetts. Her father, Thomas O’Farrell, was born in 1823 in County Wexford, Ireland.

In those days, the potato was the basic foodstuff of Ireland. It was cheap and easily cultivated in its rocky soil and fed men, women, children and beasts. In 1845, blight destroyed the potato crop for two consecutive years and in the next four years; a million inhabitants of Ireland immigrated to the United States.

In 1848, Thomas O’Farrell sold his meager possessions and bought a one-way passage on a packet ship to Boston. He faced similar hardships on board as his Jewish counterparts and when he got off the boat in Boston he faced even greater ones. He was twenty-five years old, unskilled and uneducated and the jobs offered to those like him were in sewers or on dangerous construction jobs--jobs no one else wanted---like digging tunnels for subways and water supplies where the perils were so great no one else dared do the work. .

Because of the low wages, he might earn fifty cents for a fifteen-hour day if he was lucky, Thomas could only afford to live in hovels or cellars in the worst slum areas in the city. Even under those circumstances, he found an Irish wife, Megan, that accepted his lot and they proceeded in the next ten years to have eight children, four of which survived. Maggie was the last. A few months after her birth, after ten years of oppressively hard work and even worse living conditions, Thomas died from diphtheria— 173

just as many of the Irish men who arrived in America in mid-19th century did.

Megan was left with four children to rear. Irish communities, with additional support from the Church, were exceptionally close and Megan was able to find work as a domestic in one of the fancy homes of a “lace curtained” Catholic parishioner. She also took in washing which all of her children helped her with.

The children had some schooling but it was happenstance. The family needed money and all the children were forced to work at whatever jobs were available. There was also a common sense in the neighborhood that the law could be the oppressor and the shrewd person sometimes winked at the law and did what was right for the family. These feelings were inherited from prior experiences under the foot of British dominance. The only difference was now it was American oppressors. But since Irishmen also began to dominate the police force, obeying laws in Boston became somewhat of a joke. .

When Megan learned that one of her neighbors would teach her children to be pick pockets, she jumped at the opportunity for them to bring more dollars to the table and never gave a thought to the fact that her children were being led into a life of crime.

Maggie, her eldest daughter, was adept at her new profession. She was quick in mind and feet and those were the two prime prerequisites for success in freeing a person from their purse. As she approached her teens, she became aware of another talent she possessed between her legs and became a prostitute. With her added skills as a pick pocket, her willing whoremongers lost more than they bargained for.

She was not a beautiful woman but comely, her mouth, a bit too wide and her nose, too long but with her long dark lustrous hair and large blue eyes, she stood out. With the money she was making, she could have easily moved from the shanty she shared with Megan and her brothers and sisters but she would not desert her mother.

During the course of Maggie’s activities as a prostitute, she met Shaunessy O’Grady. She was seventeen years old at the time and Shaunessy quickly fell in love with her. He was not handsome but he had a good trade and honestly loved Maggie. He had learned the stone cutting profession from his father and was doing quite well in it. For the past two years, he worked for the Boston Stone Company and they thought well of him and since the company had a new contract in Washington, D.C. to refurbish the Capitol Building, they asked Shaunessy to go there for them. Just before he left for his new position, Shaunessy and Maggie went to the 174

Boston Court House and got married. Shaunessy’s brother and his wife were there as witnesses.

The newly weds set up their new household in Washington, D. C. and over the next thirteen years, Maggie gave birth to seven children, five survived.. Shaunessy worked hard as a stonecutter and always brought his pay to the table and Maggie saved the money to buy a home, hopefully one day, for her family.

Shaunessy did have one bad trait, he drank and when he was drunk he became violent and liked to hit people. He soon found out that he was no match for the fellows he drank with and would come home with blackened eyes and bloodied noses. He soon learned to stay home and if he needed someone to punch with his fists, his wife was always available and she would not strike back. Because of this, Maggie soon had her jaw broken several times and her blue eyes were blackened most of the time and there was always a laceration someplace on her body that was healing. Maggie’s comely face showed the toll of her life and soon it became disfigured: a horrible scar ran across her cheek and lips and her jaw was permanently out of place and misshapen and all of her front teeth were missing, knocked out. She hated her husband but there was no way out of the marriage. If he touched the children, she would have killed him with a long sharp kitchen knife, she always kept handy.

It was 1888 and Senator Stanford was building a university in the west and they needed stonecutters. Here was an opportunity Shaunessy could not pass by. He packed up his family, headed west, and settled in Mayfield along with most of the workers.

There, Maggie with the savings she had accumulated, bought a small cottage at the intersection of Sheridan and Third Streets. Owning her own house was the fulfillment of a dream. The first thing she did when they moved in was to paint the front door, blue, a light blue color, she had always liked. Her husband added the stone pillars in the front and crafted the stones in the fireplace.

Shaunessy continued to drink and beat her but what could he do to her, now, except kill her, which in her eyes would have been a blessing. She liked living in Mayfield. The weather was moderate compared with Washington, D. C.. The children attended a free school Mrs. Stanford had established in town and there were band concerts and the people were friendly and nice to her even though she could see in their eyes that they winced when they looked at her.

A year after the O’Grady Family came to Mayfield, shortly after ten in the morning, scaffolding at Encina Hall collapsed. Shaunessy was 175 alone on top of the scaffolding, cutting rock over the entrance. By the time, his fellow workers uncovered the fallen rock and timbers from his body, he was still alive but every bone in his body was broken. They carried him in a blanket to his home in a cart and then four men carried his broken body up to the blue door and knocked so hard it would have awakened the dead. When Maggie opened the door and saw the men holding her husband in the blanket, she knew she was finally free. She had to restrain herself from smiling.

After they put the mortally injured body on the bed in the bedchamber, Maggie asked if someone would go and get Father Riordan. She felt it was her duty to have the last rites performed for her husband.

Maggie immediately called the children to help her. They stripped their father’s clothes off and cleaned the body. There was much blood because he had been crushed. It was four hours before Father Riordan arrived, he was in San Jose, and by that time, Shaunessy O’Grady was no longer of this earth. The priest still performed the last rites and Shaunessy was one of the first workers buried in the small cemetery near the temporary mausoleum by the main road to the university. After the burial, neither Maggie nor any of the children ever visited his grave.

~~~~~~~~~

Sam followed Maggie and her five children through the door. They entered the cottage’s small-darkened living room.

“Where’s your husband?” Sam asked.

“He’s dead,” was the little girl’s brief reply.

“Sit over there in that big chair,” and Maggie pointed to a brown, upholstered chair in the corner with a footstool in front of it. It appeared to be the only decent piece of furniture in the room.

“You just sit while I make the tea.” It was a command, not a request.

She went through a doorway to the left of the entrance, leading to the kitchen. Only the little girl followed her; the boys remained with their eyes glued on Sam. They appeared to range in age from about five years to a tall, gangling boy that may have been around fourteen or fifteen.

In spite of what he had just endured, Sam decided to make himself comfortable and pulled his legs up on to the footstool and stretched himself out. Since all of the curtains were drawn, the only light in the 176

room was from a single candle that sat on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. The stones of the fireplace were finely cut and the first impression was that the fireplace was not in keeping with such a humble abode.

“Well, boys, how are you?” It was a vain attempt by Sam to be friendly. The boys continued to silently gape at him with their mouths wide open. They were a scruffy lot, Sam thought. Their faces were dirty and clothes worn but clean. One of them kept blowing his nose and wiping it with his shirt sleeve. All of this reminded him of his cousins in Chicago. In fact the surroundings were similar to those his Uncle Gerhardt provided for his family.

From the amount of dust on the table besides him and more dust where he could see, the living room was seldom used. In dim light he could make out some photographs on the wall of a group of workmen who stood proudly before the camera in their overalls with what appeared to be small picks of various sizes in their hands. Sam guessed it was the father and surmised that it was he that had done the fine stone cutting.

At the back of the room another door probably led to a bedroom and next to it was another bedroom. There were no hallways and no bathroom or running water. Sam hoped the old hag would return quickly. He still had to register that afternoon at school. He guessed it was about 2 pm or so.

After what seemed an eternity with the dead silence and the boys’ stares, the old lady returned carrying a wooden tray with eight tin cups filled with tea. She sat the tray down and there was a clamor as the boys rushed to be the first to grab a cup. Maggie handed a cup to Sam and he winced slightly when his fingers touched the hot tin. The hag smiled, “Sorry, did you burn your fingers?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said.

She took a cup for herself and dragged a wooden chair over to where she could sit directly in front of Sam and observe him. If she was ugly in daylight, the shadows from the light from the single candle now made her look grotesque. Sam wished he could look elsewhere but he was forced to stare her straight in the face.

“I don’t think we have been properly introduced. I be Maggie O’Grady and this be my daughter, Claire and…” she pointed to each of her children. Sam was only interested in the name of the largest boy, Wilfred, and the little girl, Claire. Later, he might have use for the others 177 but there was no reason to know them by name. “And what be your name?” she asked.

For a moment he hesitated, there was really no reason why she should know his name but if they were to work together it might be better, now, to show her a sign of good faith just incase something might slip out, later. “My name is Sam Cutter,” he said.

“And what be your plans?” she asked.

“As I said, I have already stolen some items that I would like you to sell for me.”

“Yes, yes, bring them to me and I will get a good price for them from some local merchants who won’t jew me.”

“And I would like to work with your oldest son, Wilfred. There are some rooms in Encina that are never locked and he could enter them and steal valuables. But, first I would want to change his appearance and clothing so that he might appear to be another student.

Wilfred spoke for the first time in Sam’s presence. “Oh, Mom, he’s going to make me one of those Nancy boys like I’ve seen in town.”

“Hush, Wilfred, Sam here makes a lot sense. There is no way in the world that you could get around that Encina place without being noticed. But, Sam, look here, all this sounds mighty good to me but as you can see,” and here she crinkled her scarred lips into what could be taken to be a ironic smile, “we are not wealthy and all this will cost eagles we do not have.”

“I intend to stake your family.”

“You will pay for the clothes. You’ll teach Wilfred to speak like one of you?”

“Yes, yes, I intend to do all those things. I will come by tomorrow night after dinner and teach Wilfred a few things and I will come by at other times. I will bring some money for you to buy him clothes. Later, when there is another public event at LSJRU, we will use Claire’s services. Both of us should make quite a bit of money from this.”

Sam arose from his seat. He had to get back and the old hag, after having the affront of pointing a gun at his crotch, stood up and gave him a friendly embrace. What a turn about. She knew she had been right: he was 178

one of her kind of people. Yes, she had always known it--- there was some sort of honor among thieves.

He said his farewells to the assembled group and made his way in the dark to the doorway. When he emerged from the house, the sunlight blinded him. He looked at his pocket watch. It was 2:45. He would have to hurry to the Quad and register for classes.

As he walked back down Mayfield Road, he brushed the dust and dirt from his clothes, buttoned his shirt and retied his tie. He made sure that his bowler hat was placed squarely on top of his head, correctly. It would not be right for him to be seen by anyone as anything but a proper LSJRU student.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Next day, Friday, October 2, was the first day of class. Bad weather, rain, was still in abeyance but unlike the day before, fall was definitely astir. The sky was a dull-blue with light clouds slowly moving by. In the morning, a bank of low fog blanked out the sun until almost ten am. At high noon, unlike the previous day, the sun shown through intermittently if at all.

Students attending chapel at 8:15 would hear a brief lecture by Dr. Jordan on the orderly use and organization of time in a college environment. He emphasized that students would find that how they use their time would govern their ultimate success. Time was one of the most precious commodities they possessed. “Spend it wisely,” he counseled. At the end of the lecture, the chapel quickly emptied. Students only had five minutes to get to their respective classes.

Leslie Elliott recommended that a large, metal triangle, normally used to sound dinnertime at Escontite Cottage, be suspended in the eastern archway of the Quadrangle. Members of the administration, Dr. Jordan and Dr. Elliott included, took turns clanging the signal for the ending and beginning of classes. At 8:30, sharp, the first of the triangle’s “Clang, clang, clang,” could be heard even in Mayfield and Menlo Park. Residents could only guess what the sound signified. Some thought a fire might be in progress on the campus.

From 8:30 to 9:30 the Friday sessions of Latin 2, German 1, Philosophy 1, History 2, Mathematics 1 & 2, Civil Engineering 4, and Mechanical Engineering 1 &2 met.

179

During the hour class was in session, the Quad was ominously vacant, except for a lone student who had found him or herself in the wrong class, and quiet, except for an occasional voice of a professor that could be heard through an open window.

Even though it was Friday, students found themselves the recipients of assignments to be done over the weekend, due on Monday and warnings of snap quizzes that might be given at any time and ten page papers to be written during the next month. Suddenly, like a cat catching a mouse, academic stress had pounced on them and enveloped their lives. .

When the triangle was rung at 9:30 signaling the end of the 8:30 classes and the beginning of the 9:30 classes, students unlucky enough to have scheduled two consecutive classes, had virtually no time between classes. They were expected to get to their next class as quickly as possible. Some ran and if you were a girl with long skirts, you had to pick them up and run for your lives. Tardy students would soon that their reputations had just been tarnished at least for the semester. Most of the students already understood this and either their class schedules started at 9:30 or their next class started at 10:30, and they had an hour, off, between classes.

It was during these breaks that girls wishing to use lavatories rushed back to Roble Hall. There were no “Women W.C.’s” on the Quad. “Men’s Rooms” were carefully concealed and hidden, underground between classrooms. Mrs. Stanford did not want it to be made evident that Stanford students, particularly young ladies, defecated and urinated. The poor female student who felt the urge but had no time to get back to Roble was forced to be creative in how and where she relieved herself.

Activities at the 9:30 “clang” were varied. For about five minutes, the air was immediately filled with sounds of students talking and shouting to one another. Sally Forrest saw Rubin Weinstein in front of Room 32 where French I class was being held and walked over to him to make certain that they would go into the class together and sit together. Rubin’s heart was in his throat. He knew that everyone from Encina within eyesight was watching every move they made.

Sam Cutter was sitting in the back of Room 32 with Winko, the president of Alpha Phi Fraternity, next to him. He also was taking French I and already had “Dollie” as being on the top of his list of candidates to be screwed.

“So what’s with the Jew and Dollie,” he whispered to Winko as they walked through the door, chattering away as if they were old friends and then found some seats together at the front of the classroom. 180

“An unlikely pair. I would say,” Winko whispered back.

“So would I. Our young Jew friend may need a lesson in manners.”

Professor Todd started speaking so everyone became quiet. Winko felt lucky that he did not have to respond. Sometimes, Sam frightened him.

At the other end of the Quad, David Cooper was settling in his seat in Room 92 for his first class of Physiology taught by his adviser, Dr. Jenkins. Dr. Jordan taught a class in the “Laws of Organic Life” at the same time on Tuesday and Thursday that David wished he could take but he understood it was for second year students. He looked around and saw only a few female faces. Most of the students were men he recognized from Encina. To his right he saw George Gardiner, the boy with two wooden legs that he had encountered in the Dining Room. The boy smiled and waved to him and David waved back. He decided that after class, he would befriend the poor boy and walk back with him to Encina.

In Room 11, Bert Hoover was by himself at the back of the class against the wall. He noticed that when he walked into a classroom most of the student pushed themselves into the front seats, he assumed so that Professor could see them. He was the opposite. He purposely positioned himself behind a tall person so that he wouldn’t be seen particularly now since Dr. Miller, who taught the class in Solid Geometry and Algebra was someone he didn’t know. Dr. Swain, his friend and mentor, only taught second year students. If it had been his class, Bert would have sat right down in the front row so that he could be seen. He could hear Dr. Miller droning on about what he expected to cover during this semester. The sound of pens scratching showed Bert that most of the students were writing down every word. He listened with half an ear just incase Dr. Miller started talking about assignments but Bert also had lots of other things to think about.

Dr. John Casper Branner, the head of the Geology Department, wouldn’t be arriving until the second semester that started in February, 1892, so Bert had declared his major as Mechanical Engineering. When Dr. Branner arrived this would change. Bert had his plate full of academic work. He was taking the two classes in Mathematics plus Linear Drawing and Freehand Drawing and in the afternoons, from 2:00 to 5:00 he had Mechanical Shopwork classes from Mr. Bryant and Mr. Brown.

Classes were taking up a big part of his day and afternoon and then there was the homework that was bound to come. He had to work to make money. The $822.67 that Auntie Lawrie was taking care of for him 181

wouldn’t last very long with the $20. a week being taken out of it for room and board at Encina Hall. The Student Janitor job was still paying him and Dr. Swain got him a temporary clerking job in the Registrar Office working for Mr. Elliott and then he still took care of Jim for the folks at Adelante Villa twice a day.

He had to do more if he was going to make ends meet. He had already talked to a Chinese Laundry in Mayfield on Lincoln Street near the Mayfield Hotel about drumming up some business for them and he would start making the rounds of rooms at Encina, tonight and over the weekend, to see how many students could be interested in using his services.

He was also going to work out an arrangement with the San Francisco Chronicle to deliver papers to students and members of the faculty. He knew he could count on Dr. Swain and Dr. Jordan to be interested. This meant he would have to meet the train, daily, at Mayfield to pick up the papers. To do this, he needed a bicycle to get back and forth. A safety bicycle like the one he had in Salem. This morning he had seen a cast off bike lying on the ground near the back of Encina that no one seemed to want. He had only glanced at it briefly because he was late for class. On his way back for dinner, he would get the bike and take it up to his room and see what had to be done to get it up working again.

He hated just sitting there and listening to the mumbled words of Dr. Miller. When the class ended and he heard the triangle’s clang, he rushed out of the classroom.

There was so much to do and so little time.

Delores Payson had seen David Cooper coming out of Room 92 as she was walking across the Quad to get to her 10:30 English I class from Dr. Griggs in Room 21. He was with a boy that was walking very slowly: something must be wrong with the boy’s legs. How did he ever get from class to class? She thought. Delores decided that she would have to come this way again around 10:30. David Cooper might be walking alone, next time, and this would be a way to get to know him better

David saw Delores and waved to her but there was no way he could catch up with her. He had no more classes that morning. A lab course, also Physiology with Dr. Jenkins, from 2:00 to 5:00 that afternoon would do it for today so he had plenty of time to walk back with George Gardiner to Encina. George had insisted that David should walk on but David said he wanted to walk slowly, too, so the two of them ambled along talking about their hometowns. 182

“I’ve never been to Riverside. What’s it like?” George asked. Even walking slowly was difficult for him. He had to stop every so often and catch his breath. David could understand why he was reluctant to have others walk with him.

“It’s a nice little town with about six thousand people living there. Everyone knows one another. You walk down town and you see people your parents know or other kids in school. I imagine San Diego is pretty similar”

“I bet most people knew you because you played football.” David wondered how George knew about that. He guessed that other boys had mentioned it since David was going to try out for Stanford’s team. Things like that got around.

George said, “The only sports I know about is watching it and the only sport you can watch in San Diego is baseball.” There was a little self-pity in the way he said it.

David remembered, “Don’t they have a league for semi-pros on the coast, I think it’s called the Pacific Coast League.”

“Yes, that’s it and San Diego’s team is called the Padres. You know it was named after the Franciscan monks who used to travel up and down the state baptizing the Indians.”

David also played baseball at high school but he didn’t think this was a good time to bring up his prowess at a number of sports. He wanted baseball to be George’s sport. “Do you like baseball?” he asked.

“I love it. My Father was pretty good at it and I’m sure he would have liked it if I had played. But of course he never says anything.”

“So you two go to the games?”

“No, my Father is always too busy at work I go with my Mother and she has a friend, I call him Uncle Louie, that goes with us. We really have a good time. Come to think of it, going to those games is the most fun I’ve ever had.”

David figured that George must be an only child. There were not too many of those around. He thought how lonely it would be not to have a sister to play with or shout at or jump on.

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They talked all the way to Encina and as he talked to George, he couldn’t help but think about his friend, John Reichold, who had broken his leg and would also have trouble walking.

They heard the triangle clang again; it was 10:30.

^^^^^^^^^^

An Indian woman stood alone, with her back to Fletcher. She had long, black hair and the smoke and haze of a battlefield swirled around her. Around her were other Indians, dead or dying. She turned around and looked at Fletcher. Her dark eyes were beseeching him to save her. Behind her, he saw a mounted Indian Scout in the uniform of the U.S Cavalry stealthily moving toward her with his spear poised to penetrate her body.. . Fletcher rushed toward the woman. If he could get between her and the scout, his body would be the recipient but his feet would not move. It was like they were stuck in thick mud. The woman was still looking at him only now her face had become white---Irene’s face. He tried to shout but the words stuck in his mouth like mush. “Irene, watch out. Look behind you.”

Then he heard Irene’s voice. “What’s wrong, Fletcher, what are you trying to say?”

He had dozed off. His head was resting in Irene’s lap and they were safe in their retreat in the hills behind Adelante Villa. He opened his eyes and saw Irene’s lovely face above him and above her the branches of the oak tree that shaded them and through the branches, patches of dull blue sky and clouds signaling autumn’s approach.

“Same dream, Fletcher? Those horrible days will never leave you. I can’t imagine living through something like that.” With a tender finger, she was tracing the scar on the side of his face that vividly recalled the life he had led. She can feel his heart still beating rapidly. “You are safe, dear Fletcher. I will protect you.” She put her hands behind his shoulders and drew his face up to hers and they kissed, long and lovingly. She could feel his gaunt body beginning to relax.

During the past week, they both have been very busy: she with the new students at the Villa; he with classes and study. This would be the first time they have seen each other since the Opening Ceremonies. It was Saturday afternoon, October 4th, and they have a few hours to be together. 184

This time Irene brought a thick wool blanket that they were sitting on and a picnic basket with sandwiches and some sarsaparillas.

They would eat and drink and talk, later.

~~~~~~~~~

“I have much to tell you.” Irene saw the look in Fletcher’s eyes that indicated he was excited about something. “It appears that my roommate and faculty adviser, Dr. Whitman, is not long for being a member of the faculty.”

“Why is that, Fletcher? It seems to be very early in the semester to be contemplating a change.”

“He is not unhappy with Dr. Jordan or the students but he is very unhappy with our geographical location. California is too remote and LSJRU, in his eyes, is even remoter. We have had long conversations about it and he thinks that LSJRU is too isolated from the what is happening not only in the outside world but the United States, as well.”

Irene agreed. “He has a point. It takes two to three weeks for newspapers and sometimes for my Harper’s Weekly to arrive from back east. The local newspapers in San Francisco and San Jose appear to be only concerned with fires or holdups or gossip or getting rid of the Chinamen.”

“That is what I said to him so he knows how I feel but he also understands that our remoteness is what I seek,” he paused for words, “what I need, now.” Dr. Whitman told me he had just received a letter from his friend at Johns Hopkins and he was very concerned about what is happening between the big corporations and their workers.”

“What did he write? I’d like to hear.”

“He said that coal miners working for the Tennessee Coal Mine Co. in Memphis were asked by the company to sign an agreement pledging no strikes and that they would accept company script instead of United States currency as wages and the miners would give up the right to check out the weight of coal they mined. In other words, they would give up most of their rights. It reminded me of my days in the Army but we couldn’t strike.”

Irene looks perplexed. “That’s not right or fair. I hope they didn’t agree.” 185

“They refused to sign the agreement but now the company is evicting them and their families from their homes and bringing in convict labor from a local prison to replace them.”

“Oh, my goodness, what a terrible thing to do. What are the miners going to do?”

“That is about as much as Dr. Whitman knows right now but his friend wrote that the rumor had it that the miners might march on the company and free the convicts. And there is talk that the United States army, my army might be brought in to protect the company’s property. It is a terrible situation since many of the miners formerly fought for either the Union or the Rebels. And none of this is ever reported by our local publications” Irene merely nodded. It was the first time she had seen Fletcher so animated.

“Dr. Whitman, Henry, wants me to be his friend and call him by his first name. Henry, as you know, came from Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, right next to the capitol, and he was right in the middle of things. He tells me that all kinds of economic and political crisis are brewing and we, here at Stanford, don’t know half of what is going on. Because of Senator Stanford’s involvement with the railroads some of this may affect us and the country’s economic system could be in peril.”

Irene agreed, she said, “He is right. We are so involved with what is happening in our personal lives, we forget there is a big world on the other side of those Rocky Mountains and beyond the Pacific Ocean. It is like California is an island isolated from everything else.”

“Well, like everything there is also a good side to all of this. Dr. Whitman, Henry, told me that if he leaves he is going to recommend that I be made an Instructor in the Department. Of course, it is very early to depend on it but it could be an exciting possibility.”

“Oh, Fletcher, that’s wonderful. I know you would enjoy it so much teaching others all you know about Classical History and Literature.”

“It’s for us, Irene.” He put down his bottle of sarsaparilla on the blanket and in the process it tipped over and spilled. “Oh, drat, what have I done,” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Irene fell into Fletcher’s arms and they resumed their lovemaking. She was glad the bottle had spilled over at 186

that moment and interrupted their serious discussion. The serious side of life for the moment could wait.

^^^^^^

The railroad flat car was parked on a siding north of Encina Hall, about a mile from where the spur went into the main Southern Pacific railway line that ran from San Jose to Mayfield north to San Francisco. The forty-foot railway car was used to transport construction material, lumber, piping, nails, but mostly uncut limestone from an Almaden quarry for the construction of the new campus’ buildings at the Palo Alto Farm. Now that most of the buildings were completed, the flat car was seldom used and for days it would sit idly, waiting for its iron wheels to roll again.

It was on Tuesday at about 4 pm in the afternoon during the first full week of class that Timothy Lambert Wilkins, known as “Pudge” to his Alpha Phi fraternity brothers, spied the lonely flat car. That very morning in chapel, he had heard Dr. Jordan speak about how it was up to the students at Stanford to create their own traditions and history for the new university. Like a bolt of lightening, the thought ran through his head, “What better way to create a little school history than a joy ride on a flatcar to the nearby town of Mayfield?”

What a stroke of good fortune! He would be the first to think of the prank. He, Pudge Wilkins, would be the instigator. He ran all the rest of the way to Encina Hall and up the two flights of stairs to the room of the president of his fraternity, “Winko” Winters. Considering Pudge’s corpulence, this was quite an achievement in itself and it was understandable that by the time he got to Winko’s room he was completely out of breath.

He burst through the door and there was Winko, as usual, holding court with five Alpha Phi stalwarts around him, including the new pledge, Sam Cutter.

“The flat car, the flat car, let’s give it a….push……and get it going…. jump on it,” he blurted out to the group, pausing only to catch his breath..

“Hold up, oh mighty fat one. What say you?” said Winko, only understanding every other word that had been spoken.

Sam Cutter knew exactly what Pudge had said and could hardly believe what a golden opportunity it was. Here was a way to show dominance over his new fraternity brothers, in spite of the fact that he was 187

only a pledge, and particularly, over Winko, his archrival for their affections. He stood up immediately to show his interest and grasped Pudge by the shoulders. “What a glorious idea, Pudge. Wonderful way to show the world what our class can get up to— commandeering a flat car, in daylight, no less.”

Winko stood up, too-- suspecting what Sam was up to and not about to be upstaged by this fledgling from Chicago. “What are you two talking about?” he asked.

“The flatcar is parked only a short distance from us, Winko. It would be easy to give it a shove and then all of us jump on and take a ride to Mayfield or who knows, how far, maybe on to San Jose,” said Pudge.

Winko did not want to lose control of the situation. “Now see here, fellows, I doubt very much that the six of us could get that iron monster rolling and if we did, and jumped on, it would roll to a stop and where would we be? Looking very foolish I would say,” He might have felt differently if it were his idea but it wasn’t.

The more Winko was against the scheme, the more enthusiastic Sam became. “So, we rouse the hall. I am sure we can get a goodly number of our classmates to join us. It sounds like a capital idea to me.”

So now it is a “capital” idea. What happened to “glorious”? Thought Winko but he said nothing in response.

Sam was surprised that Winko did not bring up the dangerous side of the escapade. Other trains used the rail line and a busy county road ran across it. These dangers did not intimidate Sam but others might be. Instead, he smiled to himself as he visualized Mayfield’s drunken citizenry being rudely sobered by a monstrous flatcar manned by cheering Stanford men flying through their village. Well, if Winko isn’t going to bring up the dangers, why should I, thought Sam. Instead he said, “Who knows? We might be creating one of those college traditions Jordan talked about this morning.”

Exactly, thought Pudge. He was surprised that Sam remembered what had been said this morning. He had looked over at Sam and thought he was napping

“Let’s do it, Winko. Let’s do it, Winko.” Everyone was on their feet now, jumping up and down with excitement and exerting as much verbal pressure as they could muster. 188

“All, right,” shouted out Winko. “ All, right. Let’s do it.” Winko was beginning to feel the excitement and he joined the others as they rushed down the halls and down the stairways, spreading the word and shouting at the top their lungs, “Wah-hoo, Wah-hoo, Stanford, follow us. Wah- hoo, Wah-hoo, Stanford, follow us.”

Young men with only studying to do began pouring out of their rooms shouting with the rest, “Wah-hoo, Wah-hoo, Stanford, follow us,” not knowing who they were following or where they were going.

And that was what almost all of the Encina men and boys did including David Cooper, Rubin Weinberg, Fred Williams, Freck and Mitch. George Gardiner, the boy with the wooden legs would have like to have joined his classmates but knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up. He still hobbled along after them to see what was happening. Bert Hoover was in Mayfield making final arrangements with a Chinese Laundry to be their representative. Fletcher Martin was at the Quad, thinking about his term paper on The Golden Days of Pericles. Bert Fesler, Encina’s headmaster, was meeting with Ariel Lathrop at the Business Office going over who had not yet paid their room and board fees.

Within three minutes the first vanguard of Pudge, Sam, Winko, and other Alpha Phi members were at the car. Sam and Winko jumped simultaneously on board and both of them tried to turn the brake wheel in a counter clock-wise motion, thinking that would be the way to release the brakes. Pudge vainly attempted to pull his heavy body aboard but without success. Everyone was too busy to help him clamber aboard..

From the car looking back at Encina Hall, Winko could see a continuous stream of students pouring out of the front and side doors of the hall, converging on the car like a flotilla of giant ants. There had to be at least 150 to 200 students running and shouting. He thought, “It was as if the good ship, ‘Encina Hall,’ was sinking and everyone aboard was wildly abandoning her.”

Without being asked, the more stalwart of the group jumped on board the still stationary car and joined Sam and Winko in their attempts to turn the brake wheel. It did not budge. Someone wisely shouted out, “Try the other way.” Hands now moved in a clock-wise motion and a high shrill sound of steel grating on steel was the first indication that something was happening. Four, giant wheels were moving inch by inch but they were going the wrong way back toward the Quad, not toward Mayfield. The brake wheel was turned as far as it would go. Now sheer momentum would take them back to the campus unless other forces was applied.

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Sam Cutter took charge. In a commanding voice, he said, “Everyone off, “ and he motioned with both arms towards the back of the car, “and start pushing toward Mayfield.”

“Toward Mayfield,” became the battle cry uttered by over a hundred male voices. “Toward Mayfield”

Now except for Sam and Winko, who was not about to abdicate his position of authority, boys were jumping off both sides of the car and joining the group that had formed behind. They were pushing with all their might, straining and pushing to stop the car and then move it in the other direction. It was like a huge rugby scrum and the other team, the flat car, was winning. Only about twenty of the pushers had their hands on the car’s bed but forty more were pushing them and eighty more were pushing the forty.

David Cooper was in the middle of the melee, along side all the others, trying to get his footing to stop the slow moving iron monster. It couldn’t be helped but some of the boys, including Pudge, tripped on the hard rocky ground and when they fell, others came crushing down on them. The fallen ones jumped to their feet, with torn and bloodied shirts and pants hiding bruised and scabby elbows and knees. In the fray, hats and caps were bouncing on the ground, unattended. Their loss and the pain of scraped flesh were forgotten in the exhilaration of the moment.

Sam realized the pushing had to be synchronized so he started to yell out. “All right now, PUSH. All right now, PUSH. All right now, PUSH.”

The flat car stopped going toward the Quad and for a moment lingered in one location and then it started to move the other way. More grating, screeching sounds. David thought, “We’ve pushed it over a slight rise. It should be clear sailing, now.”

Simultaneously, everyone realized what had happened and joined in thunderous cheers, “Wa-hoo. Wa-hoo.”

The car, heading in the right direction, started to gain speed from its own momentum. It was going about 5-6 miles per hour. Sam saw what was happening. He shouted ,“Jump on. Jump on. If you want to ride, jump on.”

As many as could, did. It was not easy. The ones already on board helped the others but the car was continuing to speed up and it was becoming more and more difficult. Pudge did not attempt to get on. He contented himself with running along side. David just managed to drag 190

himself back on board, stood up and then gained a position standing by Sam and Winko.

The flat car was now approaching and passing ten miles per hour or about the same speed as a fast moving bicycle Students who were not already on board had given up and like Pudge were running along side. Some of them were finding it difficult to keep up and were dropping out along the railroad track and then slowly walking behind. Everyone was still shouting Stanford cheers but they were getting feebler, “Wah-hoo, Wah-hoo.”

David looked at the horizon ahead of them. The county road was getting closer and he could make out the outline of several carts and a carriage using it. The railway’s main line would be close behind. The cheering died down, others like David were thinking, “It’s time to stop.” David said nothing. He moved to the brake wheel and motioned for others to help him turn it.

Sam reached out as if to put his hand on David’s shoulder to restrain him. Who is this person? He thought. What is he doing? I want to see frightened Mayfield faces.

Winko saw what was happening and the look on Sam’s face. Now he knew why he feared Sam. He was over the top, slightly mad. Winko managed to push Sam back from David and shouted into his ear, “It’s over. We’re stopping.”

David had not felt Sam’s hand and was not aware of his intentions. With the help of other hands, he started to turn the wheel counter clock- wise to stop the car. With much grunting and groaning, they were successful.

Sam, realizing he was outnumbered, returned to his leadership role and hollered out, “Watch out, everyone. We are going to stop.”

The flat car wheels screeched to a stop and the happy mob of bruised and battered LSJRU students scrambled off, joined their mates who had been running along side and together they ran back to Encina Hall retrieving lost headgear along the way.

The derelict flat car was left in the midst of a hay field about thirty yards from where the spur crossed the County Road. Shortly afterwards, a sumptuous carriage complete with matched black steeds and a liveried driver passed by on its way to Menlo, its occupants unaware of the excitement they had barely averted. A wagon carrying several kegs of beer from a San Jose brewery followed close behind. 191

^^^^^^^^^

Halfway back the group met George Gardiner limping after them. In the midst of the excitement, David and Mitch raised George to their shoulder, and two other fellows grabbed his canes and they all ran back together shouting and cheering. They couldn’t wait to tell everyone what they had missed. With the running and carrying, David’s breath was coming in big gulps. George was getting heavy but David could feel his heart beating with pride as he thought, “Could this the beginning of the Stanford school spirit?”

Even Sam Cutter was caught up in the moment but his mind was already conceiving how the adventure might work to his advantage. He was also concerned that Winko had thwarted his plans along with this David Cooper; some of the chaps were calling him, “Bump.” He still wished the flatcar had made it to the main line. Later, he would have to make certain that Bump understood his place. Dealing with Winko would be more difficult.

As they made their way back to Encina Hall, they were a bedraggled looking crowd. No broken bones but the next thing to it. Several were limping from sprained ankles; others had banged up toes that had collided with oversized rocks. All had torn and dusty pants and jackets and dirty but smiling faces. Several were bareheaded or with the wrong size hats on. They were laughing and shouting to one another about falling off the car or rolling in the hay.

Once Encina Hall was in view, the crowd became subdued and smiling faces became quite solemn. The realization of the enormity of what they had just done and its potential consequences began to set in. As a result, no one ventured up the front steps and through the front lobby. No one wanted to go near where Burt Fesler’s office was located and where, at the moment, he might be. As the Master of Encina Hall, he would be the one who might discipline them. Everyone used safe, side or rear entrances to return to their rooms. If a word was spoken, it was whispered. The going and returning of this assembly were in stark contrast.

George Gardiner asked David and Mitch to lower him to the ground where his canes were returned to him and he began his arduous return trek. Mitch went ahead and joined the group of Alpha Phi’s who would be 192

going to either Sam’s or Winko’s room. David decided to stay with George and Rubin joined them. One of the boys who had picked up the canes also stayed with George and he introduced himself as Milt Grosh. The four boys, because of George, were the last to reenter the hall.

As a group, they slowly went up the back stairway, down the hallway and entered George’s room. When the door was closed, George immediately sat down in one of his chairs. He was completely tuckered out, his wooden legs thrust out before him. Later, when his friends left, he would take them off. David, Rubin, Milton remained standing, looking down on him.

“Sit down, please sit down. Wherever you can. Sorry the room is in such a mess,” George said, still catching his breath.

They sat on the bed and in the other chair. No one said a word.

George broke the silence. “What will they do to us?”

David was a little surprised at how George had taken on the burdens of the group. Really he had only been an onlooker. He said, “I have no idea but you should be ….”

George interrupted him, “No, I was a participant and if there is any punishment meted out, I should be punished along with the rest.”

Rubin decided to break up the seriousness of the moment. “Well, no one knows what will happen next but I think it was the most exciting thing I have ever done in my short life and it was certainly fun. Luckily, we didn’t kill ourselves and I have a hunch that when we are old and gray we will be telling our grandchildren about what just happened.”

Everyone nodded their head in agreement and broad smiles returned to their faces. It had truly been an adventure.

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Chapter Five

Reception at Roble Hall

Next morning, Wednesday, October 7th, workmen notified Cyrus Williams, the Railroad’s Division Superintendent, that an empty flat car was missing and he immediately dispatched some of his men to find it. When the lost car was discovered, an engine from San Jose was summoned to haul the car back to its original site.

The local newspapers still had representatives on campus that were there initially to cover the opening ceremonies. The Flat Car Prank was an additional bonanza they could pass on to their readers who seem to be intensely interested in the goings on at the “Senator’s University.” Front pages were filled with news items about the escapade and all of its potential for calamitous consequences.

Dr. Jordan, when he heard about it, had chuckled and thought to himself that an empty car would be a temptation for any group of happy go lucky types. He almost wished he had been there, himself, and experienced the thrill when the car started to gain momentum. Just as well. That would have been difficult to explain to the Senator. Jordan immediately knew he would not be happy that such an event took place involving his railroad on the grounds of his university.

Next day, a note was delivered to David Starr Jordan by Ariel Lathrop. From the look on Ariel’s face, Dr. Jordan could tell he knew exactly what the note contained and Ariel was obviously pleased that the ungrateful rascals were going to get their comeuppance. Dr. Jordan had been expecting the note momentarily. It was in the Senator’s rigid hand:

“My dear David,

Your presence at our home is urgently requested today at 2 pm. Our purpose is to mete out punishment to the perpetrators of the scandalous removal of railway property that might have caused innocent victims severe loss of life or limb.

Senator and Mrs. Stanford”

It was worse than what he had expected. The Senator and his wife must be extremely upset when they used words like “scandalous” and “loss of life or limb.” Jordan physically pulled Leslie from the administrative office into the empty quadrangle and directed him to their 194

favorite curb where they sat during the 10:30 to 11:30 class time. Once settled, Dr. Jordan told him, “I’ve been asked to come to the Stanford’s and discuss the flat car.”

“I reasoned as much when I saw Ariel come in with that smirk on his face.”

“Yes, the man hates the students almost as much as he hates me but what he feels does not concern me. I hear that the Senator wants to expel all the students who participated.”

“That could be a rumor.”

“No, Mrs. Stanford’s private secretary told Dr. Anderson and he told me. Knowing the source, I am sure it is true.”

“That is nearly two hundred boys.” Dr. Elliott who was usually not demonstrative held his head in his two hands and moaned, “My God, that is almost half of our enrollment. That would decimate us.”

“My heart is with the students. In fact, I am sure this will be a bonding experience for all of them. What bothered me the most was when one of them came forward with the name of the ringleader. That I do not like.”

“Yes, I saw young Samuel Cutter come in this morning and gain your ear and you two had a whispered conversation and then went into your office. What was going on?”

Jordan beamed at Leslie. “Is there anything that misses your eye, Leslie? It is as if you are always on my shoulder. Cutter named Timothy Lambert Wilkins, known as Pudge, as the leader. I know that the traitor did it to ingratiate himself with me. I did verify what he said with two other students whom I have befriended and when I confronted them with Wilkin’s nickname, “Pudge,” they nodded their heads, reluctantly, in agreement. So all the fingers point at Pudge, I am afraid, and I will expel him, today, right after the meeting with the Senator. Hopefully that will satisfy him and his wife.”

“One thing, we both must remember, Dr. Jordan, is that neither the Senator nor his wife had the collegiate experience. They married at an early age and the Senator has worked hard, exceptionally hard, I understand, all of his life while his wife stayed dutifully at home. I doubt if either of them has ever done or even thought of doing anything as outlandish as a prank. So you will find no sympathy there.”

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Even though it was a serious moment, Dr. Jordan had to smile. “I know I have done such a thing but I’m not so sure about you, Leslie. Did you ever join a group of dare-devils?”

Dr. Elliott’s face also lit up. “I never helped move a flat car, I must say, but believe it or not, as an under graduate at Cornell, I pushed over my share of outhouses and, one time, we cut the boughs from the campus trees along the main entrance to use as decorations for a dance and then stole a university cart and horse to haul the boughs to our fraternity. When they found the cart and horse had disappeared there was “hell to pay.” I could have been expelled for that. I wasn’t the ringleader but I was certainly a willing follower. I’ll never forget how two burly campus gendarmes chased us into our frat house. I hid in a closet with my heart pounding.”

“They never caught you?”

“I would not be here if they had.”

Both men shared a chuckle at the thought of Leslie and his mates in their cart and horse careening through the Cornell campus with their purloined boughs.

“That must have been a sight, Leslie. Bully for you, I would have never thought you had it in you. As you can guess, I was always the ringleader. I think you have already heard about several of the escapades I instigated but this exchange of prank stories doesn’t help me with what I must say to the Stanfords to prevent a mass expulsion.”

Dr. Elliott thought for a moment. “If I were you, I would appeal to Mrs. Stanford. She appears to be the more understanding of the two. In their hearts, neither of them wants this university to fail. I don’t think they will do anything to jeopardize their son’s heritage.”

“You are right. I’m not sure what I will say but something will suggest itself. Now, I must get going. I still have to walk home and mount Winter. Wouldn’t do for the president to walk to a meeting with the founders about expelling half the student body.

^^^^^^^^^

David Starr Jordan arrived precisely at 2 pm at the Stanford’s residence. Once he had tied his horse to one of the ringed posts provided at the entranceway, he made his way up the stairs to the front door. His 196

heartbeat was already beginning to quicken. He could feel his hands beginning to sweat as they always did when he was under duress. He didn’t have to knock; one of the Senator’s many Chinese manservants was awaiting his arrival. The fellow told Dr. Jordan that the Senator was in the study. Jordan knocked at the closed door.

From within, he heard a gruff voice say, “Come in. Come in, David.”

He was seated in his favorite dark, brown leather chair; his right hand on the pearl handled cane at his side. His complexion appeared grayer, his dark eyes not as sharply focused. For a moment, Dr. Jordan stood before him and it was if the Senator did not know he was there. His eyes were misted over and were concentrating on some distant, unseen object above and to the right of Jordan’s head. Jordan was completely discombobulated. He did not know what he should do.

“Ah, hem,” he muttered trying gently to gain the Senator’s attention.

“Yes, yes.” The Senator’s eyes focused on and then recognized the man standing in front of him. “I’m sorry David. My mind wandered back to the grocery store I had in Sacramento. Those were good simple days. When I arrived in town I hardly had a penny. Everything I possessed was destroyed by fire. Jane had to return to her parents’ home and live with them while I forged a new life in Sacramento. It was just plain hard work and long hours that made me successful so that I could bring dear Jane out to the West so that we could be together, again. Those were good days, David.”

Remembering the subject at hand, the flatcar stolen from his railroad and the students from his university who had done it, the wistful look on the Senator’s face waned and disappeared. With his left hand that shook, slightly, he motioned Dr. Jordan to sit beside him.

“Mrs. Stanford will be down, shortly.” Jordan sensed the Senator wanted to put him at ease in preparation for the dire decision that was about to be disclosed.

The Senator did not look at Jordan as he spoke. “How’s Jessie doing? Not too much longer until the big event from what I saw after the ceremonies.”

Jordan attempted conviviality, going along with the charade. “Doing comfortably, thank you. We think it’s going to be a girl comparing her discomfort with all the activity she had just before Knight was born.”

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For the first time, a slight smile crossed the Senator’s face. “That Knight is something else. When you were here, last, I saw him climbing all over the furnishings. Couldn’t sit still and into everything. A real boy, he is.”

“I am proud of all the members of my family. They are all different in their way.”

Now looking directly at Jordan, the Senator asked, “Still riding that feisty black bronco, are you, David?”

“Yes, sir.” Jordan could feel himself being drawn in by the warmth of the conversation and he started to breath more normally but his hands were still wet with sweat. “You know how fond I am of riding Winter. He is feisty but he has taken me all over these properties, even to San Jose and Monterey.”

“Yes, I’ve seen you, two. There were days when I would have been out there with you, but not now, I am afraid. We do have to get you a better mount, though,” he thought for a moment, “Yes, “Floodmore,” a fine bay thoroughbred would be good for you. I will talk to Mr. Tompkins and after a little more training, he will be yours.”

“Thank you, Senator, you know how much I would appreciate that.”

“Yes, yes.” Senator Stanford put his two hands together, prayer like, in a moment of deep thought. Neither man spoke. Jordan knew the gavel was about to fall. The senator, in a deeply emotional voice, said, “How could they do this deed? How could they? If they had met a moving train, surely all of them could have been killed. Can you imagine the grieving parents on our doorstep? I am sure my Jane would not have survived such an ordeal. Even the retelling of the tale, takes us aback.”

Jordan could see that the man was truly shaken by what had happened. The fact that his beloved railway and the boys were involved had triggered these emotions. There was no other way than for Jordan to act but in a straightforward manner. “We have the name of the ringleader and after this meeting has ended, I plan to expel him,” he said.

“Good, the sooner, the better, but Mrs. Stanford and I have considered going beyond the ringleader and expelling the whole lot of them---anyone who was even close to the scene of this potential calamity. We have reasoned that if the followers were left unpunished, later they might contaminate the few that knew better.”

“That would be almost two hundred male students, Senator.” 198

“We understand that.”

Dr. Jordan thought for a second, the worst possible verdict had been rendered. All of his work, the recruiting of faculty members, the testing of students, and the dreams for the future were about to be dashed. A thought struck him, logic might not prevail but sentiment might. Which student’s expulsion would touch the Senator’s heart? George Gardiner, he thought.

Jordan rose and stood before his superior. If all he had done was about to be destroyed, he wanted to make certain he, at the very least, had the Senator’s full attention.

Stanford was at first surprised by his President’s sudden move to rise but he also appreciated the enormity of the decision they were about to make and its implications for the university.

It was really his wife’s decision to expel the lot. She felt the students’ movement of railroad property and the resultant newspaper coverage it had created all over the United States had both besmirched her husband and the university they had founded in the eyes of the powerful friends they had throughout the country. Her brother, Ariel’s, thoughts about “ungrateful wimps” had further bolstered her strong sentiments on the matter.

Jordan continued, standing, as if pleading for clemency, which he was, “If that is the case, one of the students we would have to expel is George Gardner. George is a boy who suffers from diabetes and unfortunately had to have both of his legs surgically removed. He has two wooden legs, and with the aid of two canes, and I understand he is learning how to ride a bicycle, he gets around the campus quite well. I would predict that he would graduate in spite of his infirmities.”

The Senator looked distressed. “I did not know. I have seen the poor chap from my carriage; dragging him self step by step. What a brave boy, I thought, and how lucky we were to have him amongst us. But a boy with two wooden legs, how could he be one of the culprits?”

“He merely followed, Senator. Tried to keep up but afterwards, when the boys returned to the hall, they hoisted him on their shoulders,” in the telling Jordan became animated. It was almost as if he was describing something he had seen. “And ran back to the hall with him so that he could be one of them and I am sure with all his heart he was one of them. And there were others that were merely following. Except for the 199 ringleader it will be impossible for us to determine who followed and who led.”

“Yes, yes, not an easy decision. I have to wonder if young Leland would have been one of them. I am sure he would have befriended Mr. Gardner and he may have followed the gang just to protect him.” Tears came quickly to the Senator’s eyes, “I probably have already told you how he befriended a poor crippled boy whose name was Wilsie. He saw Wilsie on the streets near where we lived in San Francisco and brought him back to our home and made sure he was fed and then the boy came regularly back to visit us even up to the time when dear Leland went to Europe and didn’t come back, alive. Of course, we have made certain Wilsie will be cared for the rest of his life.”

At that moment, Mrs. Stanford walked briskly into the room in a business like manner and sat beside her husband. Her face was set and determined. The Senator gained control of his emotions and wiped his eyes with his free hand. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Jordan,” she said in an unemotional voice. Jordan had never seen her in such a frame of mind and he could easily surmise that her mind in the matter was made up. All of the culprits must go. For the first time, he realized of the two, Mrs. Stanford was the tougher.

“I’m sure my husband has told you of our decision.” She looked over at her husband and saw that he was upset. “What’s wrong, my darling?” and put her ring encrusted fingers on his arm.

“Nothing, nothing, Jane, as always I was thinking about little Leland.” He grasped her hand, tenderly. “Jane, please forgive an old man, I have changed my mind. I will explain why, later, and I know you will agree with what I am going to do. Dr. Jordan has the name of the ringleader and he will go henceforth and expel him. The rest of the boys will be severely reprimanded and told if there is even the rumor of a similar occasion, they will be instantly expelled.”

“Yes, sir. I will go immediately.” Dr. Jordan, still on his feet, said his good byes. He had learned long ago when the winning cards come up, leave.

Senator Stanford raised his hand to halt Jordan’s departure. “And Doctor, one more thing.” Dr. Jordan hesitated. Had he changed his mind? “Would you be so kind as to say that it was only because of Mrs. Stanford’s generosity of spirit that such a decision was made and that I was dead set against it.”

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Throughout the disclosure of the abrupt change of plans, Mrs. Stanford face remained unchanged and unemotional. Long ago, she had learned when situations were not going, as she wished, to hide her feelings. Leland was inclined to change his mind. She had learned that her best way to react to these changes was passivity. It had paid her well as the hundreds of thousands of dollars of diamonds in her possession attested.

For Dr. Jordan’s benefit, she allowed her face to break into a puzzled smile. “As long as you are satisfied, dear Leland. That is all that matters to me.” She took his hand in hers. As Dr Jordan left the room the two of them were still seated, holding one another’s hands. It appeared as if the Senator was about to explain why he had changed his course.

Riding back toward the quadrangle, Dr. Jordan thought he would not have time to take the horse home, there was too much to do. He would have one of the boys in office, Bert, perhaps, ride “Winter” to Escontite. Then he would send a note via whoever rode his horse home, to Fester, head master at Encina, informing him to tell Pudge that he was expelled as of today and that Fesler should convene all of the boys in front of the hall for a meeting, just before supper with the President of the University. He planned to give it to them with both barrels and tell them if it were not for the grace of Mrs. Stanford they would have all joined Pudge. He would have to remember what his real name was.

Thank God, George Gardner followed the group. He had forgotten the story about Leland, Junior and the crippled boy. So his name was Wilsie. At first when he heard the story, he thought it was part of the folklore that was already being created, but it must have been true. Grudgingly, Jordan admitted to himself and no one else, Thank God Samuel Cutter had come forward. If not, all might have been lost. Pudge was the lamb that had to be sacrificed. What was his actual name?

Jordan spurred Winter to a trot. There was much to do but the first crisis had assuredly been averted. With his wife about to have a baby, Dr. Jordan had enough on his mind.

^^^^^^^^^

Everyone who could was squeezed into Room 143 on the third floor of Encina Hall, Pudge’s room. He was throwing his belongings into a large trunk that had been brought down from the attic for him. Mr. Fesler had already sent one of the boys to get Jasper Paulsen to take Timothy 201

Lambert Wilkins, “Pudge,” to his home in San Jose. Dr. Jordan was paying the fare.

Winko said what everyone was thinking, “So Pudge, you are first to be dropped off the edge of the campus.”

“And not the last, I’m sure,” chimed in Freck who was holding some books and handing them to Mitch to put in the trunk. Freck wasn’t faring too well in his classes so he might follow in Pudge’s footsteps.

“A dubious honor, I would say,” added Mitch. “And what will you do next, Pudge?”

Pudge paused for a moment in the midst of pulling some clothes out the commode. “Go home, first, and as they say, ‘face the music.’ Then, I am not so sure. I could go back to UOP, but that is behind me. I may go to the State University.”

Freck responded with some angst in his voice, “You can’t do that. They are our rivals and I don’t want to think of you as a rival.”

“And I may stop eating so much and loose some weight and go out for the foot-ball team,” declared Pudge.

“If you do, what will you be called?” Asked Winko.

“By my name and I bet you don’t even know what that is,” responded Timothy Lambert Wilkins.”

“No, quite frankly, I don’t,” said Winko.

Sam Cutter was sitting on the edge of one of the cots, watching the proceedings. “So who do you think, was the snitch, Pudge?”

Pudge was busy taking one of his family photos down from the wall. In it, everyone in his family appeared to be lean except for Pudge who stood rather prominently on the right side of the gathering. Surprisingly the picture was leaning in his direction.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. It could have been you, Samuel, for all I know.”

Sam looked askance. “Not bloody likely, I’d say. I would guess it might be that David Cooper or one of the pansies who stayed in the hall rather than join us.”

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Mitch was standing by the doorway and shouted, “Yes, Bump has been acting strangely and not friendly, one bit. I may inquire around a bit. Pudge, are you going directly home without telling your parents?”

Pudge paused for moment with the photo still in his hand before wrapping it with a blanket to protect the glass in the frame. “That will be the tough part. I thought about sending them a telegram but I will get there before the wire does so they will learn the first of this when I walk in the door.”

Mitch continued, “What will you say.”

Taking some clothes out of the commode, Pudge looked as if his spirits had lifted, “What can I say but the truth, I was the ringleader. I think that my father may even be proud of that. I don’t think he ever expected I was the type.”

No one said a word. During the next few moments of meaningful silence, Winko thought, “No, Pudge, you are not the type. I saw you trying to get aboard and never making it. I don’t think you ever got to stand on the flat car. It was your idea but after that you merely tagged along. Sam was the ringleader and if he would have had his way we might have killed someone or been killed. You have been fucked royally but since I don’t want to face up to Sam since I am afraid of him, I will keep my mouth shut. I am letting you down and I am a fucking coward.” As if to cover up his thoughts, Winko broke the silence by shouting the magic words, “Rush, Rush, Rush. Rush Pudge! Rush Pudge!”

Everyone in the room ran toward the unsuspecting Pudge and jumped on him. They started to throw all of the clothes he had just packed up in the air or on to the floor. Pudge ended up at the bottom of the pile with elbows and knees jammed into his face and for a second, he felt like crying not from the pain but from missing the gang so much, the rushes, the rushes, then he remembered, “Ringleaders don’t cry.” And, instead, with all his might, he started to heave bodies off of him. His strength surprised even himself. Perhaps he would actually go out for foot-ball at the State University. He had to get back to packing. There was much to do.

^^^^^^^^^ .

203

Fletcher Martin heard that one of the boys was expelled that day. Several others had left quietly because of the academic pressures and several others, he had heard from members of the faculty, were simply not prepared for the requirement for writing good English in spite of the fact that they may have passed the initial examinations. Mr. Fesler also asked two more boys to resign from the university when they were found pushing a study desk down the stairways. Their purpose was to see how fast it would roll down the stairs. Luckily, no one was going up.

Fletcher’s reaction to all of the student exuberance going on about him was similar to the actions of the old male wolves, he had observed from afar. Midst the playful antics of the young pups, the males were too focused on the projects at hand like hunting and breeding to be bothered by the snipping and yipping of the younger members of the pack. So, too, Fletcher managed to ignore all the craziness that prevailed at Encina. From this play, he rationalized, the strong will survive..

The electric lights were still not working. Supposedly, the dynamos had been unpacked and were being installed at the powerhouse but, as of yet, were not operational. Rumor had it that electric light would be on at Encina over the weekend but there was still no word about Roble Hall and the Professors’ homes on Alvarado. That might be a while.

With the flickering light from two tallow candles, Fletcher was attempting to read the miniscule type of a paper Frederick Jackson Turner was about to publish in the University of Wisconsin’s Journal of Education. Dr. Jordan had given him an advanced copy he had received from one of his colleagues at UW. Since Jordan knew of Fletcher’s interest in Greek History, he thought Fletcher should be aware of Turner’s observations.

Fletcher sat back in his chair and looked around at his surroundings, shrouded in the shadows. Dr. Whitman, his roommate, was at the Quad. There were electric lights already there so he would usually stay in his office, reviewing and correcting his students’ assignments. At about 11:00, Whitman would light up his kerosene lantern and make his way home along the path that ran in front of the Quad directly to Encina. All of the faculty members and graduate students had keys to Encina’s front door so they did not have to concern themselves with Mr. Fesler locking the entrance at 10:00.

Being alone in this room in the semi-darkness is fine with me, he thought.

Irene had made an acute comment when she awoke from a nap to find Fletcher hovering over her, reading a poem by Sappho. She looked up at 204

him, so absorbed in his reading that he had not realized she was awake and whispered, “Fletcher, I do believe that you are creating your own Ancient World in preference to the world that is going on about you.”

It is true. When Dr. Whitman ( I have given up trying to call him by his first name) wanted to discuss all of the economic and social issues of the day, I begged off. I simply did not know enough about those issues to make any sense of them and I certainly would not pretend to know what I did not. When he told me how miners or farmers or ranchers were being taken advantage of by bankers and corporations and Jews, it was as if he was describing a foreign planet or county to me. I know such misadventures are going on but I choose to think about other things, Rome and Greece and Irene.

I love Irene so very much. She has opened the doorway to a whole new realm of feelings and sensitivities and tenderness. She has been my teacher in the ways of love. I was so naïve in so many ways but now it is natural to touch and feel her and to have her touch and feel me. Even the thought of our closeness is enough to arouse me. Except for a few times with young women I met while attending West Point, I had never made love and those times were always under the duress of time or possibly being observed. In the army, although Indian women and prostitutes were available, I never thought it was right to take advantage of them. Fucking for money without love or with the threat of chastisement was not for me. Now, with Irene, everything is different. The lines of from Ars Amatoria Ovid apply:

If she summons you Love detests laggards. You’ve no transport? Walk. Don’t be put off by bad weather, or A heat wave Or snowdrifts blocking your road.

That was how I feel about my love, my Irene. If this was reverie, so be it.

Fletcher’s otherwise stern countenance spontaneously lit up into a smile.

But back to his studies, he turned his eyes to Turner’s paper entitled, “The Significance of History.” Turner had written: “Artistic and critical faculty find expression in Herodutus, father of Greek history, and in Thucydides, the ideal Greek historian. Both write from the standpoint….” At that point, the door to Fletcher’s room was abruptly flung open and a breathless Bert Hoover ran into the room.

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“Mr. Martin, Mr. Martin, you have to come with me. They’ve got Rubin and they’re doing bad things to him.” Bert pulled Fletcher out of his chair into the darkness of the hall. He had a candle in his hand and they both ran up the stairs to Rubin and William Greer’s room.

^^^^^^^^^

Fletcher could not believe his eyes. The room was dark except for Bert’s candle and another lone candle held by one of culprits standing around a cleared study desk upon which stood a diminutive, naked Rubin Weinberg. With a slight glance, Fletcher noticed that for his diminutive size, Rubin sported a splendid penis that would have looked more properly placed on a much larger man.

At the moment, around him were gathered about six or eight other students that Fletcher was not familiar with. A blonde curly haired fellow seem to be leading the group in taunting Rubin and attempting to get him to do some sort of dance pretending that he was a woman. When Fletcher and Bert entered the room all eyes turned on them. From the look on the curly haired one’s face, Fletcher could tell that his presence was not wanted.

In spite of his desire to remain cool and aloof, Fletcher could not help himself. He felt his heart rate quicken as he instinctively shouted out, “What’s going on, here?” He pushed his way through the group without regard to whom it was that stood in his way and proceeded to help Rubin down from the table. Then he looked around at the now sheepish faces surrounding him and demanded, “Where are this man’s clothes?”

Rubin’s tormentors were members of the Alpha Phi fraternity. Mitch and Freck and Sam were amongst them. Winko was not in attendance. Thirty minutes before, the group had been lolling in Sam’s room when Sam thought of the little Jew that he had seen take the lead in Dolly’s, his Dolly’s affections. Instantly he had connived to get his gang up to the Jew’s room, first making sure that his burly roommate was not around. Then the fun began.

When the Jew was confronted he did not seem to question any of the demands that were made of him. “Take off your clothes!” “Get up on the table!” “Dance for us!”

As Sam shouted out his orders to the Jew, he could see by his companions’ faces that they were not sympathetic to what was going on. They were too soft for the kind of fun Sam enjoyed. He had already 206

determined that from what happened on the flatcar. New pledges to Alpha Phi’s fraternity would have to be a tougher lot. Now this old man with his scarred face had entered the picture. Sam decided that this would be a good time to show everyone that Sam Cutter could not be cowed.

Mitch leaned down and gathered Rubin’s clothes that were scattered on the floor and politely gave them to Rubin.

Fletcher was not sure what he should do next when out of the darkness the curly haired boy came up close to him and faced him, his chin only about six inches from Fletcher’s.

“And who do you think you are. We’re doing a little scientific study of circumcised dicks versus uncircumcised dicks and you, you old silly fool, are interrupting us,” Sam said with a broad smirk on his face.

The gathered Alpha Phi’s could not help themselves, they had to chuckle at Sam’s audacious remarks to the old man they had heard had fought in the Indian Wars and had a scarred face to prove it.

Fletcher did not like being called a fool and particularly an old and silly one. He told Sam, “Get out of my way, scum.” Rubin was pulling on his trousers. To the rest of the group, Fletcher ordered in a voice more suited to the parade grounds, “I want all of you out of here.”

Fletcher’s commanding voice sounded throughout the hall, acting like a more like a magnet to cause everyone on the floor to drop their books and come running into the room hoping to see a fight.

With this kind of audience, Sam was not to be faced down, “Now hold on, old boy,” he said to Martin and cheekily grabbed him by the shoulder.

“I’m not your old boy, and take your hand off my shoulder,” Fletcher said in a voice that should have warned Sam of an impeding disaster.

Sam answered the warning by tightening his grip on Fletcher’s shoulder and attempting to throw him off balance. Fletcher’s left hand brusquely removed Sam’s hand from his shoulder and Sam took the removed hand, made it into a fist and tried to hit Fletcher full in the face. Fletcher moved out of the way of the blow and brought his right fist up under both of Sam’s hands and hit him in his solar plexus with a great deal of force.

The encounter was over in seconds. Those boys present heard the wind whistle out of Sam’ lungs as he slumped to the floor and then to add 207 to his ignominy, Fletcher pulled him out of the room by his shoulders into the dark hallway and left him there. Members of Alpha Phi followed the two out of the room and stood by their fallen hero, attempting to help him get up from the floor. He remained inert, supine.

Fletcher’s heart was beating wildly and he could feel all the animal tensions of man’s basic instincts of survival. He did not like these feelings and he wished Bert had never sought him out, but what could he do? He went back into Rubin’s room and shooed all the onlookers out.

Those boys not associated with Alpha Phi and particularly those who had been an object of their pranks gave Fletcher an impromptu cheer and regretfully went back to their studies.

By now, Rubin was fully dressed and Bert was helping him get his room back into order. Bert could see that Mr. Martin was not happy with himself or what he’d done. His dark hair was disheveled and his eyes had the look of a trapped beast. He was perspiring profusely and his clothes were awry from the scuffle. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling.

After all that had happened, Bert felt he should introduce the two. “Mr. Martin, this is “Sosh,” that’s the new name for Rubin Weinberg, because he a socialist.”

The two shook hands, “I’m not really a socialist. It’s just what the boys want to call me after they’ve heard what I think,” Sosh, formerly Rubin, said, looking up to Fletcher who towered over him. He spoke calmly as if he had just finished a game of cards.

Between gasps of breath, Martin managed to say, “Sosh, sorry about all this, you shouldn’t have to endure any of this.” He was trying to regain his composure but he could feel his heart was still beating like a drum but at least his voice was beginning to sound normal.

“What Sam did was not original. I’ve gone through the same comparisons when I was in high school. For some reason, Anglo-Saxons always want to see a Jew’s penis. In the comparison, it is a forgone conclusion, I will always lose but always, I win. You certainly gave him a pasting, though; that I’m sure he won’t forget.

Fletcher could not get over how Sosh was taking all of this. It was as if nothing had happened. He must be used to it. How terrible!

Bert was still excited about what had just occurred. “Yes, Mr. Martin, I couldn’t get over how hard you hit him, right in the belly. I walked in 208

trying to get some more laundry business and what should I see but poor Sosh up there on the table dancing naked and the only person I could think of to save him was you….”

Fletcher interrupted Bert. He had heard enough. He wanted to get back to his room. “All right, Bert. I understand.” Looking back at Sosh, “ Are you all right? Do you have a roommate?”

“Bill Greer. He’s out doing some special work for Mr. Lathrop. You can bet if he had been here this would never have happened. Sure, I’m fine. I’ll lock the door but I doubt that Sam will bother me. I am not so sure about you, Mr. Martin. Sam is a bad person. The rest of his gang just follow him but there is no limit as to what he might get up to. I’d be watching over my shoulder, if I were you.”

“What’s his name, again?” asked Fletcher. .

“Sam Cutter. I think he’s from Chicago.”

“Thanks for the advice. Well, good night, Sosh. See you at the dining room or on the Quad.”

Sosh asked, “Are you going to the student meeting, tomorrow, Mr. Martin?”

“No, I’m a graduate student. I’ll let you young stallions do the organizing.”

“Will I see you there, Bert? If we don’t watch out, those fraternity men are going to take over everything and people like Sam Cutter will be in control. I’ve head what they do at other colleges.”

Bert said, “I’ll be there, Sosh, but you can do all the talking. I don’t feel comfortable in front of people. Afraid I will say the wrong word. I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

“Well, good night to both of you and thanks for saving me from that bunch of hooligans.”

Bert and Martin walked out of the room and they could hear Sosh locking the door behind them.

Martin with Bert at his side walked back up the hallway. Bert said he still had more rooms to call on to see if they needed laundry service and they parted at the stairwell.

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Back at his desk, Fletcher, still not breathing normally, attempted to return to the state of normalcy he had left only minutes before. In his hurry to follow Bert he had failed to snuff out his candle and it was about to burn itself out. He didn’t have another one and he wasn’t sure where Dr. Whitman kept his. In about five more minutes and he would be in the dark.

Martin thought about how industrious Bert was. There never seemed to be an ending to his schemes to make money. Sosh was interesting, so calm and collected. He didn’t seem to be sensitive about being a Jew. I will have to get him together with Dr. Whitman. In spite of the fact that the good Doctor places much of the blame on Jewish Bankers, they have much in common with their Populist causes.

As for Sam, what was his last name, it fitted his character, Cutter, that’s it. I ran into his type in the Army. The phrase, “anguis in herba,” came to mind. Just thinking about people like Sam upsets me. In the army with its vastness, I always managed to avoid any confrontation with that type of fellow.

When situations like this happen, I can tell that some of my Father’s bad blood runs through my veins. I saw him brutally hit Mother when he was in a bad temper for some unknown reason known only to him and certainly I felt his iron fist many times and the savage beatings he administered on my bare flanks with birch switches. It was not until I was fourteen years old and turned on him with my drawn fists that he stopped bashing both Mother and me.

I had promised myself that I would not take on my Father’s bestial habits and now, only after a couple of weeks at Encina, I have lowered myself. Here with the closeness of Encina Hall and on the Quad, my desire for avoidance of people like Sam Cutter would not be an easy task.

Only a few minutes remained of candlelight. What was he reading? As he took up Turner’s paper, again, “…from the standpoint of an advanced civilization and strive to present a real picture of events and an explanation of the causes of the events.” That is what Fletcher would like to do in his study of Pericles…create a real picture of events and a factual explanation of the causes of those events.

The thought struck him that he preferred to view events from a distance. Tonight he was a participant whether he liked it or not and as a participant, he could not create a real picture or really explain what had just happened.

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^^^^^^^^^^^

There were two representatives of the Business Office at Roble Hall—the Mistress and the Matron. The Matron, Mrs. Leach, looked after the linen and the bill of fare, not now, but eventually when the dining room would be operating. At the present, the young ladies were still walking briskly over to Encina Hall three times a day for their meals. The Mistress, Miss Bingham, looked after the welfare of the young ladies and collected the rent and for the present led their daily processions to the men’s dormitory.

Miss Bingham was a petite, refined lady with gray hair usually piled neatly in a bun on top of her head. She had never married. For the past ten years, she had cared for her invalid mother in San Francisco. Three months ago, her mother had died and Miss Bingham found herself alone and without purpose Her only brother was a business acquaintance of Ariel Lathrop. Ariel asked him if he knew of anyone who might be interested in the Mistress position at his sister’s new university. Of course he did.

Unfortunately, Miss Bingham had spent too many years in the confines of a quiet refined home caring for the needs of just herself and her mother. The contrast between those circumstances and her new responsibilities involving the changing needs of over seventy young ladies some of whom had never before resided outside their family homes was startling to say the least.

Stressful situations confused Miss Bingham so it was her good fortune that Ariel Lathrop provided her with explicit written instructions on how to deal with almost any common problem. Miss Bingham followed those instructions implicitly.

Because of her lack of flexibility, most of Roble Hall’s residents did not like her and freely spoke of her faults to one another. Miss Bingham could not help but pick up by looks and whispers how she was perceived and since her feelings were easily hurt, she soon found that she was unhappy with her new position. She felt her charges were unfair and cruel. She felt alone and poorly understood. She was also a bit envious of these young ladies embarking on a new life with the prospects of marriage and children.

Whatever Miss Bingham was, Mrs. Leach was the opposite. She was a large, coarse lady whose husband had died two years ago. She had six children, one of whom had died in infancy. She was always rather 211 rumpled looking, her gray hair hanging lankly over her rounded shoulders, but she was good-natured unless drawn to agitation and when that occasion arose she had a filthy tongue probably learned from her husband who had been a longshoreman on the docks.

Her son worked for Charles Lathrop in the Senator’s San Francisco Business Office.

From appearances, one would think that it would be the refined Miss Bingham who would be sensitive to the needs of the Roble Hall residents but to the contrary, it was Mrs. Leach with her warm heart that all the girls liked and would go to with their problems. Mrs. Leach would go out of her way to make the young ladies happy while Miss Bingham was always more concerned about what Ariel Lathrop thought. Because of their differences, the two were on a course that could only lead to collision.

“Mrs. Leach, Mrs. Leach.” Miss Bingham barged into the small office maintained by the Matron in the cellar of the Hall. It always pleased her that she had a pretty bright, little office off the lobby upstairs. There was Mrs. Leach in the darkness with only a single candle, busy completing all the forms and tabulations required by the Business Office to check and recheck inventories of sheets, pillows, blanket, towels and whatever other linen goods were required by the ladies. All this to make certain all was in order and nothing stolen, lost or forgotten.

“Yes,” by now Mrs. Leach was used to these unannounced interruptions. “What do you want?” It was not a friendly response and she could think of no good reason why she should attempt to be friendly with this hare-brained woman

“You know, we’re having our little reception for the Encina boys, tonight, and I must have those linen table clothes for the tables so we can start to decorate them.”

“I sent them up by Ming Do two hours ago. You already have them if you would look more closely.”

“And just what are you accusing me of, now. Mrs. Leach, I am just asking you for a little cooperation, please. There is absolutely no reason why you should speak to me in that tone of voice. I am not a child.”

“Miss Leach, I am aware that you are not a child and I am not accusing you of anything. You asked about the linen table clothes and I simply told you where they were.” Before Miss Bingham could respond, Mrs. Leach shouted out in a raucous voice that could have been heard at 212

the Stanford’s mansion, “Ming Do, where are you? Come here, immediately. I need you.”

The wrinkled face of an elderly Chinaman who had become Miss Bingham’s untitled assistant instantly appeared in the doorway. It was if he had been waiting outside. “Yes, Mrs. Leach, what you want.”

“The linen table clothes. Where did you take them?”

“Upstairs in Miss Bingham office. Just like you ask. Two hours ago.”

“My office?” Miss Bingham had obviously not looked there. “My office?”

“Yes, your office.” Mrs. Leach was getting more vexed by the second. “And if you don’t mind, I have business to do.” And she took Miss Bingham by her scrawny arm and almost pushed her out of the door. Ming Do watched the two ladies with absolutely no expression on his face.

Miss Bingham brushed herself off as if Mrs. Leach had contaminated her. As she made her way back to the stairway to walk up to the lobby’s bright daylight, Ming Do could hear her exclaiming, “What a way to treat a person. Mr. Lathrop will hear of this.” There was more but by now, she was out of earshot.

“That bitch,” said Miss Bingham as she looked out of her doorway at the departing Mistress. It was said not under her breath but for all to hear.

Ming Do said nothing as he left the office and returned to his duties of supervising the washing of the white sheets and pillowcases. He thought, “Two ladies like cat and dog bound to clash.” And as if imitating the sounds such an encounter might make, he clapped his hands together several times as he scurried down the cellar’s dark hallways toward the washing room.

^^^^^^^^^

Early evening and David Cooper was getting ready to go to the first reception at Roble Hall that Friday night.

As David began to shave before taking a bath in the tubs on Encina’s top floor, he looked at his reflection in the square mirror above the washbasin. He smiled to himself as he thought how the past week had been so eventful. 213

Starting classes and doing homework and then the flatcar prank were plenty to think about. Too bad about that chap, Pudge, being sent home. I know Sam Cutter was the real instigator, but someone had to be punished and it turned out to be Pudge. If the truth be known, I felt relieved because I was also part of the gang that moved the flatcar and I could have been implicated. Everyone I talked to were worried sick about what might have happened and we all breathed a sigh of relief when they pinned the blame on poor Pudge.

Then when I was waiting with George Gardner, the one with the two wooden legs, for “second table” after the girls from Roble finished eating, up comes this new fellow that I had seen talking with Geroge, before.

“David, do you know Milt Grosh?” George asked with a big smile on his face like he was doing both of us a favor.

“No, I don’t believe I do,” I said and actually I had seen him around and wanted to talk to him because I heard he was the one who was organizing Stanford’s foot-ball team.

Grosh was about the same size as me, about 5’ 8” tall and probably 140 lbs. He was a good-looking boy and his hair was parted in the middle like most foot-ballers. He looked straight at me and said, “David Cooper, I’ve head about you, already. You probably don’t remember me but we played foot-ball against one another. I played for Redlands.”

It was like lightening struck me when I thought of this human dynamo coming toward me and then running right around me for a touchdown that won the game for Redlands. Later, I found out the dynamo’s name was Grosh. “How could I forget you when you made such a fool out of me,” I said.

“Well, you got back when you made that run around our left end that tied the game. It was a place kick that won it for us, 10 to 7. It was a good game and we all thought you were good sports. I heard that the fellow who did your interfering broke his leg. How is he doing, now?”

As we moved toward the dining room, I said, “John Reichold. He would be here if it weren’t for the leg. Next year he’ll make it.”

“Good, we can use him on the line.”

I couldn’t help myself from feeling good about getting to know someone from Southern California this far from home and a fellow foot- 214

baller. Milt must have felt the same way because we both clapped each other on the back as we fought our way into the dining room with George right behind us. It was just like we were playing on the same team. I looked over at George and he was still smiling as he stumbled ahead, one stiff step after the other. He knew we would get along.

After the rush for seats, we all ended up at the same table. This was only because Milt and I managed to push a few fellows away from a seat for George and then we nudged our way to other seats so that Milt could sit next to George and I sat across from him.

Getting seats had become even more difficult because the Alpha Phi Frat had commandeered one of the twelve tables and only members and pledges were allowed to sit there. Mitch, my room mate had told me he tried to get me approved as a pledge but someone, he thought it was Sam Cutter had bad mouthed me and I was black-balled. I had never heard of “black balling” before but I found out that was the way someone in a fraternity could turn you down without letting anyone know he had done it. I think doing it that way is cowardly. .

I told Mitch that it was all right because my family couldn’t afford me joining and I didn’t think I could fit into such a sporty group. He said that Sam was giving him a bad time because I was his roommate and if I could find another room it would make life easier for him. I promised to start looking.

Dinner that night, sitting with George and Milt, was the same as usual…more beans and stringy lamb that was only good for exercising the jaw muscles. None of us could eat the dish of “tomb-stone pudding” hair- oil dessert with its glob of awful looking yellow stuff. Then Milt started talking to us about his roommate.

“He wasn’t making it and already his Profs were sending him deficiency notices so he ups and moved out of our room, yesterday, back to his home in Fresno.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Could I possibly room with Milt? I said cautiously, “So you don’t have a roommate?”

“No.”

“I need to move. My roommate is an Alpha Phi and they don’t like me.”

Milt had a broad grin on his face, “Would you like to move in with me?” 215

“Yes.”

We were both on our feet and after apologizing to George for leaving him high and dry we went to Mr. Fesler’s office and made it official. That same night I moved into Room 132 on the second floor and Milt and I became “roomies”.

Next morning, Milt started talking to me about practicing for the foot- ball team. I asked him if Stanford had any opponents and he said, “No, but it doesn’t matter. If we get a team up and ready, we will play.” I liked that he was so optimistic.

Even though it would be even tougher to make the time to study and write papers, I told him, “Yes, I want to join the team.”

So that early evening at around 4 pm I joined Milt and about ten other fellows jogging over to the Senator’s stock farm. Our route took us by Roble Hall and some of the girls must have been expecting us because as we passed they leaned out of their third story windows, tittering away and one of them even shouted, “Rah, Rah, Stanford,” which must have greatly embarrassed the other young ladies. We acted like we didn’t see or hear them.

The Senator’s racehorses trained on a mile long track. By the time we got there all of the horses were in their stables being fed and groomed. As we ran around their track following Grosh, who was setting the pace, the only thing we had to watch for was horse shit left over from the day’s activities. Milt would alert us and pass to the right or left of their leavings.

“Watch out. Poop on the right,” he would warn or “Lots of it, straight ahead,” he would shout to us.

We went around the track five times on that first day and I could really feel it. My muscles were feeling like they would burst from my legs and my chest had sharp pains slicing through it. At the very end of the run, Milt tried to get us to do the final quarter of a mile at a dead run and on that first day, everyone fell far behind him. I must have been at least ten yards behind even though I was giving it my best effort.

When we finally caught up with Grosh, he looked at us and said, “Don’t worry give it a month and some of you will be passing me.” When he said that it made all of us feel good that he was our leader.

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Then he led us in some calisthenics…. forty push-ups, forty sit-ups, forty touch your toes and we ended with forty spreading our feet and jumping in the air and clapping our hands together. We tried to do it in unison so our clapping of hands echoed off the nearby oak trees..

At the end of the workout, Milt asked us to gather around him. “You’re doing great, fellows. I know some of you have not worked out, lately, so don’t worry if you are out of shape. And keep trying to get other players out. Playing foot-ball doesn’t require any special experience or skill. If a person is willing to work out with us and practice, they can be a member of the team. We don’t care how big they are. Look at me. I’m a shrimp compared with some of the foot-ballers, I and, Cooper, over there have played against.” My chest stuck out a mile when he mentioned my name. “ The more players we have the better we will be. I’m working on getting Jon Whittemore to join us. Jon is a great athlete from the University of Indiana who followed Dr. Jordan to Stanford. Dr. Jordan is all for us having a team and he is working on Jon, too. I’ll let you know each day what is happening.”

All these words were really encouraging and Milt led us one more time around the mile track but this time we all kept up with him and one fellow tried to pass him right at the end and Milt had a real time beating him to the finish line.

When we were all standing around, trying to catch our breaths, he looked at us sweating away, huffing and buffing, and said, “Good job, lads. Let’s go home.”

The only problem with training was by the time we made it to dinner even the stringy meat was gone and all that was left was more beans and potatoes and of course, the “tombstone pudding”. It was not unexpected that around 9 pm a fellow got hungry so last night, for the first time, I went with Grosh and some of the other footballers to Stanford’s vineyard. When Grosh got the gang together I had no idea what they were up to. Walking quietly one after the other, we used a back path to get to the vineyard area. They had some newspaper with them and Grosh gave me some paper for what purpose, I had no idea. I just followed Grosh, blindly.

“We’re here,” Grosh whispered and I heard an old, iron gate being pushed opened. Its hinges needed oiling; and its high-pitched, grating sound pierced the silence. I still didn’t know why we were being so quiet or why the sound of the gate frightened me so much. Somewhere in the back of my dull brain, I must have known that we were up to no good.

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“There could be a watchman, so don’t make a sound.” Grosh continued whispering but it was loud enough that I, fifteen feet away, could hear him. “If there is a watchman around, and he can’t hear us, he must be deaf,” someone said. And I could hear the sound of suppressed snickers.

In the semi-darkness, there was a full moon last night, I could make out what looked like low lying bushes and on the bushes I could see grapes that were about the size of small plums. Everyone started using their pocketknives to cut clumps of grapes from the vines and then put them into the middle of newspapers, which they had laid on the ground. It was the grapes they were after and I, in my bumpkin way, had no idea what was going on. Luckily, I had not mentioned this to anyone. Milt gave me an extra knife he had brought along and I did exactly like the others and I could feel my heart pumping away with all the excitement of thievery. .

About thirty yards to my left, I heard muffled female voices, so we were not alone in seeking the free fruit.

Once my companions had their papers full, they wadded them together and held them to their chests to keep the grapes from falling out. After concentrating on the job at hand, I looked around to see what was happening and realized everyone was running away from where I stood, back toward the gate, making their getaway. I was the last one to complete my task so I had to run after them with Milt just before me. He whispered back to me, “Shut the gate behind us.”

When I got to the gate, with one hand clasping my stolen grapes, I used the other to find the latch on the post and then swing the metal gate with its high rasping sound back to the post and attempted to secure the lock. I had no idea how it worked so I took precious seconds to figure it out. Milt had gone ahead and I heard him say almost aloud, “Come on David, I think I can hear someone coming.” That made me even more panicky but by shear luck the lock fell into place and I started running so hard that I lost most of my precious cargo.

By the time we got back to Encina with our stolen goods, it was past 10:30 and the front doors were locked. Other groups of students who had the same strategy were showing up with their booty. A preconceived emergency plan was put into effect. The window of a corner, floor room had been left open for anyone with stolen grapes to use for admittance. The price of admission was one paper full of grapes from each of the groups that passed through. Occupants of the room were happily receiving their refreshments for the evening and I heard one of them say to 218

his roommate, “ We should congratulate ourselves on our mental rather than physical prowess.”

Candles were lit for the silent journey back up the darkened stairwells and through the halls to our room. The whole gang swarmed in and the room was bathed in the light of several candles and all of the newspapers were flung on the ground creating a common feast and revealing many varieties of grapes--- little ones, big ones, different shades of blue and yellow and green. I looked for the large, sweet, red Tokay grapes but couldn’t see any. Evidentially the Senator Stanford did not produce that kind of wine, too bad.

All of us were seated on the bed, on the floor, cross-legged in the chairs, munching happily away at the fruit. I was on the floor with my feet splayed before me. I grabbed a handful of grapes and started plopping them into my mouth, tasting the sweetness of the meat and spitting out seeds directly on the floor. We would worry about clean up, later. I remember saying aloud, “What a great life! Sitting here with friends and eating something that tastes so good and sweet.” Everyone was too busy enjoying themselves to say anything but every head I saw nodded in agreement. .

Relishing the moment one more time, David forgot he had a sharp instrument in his hand and nicked himself shaving. “Whoops,” he exclaimed. A small cut under his lip was bleeding profusely. What a rotten time to disfigure myself, he thought, staunching the miniscule flow of blood with a damp washrag.

Yes, it had been quite a week. He looked at himself in the mirror and could see he needed a haircut. He would have to see if anyone in the hall could trim his shaggy mane. He remembered seeing a barbershop in Mayfield next to the hotel but the charge was 25 cents and that was too rich for his budget. Was it his imagination or did he look a little older now, a little more mature since he was a college student?

Grosh rushed in barefooted, his hair still wet, with a towel around his middle. “You better get up there. The water is giving out. It’s cold and dirty but with soap it is better than nothing.”

David jumped out of his clothes, grabbed a towel and ran into the hallway, naked.

He had never seen so many naked or semi-naked men and boys in his life. Everyone, including faculty members, appeared to be going to the reception at Roble and, instead of the usual Saturday bath, were doing it on Friday night. The reception started at 7 pm. 219

As David ran up the stairs to the third floor and then the forth, he found himself staring at a variety of asses and penises. He didn’t realize how diversified the Encina bunch were. He even found himself looking up at the narrow ass of a Chinaman whose parents, he had been told, were rich merchants in San Francisco.

Even though he played on all the teams at Riverside High, David had seldom seen his fellow team members unclothed, except when they were changing from their school clothes into the team’s uniforms. Riverside High did not have tub facilities like Encina. After the games, the men and boys would take their uniforms off and put on regular clothes and either go home and take a bath or some, David was sure, waited until the usual Saturday night’s ritual. No one cared that much about cleanliness except on Sunday, church-going day, when everyone had to be clean in the sight of the Lord

But at Stanford, it was different. He understood that the new gymnasium that was being built south of the Encina would have both overhead and side “showers” for the boys to use. That would be something---to stand naked in the middle of men with water sprinkling on you. David had never used a shower before. It would be an experience!

At Encina’s top floor, toward the back of the building, was a large area that was about thirty feet wide and ran the full length of the building devoted to housing forty ceramic bathtubs placed at regular intervals from one end to the other. The area had been named “The Tub Room”. Several Chinamen were running up and down the middle stairwell carrying large pots of scalding water from the kitchen in the cellar. Dumb waiters had been constructed for that purpose but they were not working. When the Chinamen saw one of the tubs needed water they dumped their pot into the tub regardless of whether it was occupied or not. The water might have been scalding when it loft the kitchens, blow, but it was tepid by the time it was poured into the tubs.

The Tub Room’s flooring consisted of narrow strips of varnished wood that were placed far enough from each other to let excess water drain though. Everything was bathed in glistening spray because most of the boys were having a great time taking water from the tubs in their hands and dousing whoever happened to be around. David’s ears were deafened with the sounds of loud shouts and boyish screams of pleasure. Even before he could get into line for a tub, he was already drenched.

By now, he was completely at ease with the nakedness that was all about him. Even the different shapes and sizes and colors of penises clothed in a variety of thin and dense, blonde to black pubic hair had lost 220

its uniqueness. He joined in the fun and slapped some water toward the Chinese student who smiled and returned the barrage with some handfuls of his own that made direct hits on David’s face. David could tell the Chinese boy was having a good time. He had heard there were some Jap boys attending the university, but he had not seen them. They were probably living at The Camp, which had been housing for workmen located near the powerhouse and chimney.

Finally, David was first in line and then he was by the tub using a bar of yellow soap and a white washrag and looking down at the semi-warm, mutton-broth looking water that was there to bath in. As David lowered himself into the tub, he felt the rush of warm water being poured over his head. Thank goodness the four flights of stairs had cooled it to moderately warm. Even though the water was not that hot, he still screamed, “Eeeeyowwww,” in spite of himself just to add his voice to the clamor. For whatever good it did, he started to wash himself down with the washrag in one hand and the yellow bar of soap in the other. The water was so thick with sediment and soapsuds that he could not see his body through the murky water.

He rinsed off the soap and jumped out of the tub making room for the next tall, skinny fellow waiting in line. He grabbed his sobbing wet towel that was still on the floor next to the tub, put it around his body and made his way out of the “Tub Room” back down the stairs. By now, he was shivering from the hall’s cold air. He wondered if he was cleaner or dirtier. He felt his hair. If nothing else, he was certainly wetter.

^^^^^^^^^

At Roble Hall, the angels were also preparing for their first formal encounter with the boys at Encina. They had just returned from their walk over to the hall for dinner. It had become a routine, now. Even the boys were no longer interested. Only a few loitered in the hallway to catch a glimpse of their feminine counterparts. Delores had looked for David but he was not there. She had only seen him from a distance on the Quad as they passed from class to class. They had waved and shouted hellos.

In their room, Delores looked over at Betsy who looked like she was studying her Latin lesson. “Betsy, you are going to go tonight, aren’t you?” asked Delores.

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“Oh, I’m not so sure. They are such a bunch of riff raff, I wonder if it is worth the bother.”

“Please, please come with me. Except for a few girls like Sally, I won’t know anyone and I will feel all alone,” Delores implored.

“Oh, all right. I will do it just for you.” She got up and moved toward the wardrobe. “What do you think we should wear?”

Delores was relieved. She never knew how Betsy would feel. She was very changeable. “Mrs. Leach consulted with Mrs. Stanford and she suggested that we should wear something simple, gingham or calico. You’ve got that light blue gingham wrapper with the plaited front that would look lovely.”

Betsy smiled at the thought of how she might look. “And you, what will you wear?”

Delores went to her wardrobe and pulled an old rose taffeta wrapper out and showed it to Betsy. “What do you think?”

“I think we are going to be two lovely angels, tonight.” Delores could tell that she was now looking forward to the event.

“Are you going to bathe, beforehand?” asked Delores.

“I don’t think so. It is such a bother going upstairs. I’d rather wait until tomorrow night.”

“I think I will. I feel so dirty after walking to Encina and back.”

The baths at Roble were on the top floor, the third floor. There was still only cold water but the tubs were partitioned off for privacy and the Japs who were always there just incase one of the ladies wanted to bathe stood outside the cubicles and would go in only after the ladies had left.

Delores took off her outer clothing leaving on her chemise and put on her night robe and slippers and walked out into the hall toward the stairway. As she was going up the stairs she could feel someone directly behind her. It was Sally.

“Delores, what luck, are you going to take a bath, too,” Sally, asked.

Delores turned around and said, “Yes, I’m glad you’re with me. I hated coming up here by myself.”

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“No, I’m with you,” and she patted Delores gently on the back of her night robe. She was dressed in the same manner as Delores, thin chemise covered by her robe. Even with the layers of clothing her full figure was evident.

At the top of the stairs, they were alone. At this hour, if other girls had decided to bathe, they had come and gone. Only a lonely Jap stood before one of the cubicle doors with a bar of pink soap in one hand and a bath brush in the other.

Sally took them both. “Let’s bathe together. You can wash my back and I’ll wash yours.”

“That could be fun,” agreed Delores but actually she felt some trepidations about the whole matter. The thought of having another affair like the one she had with the nun at school still bothered her.

They both walked into the cubicle and Sally immediately started to disrobe. “I’ll be first,” she said giving the bath brush to Delores.

Delores looked on as Sally quickly took off her robe and chemise, stepped into the bathtub, gingerly, and for a few moments before lowering herself into the tub, stood completely nude before her. Delores had never seen a naked woman, like Sally, before. She had watched friends like Betsy disrobe and she had caught quick glances of a breast and pubic hair but nothing like this. Whatever she had got up to at school was done with clothes on.

Sally had the classic figure of an Alma-Tadema’s painting: milky white skin with just a flush of pink and broad shoulders and hips and full breasts that, unlike Delores dark nipples, were bright pink and luminous. Her pudendum, unlike Delores dark regions, was clothed with golden soft pubic hairs even more golden than the rest of the hair on her body. Delores felt pangs of disappointed when this glorious sight disappeared from her view into the murky brown tub water frothed with the remnants of white soap.

“God, this water is cold and dirty,” Sally complained. “Delores come quick so I can soap and get out of it.” She handed the soap to Delores and put her face close to the water to expose the breadth of her back to Delores who firmly scrubbed the exposed areas. Delores could pick out the outline of delicate ribs stretched into view through the pink skin. “Ouch, not so hard, please. I bruise easily.”

Delores eased her strokes as requested. “Now the front and please, please be careful. This part is very, very sensitive,” as she looked down at 223

her nipples. Sally leaned back supporting herself underwater on outstretched, opened hands. Her breasts emerged from the frothy water like they had a life of their own. Was it Delores’s imagination? In those few seconds, had Sally’s nipples hardened? Delores could feel dampness in her own pudendum area as she gently passed the bath brush around Sally’s breasts, carefully avoiding the pink nubs. Sally must have enjoyed it. Her eyes were shut but her broad lips were curled into a slight smile.

Delores could have continued her task forever if Sally hadn’t abruptly sat bolt upright and said, “Let me have the soap and I’ll get the rest. It’s too cold to stay in the water.” A few seconds more and Sally jumped out of the tub and was briskly drying herself with the towels they had brought and getting back into her chemise and night robe.

“Now, it’s your turn,” she said turning her full attention to Delores who had already taken all of her clothes off and was lowering her tan body into the tepid water.

^^^^^^^^^^

On Friday, October 9th, at around 7pm, Stanford males were converging on Roble Hall. Most of them started their strolls from Encina in groups of twos and threes heading east past the Quad and past the old oak that stood squarely in the way. As they approached their destination, these groups mingled so that by the time they were ascending the steps to Roble’s entrance, they were now twenty and thirty. In keeping with Mrs. Stanford proclamation, a kerosene lantern was suspended on a pole outside the hall to illuminate the steps but inside the doorway it was strictly candlelight.

Bert Hoover and Fred Williams were among the first to arrive. Mrs. Leach who appeared to be in her glory greeted them at the door. After checking them from head to toe, she directed the boys to one of the tables just inside the entrance behind which were seated young ladies filling out blue name cards with safety pins that were to be pinned to the young men’s jackets. The young ladies were already identified with pink cards.

A dark-haired, chubby girl looked up at Bert and smiled. “What’s your name, please?”

Bert found himself tongue-tied. For the life of him, his lips would not move and he simply looked at the girl desperately trying to say his own name. Fortunately, Fred stepped in. 224

“Bert Hoover,” Fred said confidently as the girl looked to him for information about his chum

She repeated, “B-E-R-T. Now let’s see. Hoover, H-now is that spelled with a U or O?” she asked Fred.

“It’s spelled H-O-O-V-E-R. ” But the girl didn’t quite hear the second O and misspelled Bert’s name as she wrote out his card. When she gave him his name card, Bert did not notice the misspelling. He held it in his hand, transfixed. Why had he forgotten his own name?

Fred continued, “And my name is Fred Williams.”

“Good,” she said, “That’s one I know how to spell.” She completed both cards with the stylish penmanship she was taught in high school, exhibiting strategically placed flourishes and curly cues.

The two boys wandered over to a dim corner where they spent several minutes pinning their cards on their jackets and then repining because the card was slightly tilted or a lapel overlapped it.

Fred, of course, immediately noticed how Bert’s name was misspelled.

Bert looked as if he didn’t care and said, “It’s all right. I don’t want to go back and ask her to change it.”

With the pinning job done, they had a chance to look around and see what Roble’s reception hall looked like.

It was about one-third the size of Encina’s and its walls instead of dark wood paneling were stucco and rough textured, painted in delicate shades of blue and ecru. At each end of the reception area was a mantel over a grated, brightly burning coal fire and in front of the fireplace were placed pink and blue stuffed chairs with ribbons of, also, ecru. Mrs. Stanford had participated in the selection of the colors and fabrics and ecru was one of her favorite colors..

Numerous, lit candles were placed around the room, their soft light enhancing the gentle womanly atmosphere. Almost all of the seventy Roble women were present. Most of them were dressed simply, as Mrs. Stanford had suggested, in calico and gingham wrappers in soft shades of yellow, green, primrose, lavender, blue. Some of the girls were wearing their Sunday dresses of black satin but the austerity of their dress appeared to be out of place on such an occasion. 225

The girls were talking nineteen to the dozen to one another in small groups along the wall facing the entrance and some were in the hallways that went left and right as they did at Encina. Also, like Encina, swinging doors that were directly across from the entranceway led to the dining room which was still not functional.

Bert and Fred stood alone just to the left of the front doorway. Even as other boys started to enter in droves, they remained by themselves.. Neither of the boys knew any of the girls. Of the two Fred was more gregarious. He had made some friends at Encina but he did not see any familiar faces among the packs of boys waiting now for their nametags.

Bert felt awkward among people. On a one to one basis, particularly when he was conducting business, he was fine but in a social situation, he never knew what to say. A few of the boys nodded their heads in Bert’s direction. They recognized the fellow who had blatantly come up and either asked for their laundry or newspaper business. None of them invited Fred or Bert to join them so the two boys stood together, not saying anything to one another, on a desert island of their own making, midst a growing hullabaloo of jostling young men and chattering young women.

Bert overheard the shriller girls’ voices in conversation. The words about food and spreads, he understood but when they started to discuss books and authors and some of their instructors, he was at a complete loss.

“Don’t you love that new song, “Sweet Marie”?

“We plan to go to San Francisco and have lunch at the Women’s Exchange. It’s the only decent place to eat in the city.”

“I’m taking German, French, Latin and English. I have to remember which class I’m in.”

“Wasn’t Professor Anderson cute when he gave the lecture about Matheny Arnold?”

“Dr. Wood came by and saw me and prescribed Cherry Phosphate.”

“Dr. Jordan has so much dry wit.”

“Have you read the new book by Thomas Nelson Page’?

“Last night, Room 12 had a dainty spread of chicken wafers and pickles.” 226

Soon there was such a clatter in the room that Bert could not understand anything that was being said. He looked over at Fred and almost shouted, “What do you think about Mr. Bryant and Mr. Buchanan teaching shop”?

Fred looked at Bert with a perplexed look on his face. He couldn’t understand a word he said. “What did you say”?

Bert tried, again. “What do you think about Mr. Bryant and Mr. Buchanan teaching shop”?

If anything, Fred’s face lit up with an exaggerated expression of being absolutely unable to understand what Hoover was talking about. Bert gave up and continued looking at the doorway for someone to come in he might recognize and know. With all of his heart, he wished he could walk out that door and go back to Encina. Receptions and meeting girls and such were not his cup of tea.

Delores was standing next to Betsy on the right side of the hall facing the doorway, hoping to see David as he walked in. It was past seven and she was beginning to wonder if he was going to make an appearance. Betsy was talking about a book she was reading. “I just love reading Thomas Baily Aldrich. He is so witty and cute. What do you think, Delores”?

Trying to keep her eye on the entrance way and still turning toward Betsy, Delores said, “I don’t seem to have time for anything except my studies and trying to play tennis on the Quad.”

Betsy said, “I wish they would let us mark out a court on the Quad but Mrs. Leach said we will have some courts soon and they will be building a temporary gymnasium for us, close by our hall.”

Sally came down the stairs, saw the two girls talking and joined them. “Betsy, Delores, I was hoping you would be here. My roommate doesn’t feel well and won’t be coming down. What a ruckus! I have to shout to be heard.”

Delores found that she was shouting back, “I think I may go back up stairs. There doesn’t appear to be anyone interesting here.”

Sally guessed what was wrong. “You mean, David. He’s not here”?

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“I don’t see him anywhere.” Delores threw up her hands in frustration. “All that time, getting ready for this and I could have been studying.”

Betsy made a suggestion, “Let’s go back to the room and have jam and soda crackers.”

Sally was undaunted. “Come on, girls, let’s move over to where the refreshments are and see what is happening.”

The three girls made their way slowly to the tables filled with dainty sandwiches, soda crackers with chicken salad spreads and cups of tea, cider and sarsaparilla. By now space was at a premium. Near where the food was being served was particularly packed with people. As fate would have it, standing by the buffet was Delores’ cousin, Rubin, and his roommate, William Greer.

The two were so different. On his tip toes, Rubin came up to Greer’s shoulders. Greer with his girth and look of a workman and Rubin so refined and sensitive looking. Greer looked particularly out of place. With all the shining, young faces about him, his full beard and middle- aged face made him look ancient.

Rubin had to shout introductions, “Delores, Sally, Betsy, this is my good chum and roomy, Will Greer.”

All of the girls shook his hand. Sally took charge. “Come on Will and Rubin, let’s get some food and move out of this clutter so we can talk.”

The group of five made its way past a table that had cups and plates on it, took what they needed, and back to the buffet and filled their plates with crackers and sandwiches. Then Sally guided them to a somewhat quieter area to the extreme left near the hallways leading to the rooms. Delores did this reluctantly. She was still hoping to see David.

Betsy grabbed two chairs that happened to be vacant and pushed one toward Delores. The two girls sat and ate and listened as Sally, Rubin and Will conversed.

Rubin said enthusiastically, “Remember, Will, I told you about Sally. We met at the opening ceremony and had similar thoughts regarding our benefactor, the Senator.”

“Yes, I remember you mentioning the unlikelihood of meeting a young lady with such dangerous thoughts.” 228

Sally in her usual direct manner, “Mr. Greer, did Rubin use the term, ‘dangerous’, to describe me?”

“Those were his exact words, Miss.”

“Well, he is a good judge of people. I am exceedingly dangerous,” and Sally smiled at the thought of her attempted assassination but Rubin and Will both thought, “What do we have, here?”

Between mouthfuls, Rubin said to Sally, “I am so lucky to have Will as a room mate. I may have told you this already but he is from Boston and regularly gets the Boston papers and magazines. So even if we are two weeks behind times, we at least know what is going on in the country.”

“You are lucky. My only source of information is what you tell me. Is there anything new about those miners in Tennessee? I remember they were having problems being replaced by convict labor.”

Will Greer responded, “Nothing violent at this point but it is bound to happen. Too many hotheads down there. I am expecting the Army will be called out to quell a potential riot. President Harrison is always on the side of the corporations. But have you heard what happened in New Orleans”?

“I have no idea of what is happening, anywhere,” Sally said bemoaning her lack of information.

Rubin answered for Will, “A mob lynched eleven Italian citizens because they thought they were going to take jobs from them. The Italian government is all over President Harrison, to do something but I would bet he won’t do a thing.”

Greer added, “Thank God, he has James Blaine as Secretary of State. He’ll be able to quell the Italians while Harrison is completely incompetent. I’ve heard the Republican Party wants to ditch Harrison and nominate Blaine for President but Blaine doesn’t want it so there are even rumors that different groups are being organized around the country to nominate Leland Stanford in stead of Harrison for President in ‘92.”

Rubin commented, “Stanford would never accept. Too friendly with Harrison to do that plus what I hear and how he looked at the opening ceremony, I don’t think the man has long to live.”

229

Sally looked from Will’s face to Rubin’s with obvious admiration that they were allowing her to hear comments about the political situation in the United States even though she was a woman and could not vote. She looked at Rubin, again, was there something in his gentle eyes that reminded her of her father?

Delores listened with half an ear. Politics bored her. Her mother had taught her that a lady leaves such matters to the men.

Betsy did not hear a word that was said. She was thinking about getting seconds on the crackers with chicken spread.

At that moment, Sam Cutter sauntered up with other members of the Alpha Psi fraternity in tow including Winko, Freck and Mitch and three others. He walked up to Rubin and stood face to face about a foot away from him. “Hi, Rubin, how are you”?

“Fine, no thanks to you, Cutter.”

With deep sincerity, Sam said, “Now, Rubin, no grudges. It was supposed to be fun, until your Army friend showed up. As it was I’m the one who was punched and thrown to the floor and he almost killed me until his friend pulled him off. You know I was knocked unconscious. Come on, no grudges. What is past is past.” He put out his hand and smiled broadly.

Greer was watching what was going on between Sam and Rubin.. He had heard about Sam and his invasion of their room. He had been waiting for the right opportunity to impress upon Sam the urgency of keeping away from Rubin. Now, from what he could see, Rubin appeared to be making peace with him.

Rubin preferred not to have enemies. He could not help himself, he shook Sam’s outstretched hand and noticed Sam tightening his fingers so hard that Rubin almost winced. But instead, he acknowledged with a slight smile that the matter was over and settled.

Sam thought to himself, “Mr. Kite, if you hadn’t been with these lovely creatures, you would never seen my hand. Now, who knows, perhaps you will be of use.”

Sam released Rubin’s hand and looked around at the young ladies, Sally, Delores and Betsy that were in the group. “And who may these lovely ladies, be?” His eyes remained fixed on Sally who appeared to be looking through him.

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Rubin introduced the girls to Sam who in turn introduced each of his fraternity brethren. After the formalities there was a moment of silence until Winko took up the conversation.

“Rubin, aren’t you the one, they call, ‘Sosh’”?

“That’s me. Apparently, my slight socialistic tendencies have been noticed.”

Winko continued, “I also noticed you were heavily involved in the Student Association meeting that took place this afternoon”

“Yes, I was there and I saw you there with all your fraternity brothers. You were appointed to be on the by-laws committee.”

“Not as important as your Chairmanship of the Constitution group. You appear to be quite the political wizzo, Rubin. We are all supposed to report back by October 20th with our conclusions, right?

“Right.” Rubin, “Sosh,” could see that the rest of the group were not as interested in student politics as he and Winko were. He and Winko and Will Greer started talking about all the decisions that would have to be made during the next few weeks: school colors, yell, and student newspaper. Will was particularly interested in writing for the newspaper. He had worked on the paper at MIT.

“And, Sally, any interest in student politics?” asked Sam, in a tone of voice meant only for the girls’ ears while Winko and Rubin continued to discuss the student meeting.

“No interest at all,” she hardly glanced at Sam. To her, he was like air. Instantly, she did not like him and particularly the way he had interrupted the conversation she was having with Rubin and Will. Her eyes moved toward the entrance way and brightened as she said, “Look, Delores,” pointing toward the entrance, “there’s David with three others. They just walked in. I think he’s with the cripple boy I was telling you about, and the Chinese boy.” Sally shouted out so that almost everyone in the room could hear, “David, David, over here, over here.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^

David Cooper along with Milton Grosh were going down Encina’s side stairs when they encountered the Chinese student David had seen in 231 the Tub Room, coming up the stairs, apparently on his way to his room. He was dressed in his best suit so it was obvious that he had planned to go to Roble.

David stopped in front of the Chinese boy and said, “Hey, there, you are going the wrong way. The reception is the other way.”

“I realize that, but my friend is ill with La Grippe and I thought I might go by myself but now, I don’t think it would be such a good idea.”

Milt immediately offered, “Come with us, we’re a little late but it shouldn’t make any difference.”

“No, no, you don’t even know my name.”

“So what is your name”? Milt and David said almost simultaneously.

“Walter Ngon Fong.”

“Glad to meet you, Walter.” Both Milt and David, shook his hand briskly. “Now, that we know each other, there is no excuse why you shouldn’t come with us.”

Walter thought for a moment. “No, there isn’t.” He changed his direction and the three boys ran down the stairs in high spirits into the now empty reception area, with absolutely no one there, out the front door, and into the dimming light of the early fall evening.

Eventually, out of breath, they all stopped running and started walking briskly west on the paved pathway toward Roble.

“So what part of the country are you from, Walter?” Asked Milton. He had not heard the gossip about the Chinese students.

“From San Francisco, close by, and you two where are you from?”

“I’m from Redlands, a small town in Southern California and David, here is from Riverside. I know you know where that is.” Milt was joking but he could see that Walter did not understand his sense of humor.

“No, I have never heard of either of those cities. Most of my life has been spent in San Francisco but my family went to San Diego and stayed at the Hotel Del Coronado. Have you been there, Milton?”

“Pretty posh place for my family. My Dad works for the railroad. Once at San Diego after we won a football game, they gave us a 232

reception.. I will never forget the dinner we had of steak and abalone. Did it taste good!”

“You like abalone? You will have to come to my uncle’s restaurant in San Francisco.”

At that moment they could see a dark shape in front of them, slowly moving in the direction of Roble. As they got closer, they could hear the sound of canes striking the pavement. It had to be George Gardner.

“George, George. Wait for us,” shouted David.

The cane sounds stopped. “Do I have any choice?” George retorted.

“Yes, you have a choice,” Milt said as he clapped George on the shoulder and gave him a little shake. David did the same since both of Georges’ hands were busy supporting his weight. “I want you to meet our new friend, Walter Ngon Fong. He is from San Francisco. Walter, this is the renowned, George Gardner.”

“Glad to meet you, Walter. I would shake your hand but I am afraid that I would end on the ground if I did.”

“I have seen you around George and I have always wanted to make your acquaintance. This is an honor.” And Walter bowed slightly from his waist toward George. George was taken aback by the show of homage and didn’t know what to do next.

In the growing darkness, Milton broke the awkward silence. “Well, it looks like you two are going to get along, famously. Let’s quit this jawing or all those beautiful angels are going to be too busy to even talk to us.”

Because of George’s impediment, the group moved slowly but surely toward their destination. The kerosene light on Roble’s porch was still lit and as the group walked through the doorway, Mrs. Leach was still there to greet them. When she saw Walter, her eyes did jump slightly but that was the extent of her reaction. Walter noticed but he was used to it.

Mrs. Leach had to call to one of the girls to make up the name cards. By now most of them had deserted their stations for food, drink and conversation. The boys pinned their tags on and then looked around to see what was happening. At that point, David heard Sally’s vigorous voice calling out to him, “David, David, over here, over here.”

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David could not believe his eyes. As he walked toward Sally and Delores and Betsy, he recognized Rubin and their janitor, Will Greer and then he saw Sam Cutter with all of his gang.

Immediately, Sam grasped David’s hand, before he could say anything, in a show of friendship, mock friendship in this case. “David Cooper, well I live and breath, welcome to you and all your friends.” It was as if he was the host and it was his party. “Let’s introduce everyone to everyone.” Freck, Mitch, Winko, Milton, George and Walter shook hands all around and the newly arrived fellows nodded to the young ladies. By now, the group had grown to such proportions that it had spawned smaller groups that were busy discussing different matters. Freck and Mitch were standing before Betsy, who was still seated. The three of them were talking about the nightly raids on the Stanford’s vineyards and some close encounters with a watchman that apparently was both sightless and deaf and about different spreads they liked to eat. Winko, whose parents were strictly Republican, appeared to be fascinated by Rubin’s socialistic tendencies. George Gardner and Will Greer, more Democrats than Socialists, joined them. Sally, as usual interested in new faces and thoughts, corralled Walter against one of the acru walls near the stairway and was questioning him about his family in San Francisco, their customs and why he had decided to come to LSJrU. Walter enjoyed the attention of the beautiful young blonde woman he had admired like all the rest of Encina.

David, whether he liked it or not, found himself standing beside Sam Cutter before a seated Delores who appeared to be enjoying the attention of both young men. David could not help but notice, looking down at her, the two slight bulges below her shoulders where her small breasts protruded and her olive skin at the parting of her high-necked gown. He also looked down at her dark hair that hung in long waves around her oval face. She was a beautiful girl much more beautiful than Sally, the one all the boys were in love with. He wondered if Sam Cutter also appreciated this fact.

Sam was busy describing trips and excursions he had taken with his Mother and Father on their frequent trips to Europe. He found that neither David nor Delores knew much of the world outside of Southern California so he could expound freely about places he had only read about without fear of being contradicted. “I will never forget when we were in Rome and I saw the Mona Lisa,” he said.

“I always thought the Mona Lisa was in Paris,” David interrupted. It was one of the few things he knew. His English teacher was a fan of Da Vinci. 234

“Yes, yes, Paris. I meant to say Paris. We were staying in this little hotel by the Seine and Mama said she wanted to stroll along the riverside and along the way, I got lost and Papa called out the Police with their blood hounds.” Sam wasn’t sure where this story would take him but he could tell by Delores’ widening eyes that it interested her and that was all that mattered. His eyes, too, wandered all over her body as he spoke. Even though he was talking about Paris, he was thinking about her quim.

In spite of himself, David thought Sam’s stories were interesting, about a world he had only glimpsed from afar. He realized that in this new world of Stanford, the stories he could tell about orchards and smudge pots would not be enough. He could tell Delores was completely engrossed.

There was the tinkling sound of a spoon against glass. Miss Leach was attempting to get everyone’s attention.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a short program for your edification,” she said enunciating every syllable distinctly as if she were on the stage playing an English Dame.

Everyone stopped talking and listened with rapt attention as Roble’s young ladies sang several songs and then played instrumental compositions on the piano and mandolins.

Immediately after the selections were completed the din of young voices returned to full volume. In just a matter of a little more than a week, this group of young men and women had much in common to discuss: the opening ceremonies, the Senator and Mrs. Stanford, the muddy waters to wash in, the bad food being served at Encina, the late evening shenanigans at the vineyards, Professors, good and bad, and, of course, the flat car incident that by now, everyone, at Encina had participated in. Even Pudge’s name came up several times.

Too quickly the magic hour of 9:30 arrived and Miss. Leach announced to the assembled students, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I so sorry it is now 9:30 and the gentlemen must depart. I am sure that our young ladies have much enjoyed your company. Adieu. Adieu,” she said in her theatrical manner.

As Sam Cutter with his gang sauntered toward the doorway, Will Greer came up to him and whispered in his ear, “If you ever again step into our room, I will thrash you within an inch of your life,” and turned about returning to Rubin’s side.

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Sam smiled at the words. It was good that he was creating such a stir. Dear Dolores appeared to be more interested in him than David. Sally was not interested at all. It would be a challenge to conquer her. Perhaps Delores should be the first Stanford girl to feel his dick in her quim.

By 9:45, Roble’s reception area, except for a clean up crew made up of entirely of Chinamen, was deserted.

Before Delores went to sleep that night, Betsy told her that she had really enjoyed talking to Mitch and they had arranged to see one another on Monday morning after 10:30 class at the archway at the west end of the quad. Then she asked about how it had gone with David and Sam. Delores answered, “David is such a handsome boy but Samuel was so interesting and exciting.” With those words, both girls went to sleep.

Bert Hoover and Fred Williams ended up going home early. They had not seen David and his friends in the corner by the stairs and, after an hour of silence, they decided to call it an evening. As they went up Encina’s front steps they encountered a young man, who looked much younger than most students, carrying a small satchel heading down the steps toward Mayfield. He strode into the night without saying a word to either of them. Bert thought about asking him if he had made arrangements for his laundry but by the look on the young man’s face, thought better of it. Apparently, he was in hurry. He did not even say, “Good Evening,” to either of them. Bert and Fred went up to their room and quickly fell asleep. Tomorrow was Saturday but there was lots of studying to do and for Bert more work to make ends meet.

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Chapter Six

Ghostly Appearances

Next morning, after breakfast, Sam made his way back to Maggie O’Grady’s house in Mayfield. He was anxious to find out how Wilfred, her son, had done last night during the Roble reception.

The morning was overcast with clouds and the lack of sunlight made the cottage look more dismal. Even from outside, he could hear the clatter of the six children shouting to one another. Another day in the O’Grady household had begun. After his repeated knocking, Claire, the daughter, finally answered the door..

“It’s that man, again, Ma.” She shouted. The girl, like all the others, was barefooted, and looked as if she had just awakened. Her thin dress hung to one side showing the beginnings of woman hood. “And what are you gaping at?” she said to him with an knowing look on her face. At nine, she already knew what he was gaping at.

Sam had to smile. “May I come in,” he said in as courtly voice as he could muster for the moment.

“Suit yourself.” She ran off through the door that led to the kitchen.

All the rest of the clan had miraculously congregated in the dimly lit living room to inspect this rare, early morning visitor including Wilfred whose activities the preceding evening was the reason for Sam being there.

“Good morning, Wilfred.” Said Sam who had already coached Wilfred on two previous occasions on the simple task of properly saying, “Good Morning” and “Good Evening” and “Sorry, wrong room.”

Wilfred was not a quick learner but he still managed a “Good Morning” that would be passable in Encina’s corridors.

“So, how did it go, last night”?

A broad smile brightened Wilfred’s face. “I did good,” he said.

“You did well.” Sam corrected him.

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“I did well.” The smile disappeared but the face still showed signs that Wilfred was enjoying his new status as the prime culprit in the O’Grady family.

“So where’s the booty?” asked Sam looking around the room.

“Ma’s got it.”

At that very moment, Maggie O’Grady, walked into the parlor from the kitchen carrying a small bag. Sam thought she was probably listening at the doorway to hear what was said. If it had been his son, he would have.

“Here it is,” she said and emptied the bag on the table in front of the unlit fireplace. Out came an assortment of trinkets, only young men could have possessed and prized. There were some cheap watches, bottles of ink, inkstands, pocketknives, pencil sharpeners, penholders, erasers, even paper clips, some drawing instruments, pocket rules, and assorted yellow lead pencils. If nothing else, it did show that Wilfred was thorough if not discriminating. Sam was not worried; that would come later.

“Not much here, but it is a beginning. And where’s the cash, old lady?”

Before the words were hardly out of his mouth, she replied, “No cash.”

Sam was not surprised at her quick response. “Listen, old one. That’s a lie. I have already spent two dollars for clothes for your young son and I do not expect to be lied to. I planted some cash just to see what you might do.”

She hesitated a moment. Sam had come up to her expectations even though she knew he was bluffing. “Well, then,” she disappeared back into the kitchen and returned with one hand of small bills and the other filled with coins. “There, that was all there was,” and she added the cash and change to the contents of the table.

“There was more,” Sam did not ask a question, it was a statement.

Maggie disappeared, again, and this time returned with two eagles in her hand. The heavy coins were also dropped into the pile. Two more eagles remained hidden in a green pepper pot in the kitchen.

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“Good, good. I will only say this only once. If you hold back on me, again, I will end this relationship. You and your family stand to gain a great deal if you are not so greedy.”

Sam picked up the eagles and put them in his pocket. “Where is the money from the articles, I gave you to sell.”

She put her hand inside of her dress and pulled out a small roll of dollar bills and gave them to him. He took two of the bills off the top and handed them to her. “Here is your share,” he said. She put the two bills back inside her dress. Sam thought how safe they would be there.

“And these are for you to sell.” He motioned toward the sundry assortment of objects still on the table. “And this if for you to keep.” He sorted out the small bills and change for her and took the larger ones for him self and put them in his pocket. “Not bad for the first time. Did he run into any problems?” Sam assumed that Maggie would do the talking for her son.

“He said a boy was sleeping in one of the rooms. The boy did not wake up so he shut the door and went to the other rooms. He said that when he was leaving two boys were coming up the stairs. They did not say anything to him.”

Sam looked at Wilfred. “Did you say, ‘Good Evening,’ like I told you.”

Wilfred looked away, sheepishly.

“You didn’t say anything, clod.” Sam raised his voice. “Wilfred, you must say the words I teach you or you will be caught and sent to jail. Do you know what jail is?”

“Yes, I know what jail is. My friend’s pa’s there and he haint seen him for weeks.”

“There is a jail in Mayfield that they will send you to and there are guards to keep you there and bars on the window. You must do what I tell you to do.”

Maggie didn’t like Sam threatening her son but she knew Sam was right. “Listen to what Sam says, now, we’ve all a bit of learning to do,” she said.

“All right, since you all are here, we might just as well have a lesson. All together, now, Good Evening.” 239

All five children including the old woman said, “Good Evening,” trying to imitate the same tone and pronunciation as Sam. Sam thought how comical they looked with their faces covered in jam and dirt and hair sticking all different ways. They were trying so hard but it was not even close. He did notice how Claire was particularly attentive..

He repeated the salutation. “Again, Good Evening.”

This time the group did better and there was some improvement. Sam would not give up. He could see that with training, they could make him a great deal of money. He would repeat the words over and over again until they got it right.

He hoped the old lady would not hold out on him, again, but she was not as shrewd as he thought she was. He had never planted any money.

“Again, Good Evening.”

Maggie said the words along with the rest with a slight smile on her forbidding face.

^^^^^^^^^

It would probably be the last weekend that they could go to their secret place. Irene referred to it as such but Fletcher knew better. There were too many students about and with not that much to do with their leisure time, most of them; ladies included had taken to outdoor excursions all over the area. Fletcher had heard of hikes to La Honda in the Sierra Morena Mountains and Dr. Jordan had been over to the coast to Monterey and Santa Cruz, several times, with members of the faculty to inspect marine life.

Some of the hardier men were thinking about going to the Lick Observatory in the hills east of San Jose. They would travel the same roads Fletcher had taken when he first walked from Alviso to Mayfield one summer night, months ago. It was logical with all these comings and goings that some were traipsing around the hills behind Adelante Villa just as Irene and Fletcher were.

As Fletcher led the way through the dense thickets and trees, up and down into arroyos, he could see that others had passed this way fairly recently. The path was now wider and the ground firmer and branches that would have once impeded progress were broken off. At first, neither 240

of them spoke as they walked. Then thoughts of what had happened during the week began to express themselves.

“Did I tell you about our little violinist?” asked Irene.

“No, not yet,” responded Fletcher as held back with his clothed arm some poison ivy he had spied growing next to the path so that Irene would not brush against it. “You have to watch out for this pesky stuff. It seems to be all over the place.”

“You know how I hate it. One of the girls had such a bad case; I had to call Dr. Woods. Anyway, one of our other young girls has taken to practicing her violin. I thought she played quite well but some of the girls complained about the screeching sounds she made so she went outside. You can guess where.”

“Near the grave.”

“No, not near it, over it. Wait a second. I’ve caught my hair on a branch.” She was trying to untwine her light brown hair with one hand as she still held a wicker basket filled with sandwiches they planned to eat.

Fletcher was carrying a vacuum with hot coffee. He turned back toward Irene. “Here, let me help you, my darling,” and he put down the coffee and gently freed Irene from her hindrance.

“You are so gallant, my young prince.”

“Not so young, but I am your prince and you are my beautiful princess.” Irene’s eyes glistened. She had never considered herself to be beautiful but if Fletcher thought so, so be it. She said, “Listen to us talking like lovers.”

“And that is what we are.” Fletcher wondered as these romantic words poured from his lips. It was as if a dyke had been breeched.

By now both of them had put down their encumbrances and had both of their hands around one another’s waist. They kissed with great affection. And kissed, again, with even greater ardor.

Later, after straightening their attire, they resumed their conversation and continued hiking.

“And what were you saying about, playing a violin over a grave?” asked Fletcher. 241

“Mrs. Coon’s gravesite is in complete disrepair, the gravestone has toppled over and the weeds and tall grass have done their duty so there was no way a person would have known what was there. Our violinist decided to step up on the grave marker that could double as her stage and perform, and who should wander by but dearest Edith, you know Dr. Jordan’s daughter and I think her words were, ‘Please don’t awaken the dead.’”

Fletcher had to chuckle, “That Edith, she is something else.”

“Yes, I love her. She is like having another adult in the house but I do wish she would have kept her mouth shut, just this once.”

“How could she? It was bound to happen. A gravesite, young girls and their vivid imaginations. Irene, it is a mixture that will not combine. You might as well admit to it now before you spend too much money on the place.”

Irene acted as if she had not heard his last remarks. “Within the hour everyone in the house knew of the gravesite and now the girls at night require special attention. When they hear something, whether it is an owl hooting or a coyote howling, or our dog baying, we can be awakened at any time with a knock on our door and a tiny voice complaining about ghostly sounds and we must get out of bed and check to see what is happening. I have heard that some of the girls have already written to their parents.”

“And what has Mrs. Coon been up to?”

Irene said as if she were recounting the activities of a living person, “She considers the top floor where the nursery was to be is her domain and I have purposely kept both those two rooms vacant but sometimes she manages to do her rustling on the second floor.”

“You talk to her, regularly.”

She paused in mid-step and Fletcher looked back and stayed with her. “Yes, we have had a few conversations. I rather like her and I do understand how she must feel. With the nursery and all she must have wanted children and the old coot, Judge Coon, that is, couldn’t provide. Hearing little girls flitting around must torment her.” Irene paused when she heard what she had just said. “Am I mad, Fletcher, it isn’t going to workout, is it?”

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They were still lingering. “No, I’m sorry to say, it isn’t. It doesn’t help that you are so taken with Mrs.Coon. Imagine your poor boarders seeing you in deep conversation before a grave site.”

“And we will have to find another place for our school, won’t we Fletcher?”

“Yes, you will.”

“What a shame,” was all Irene could say. Now, she would miss the ghost. They continued on their way.

^^^^^^^^^^

Somewhere along the line, Fletcher took the wrong turning. He could tell from the foliage and surroundings that they were in a different section of the foothills. Irene also noticed. It must have been his engrossment in the conversation about the ghost. Whatever the reason, he was not sure of their whereabouts.

“Are we lost?” Irene asked, noticing his reticence.

“No, no, well, sort of, back at the last fork, I must have gone left instead of right. Perhaps we should go back?”

“It’s pretty here,” Irene enjoyed the change of scenery and they could see evidence of a unknown human hand’s cultivation. Trees had been trimmed and the path was now open and much wider and stones had been placed where one might step over what later might be puddles.

“It looks like we are getting close to where someone lives,” Fletcher spoke in a low voice as if he might be overheard. He still remembered the law of the territories where settlers did not appreciate strangers crossing over their property line.

Irene was curious. Neither of them knew that anyone lived up this way. When Fletcher stopped and looked as if he were going to turn back, Irene said, “Come on. Don’t be an “a fraidy cat.” She took his hand and pulled him up the path and they started to run and laugh at the same time until coming around a blind bend, both of them almost ran into a man coming in the opposite direction. They pulled up abruptly. Irene and Fletcher were startled at the appearance of the stranger but the man appeared not to be ruffled in the least and immediately doffed his hat to 243

Irene in a courtly manner and said, “Madam, Sir. Welcome,” in a broad French accent.

He stood before them with his soft wide brimmed hat in his hand waiting for their response. He was a short middle-aged man with the beginnings of a paunch, well dressed in dark clothing and a white shirt with a long string bow tie. His dark gleaming eyes were the most prominent feature of his face along with a reddish nose that appeared to have inhaled its share of wine. He had a crisply trimmed moustache and goatee. It could be said his demeanor was that of a French gentleman farmer.

Fletcher stepped between the man and Irene. In spite of the man’s courtly conduct, Fletcher was always protective and trained to be cautious. “I am sorry to disturb you, sir. We got off the path, somehow.”

“I am glad you did. I don’t usually have too many visitors but lately, it seems, a few of your confederates have made their way here. Please, let me introduce myself. I am Henri Gentile.”

Henri waited for them to respond but when Fletcher stood there without saying a word, he turned away from them and beckoned them to follow. “Madame and Monsieur, please follow me; you must have a glass of wine with me. You are not the first; other Stanford students have already visited me and enjoyed my hospitality.”

Fletcher was less wary knowing that others had already been there but he still hesitated. Irene could hardly wait to see what lay ahead. She gently pushed Fletcher along and gave him a quick look of distain at his obvious rudeness. Henri Gentile turned around, again, and beckoned them to follow him. “Come and see my humble abode,” he said and turned back to the path with Irene and Fletcher following him.

After about fifty more yard along the path, they came to a secluded and exquisitely gardened spot on the banks of a miniature arroyo. In the center of the clearing stood a small one story whitewashed, wooden cottage over which the tricolors of a large French flag waved. Around the cottage were cultivated beds of roses, carnations, and pansies that had obviously been lovingly cared for. In front were randomly placed old wooden tables and chairs and benches, which appeared to have had heavy use and gave the place the feeling of an open inn.

When they stopped before the cottage, Fletcher made up for his breech of etiquette. “Mr. Gentile, please excuse me. This is Irene Butler and my name is Fletcher Martin.”

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Henri Gentile nodded his head to Irene and shook Fletcher’s hand. Fletcher noticed that in spite of Mr. Gentile’s gentlemanly appearance his right hand was small but rough and callused like a workman’s.

“I am very pleased to meet the both of you. And even though you arrived here by happenstance, I hope you will enjoy my offerings. Now, please be seated for a moment while I find a few wine glasses and a suitable bottle for the occasion. You do drink the wine, right?”

Irene spoke for the first time, “Yes, we do and we will enjoy whatever you bring.”

Henri smiled. It was obvious that he was taken with Irene. “Well, then, excellent. I will return in moment.” He disappeared through the cottage’s door.

They sat down across from one another at a picnic table with a bright red checked oilcloth on it and looked at each other without speaking. Fletcher’s face had the look of “What have you got us into?” Irene was smiling at his reaction and whispered to him, “You are so conservative. Relax. He seems like a nice man. This could be fun.”

In a few moments, Henri returned carrying a bright, dark green tin tray with three wine glasses and a plate of what appeared to be small pieces of different cheeses in one hand and an opened bottle of red wine in the other.

“Since it is mid-day, I selected a very light Beaujolais that is merely days old. Also here is some goat cheese that I get from a neighbor. It is magnificent.”

He sat beside Irene and graciously poured her wine first, then Fletcher’s and finally his own. Henri waited patiently for Irene to sip her own glass before proceeding to take his own sip and then sat back at complete ease with his new companions.

Irene broke the silence. “Have you been here long, Mr. Gentile.”

“Many, many years, Mademoiselle. So long that I can hardly remember the days I lived in my mother country. A friend of mine recommended that I come here. He said I would find the solace I needed at the time because of the untimely death of my wife. The friend’s name was Paulin Caperon. You may know him better as Peter Coutts.”

Fletcher became interested. “Peter Coutts, he was the fellow that Senator Stanford bought his farm from. His cottage, Escontite, is where 245

Dr. Jordan is living, now. I always wondered what was behind a French name in the midst of all the Spanish designations.”

“Yes, Paulin was very good to me. He helped me find this land and then gave me his and his family’s friendship until, unfortunately, he had to go back to France.”

“So you knew him, how wonderful.” Irene was obviously impressed.

“I knew him like a brother. He was the most honorable man I shall ever be acquainted with.”

Fletcher always managing to be direct and outspoken said, “The tales I have heard said that he was a thief and embezzler.”

“Ah, yes, a simple matter of millions of francs. I jest, of course.” Henri put his hand to his mouth to hide the slight smile that had brightened his face. He continued in a more serious vein, “ After the Franco-Prussian War a vast sum was there for the taking. I doubt if any of us would have looked the other way. As it was, he used the money to good advantage in the local area. He acquired a tract of fourteen hundred acres next to Mayfield, built the cottage and the brick library, stocked his farm with fine horses and cattle, planted trees on many hillsides and then tunneled the hills for water which is in short supply as you know. He was planning to build a castle on the hill overlooking Mayfield. I would suggest that much of the beauty of the site where the university sets, now, is owed to my friend, Paulin.”

“And then, it is said he and his family disappeared, one day,” Irene said.

“Not exactly the truth, Madame. I remember the day that Paulin came here and told me that French constables had found him and wanted to take him back to France. He convinced them that he needed a year to sell his properties and put his situation in order and he asked them to return in a year and then he would return with them. This they agreed to.”

Fletcher was incredulous that this might have happened. With great disbelief showing on his face, he said, “Do you mean to tell us that they trusted him that much? It would seem that he would have run away with his family.”

Henri was aghast at the thought. “Sir, you are talking about the word of a French gentleman. To run away would be unthinkable. A year to the day, the constables returned and Paulin was waiting for them. Before they departed to take him back to France, they sat down to a wonderful 246

dinner, which Paulin personally cooked. This I can verify because I was one of the other guests.”

“Unbelievable,” said Fletcher, he was thinking that from his experience a man was either honorable or a thief. He had never known a person to be both. This man, Paulin Caperon or Peter Coutts, or whatever his name was, must have been the rare exception.

“A truly wonderful story,” said Irene. She thought how only a Frenchman would have concocted such a noble tale.

^^^^^^^^^

After imbibing a few glasses of wine and continuing a conversation where Henri learned about Irene and Lucy establishing the girl’s boarding school and their trials with the gravesite and then Fletcher’s adventures in the Indian Territories and his interest in classical literature, (Fletcher and Henri conversed for a few minutes in Latin.), the light of a late autumn afternoon began to fade. Everyone agreed that it might be best if Irene and Fletcher should make their way back to the Villa and Henri insisted they should come again and visit him as soon as possible. He made it clear that he no longer visited the valley. All of his food and drink were either grown on his property or came to him as a result of trading with local neighbors. The valley had become too populated for his liking.

He also gave the couple specific instructions about how they should get back home via the most direct route. He had placed discreet signs along the path that they could use to guide them back to help them return

They began their journey in haste knowing only an hour of light remained. Without a lantern, night would bring dangers they did not want to deal with.

About two miles from the Villa, dusk had almost turned to darkness and both Irene and Fletcher were glad it would only a matter of minutes and they would back home. They were now walking on flat land on a lonely dirt road. On either side of the road were tall oak trees with their boughs overhanging the road. The couple was walking hand in hand and Irene felt Fletcher’s hand squeeze hers when they both heard a sound in a bough above the road about fifty feet from them. The creaking sound could have only been caused by the weight of a heavy object.

“Did you hear that?” Irene whispered.

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“Yes,” was Fletcher’s reply, the hairs on the back of his neck were rising.

Both of them stopped dead in their tracks as a wildcat jumped down out of the oak tree ahead of them and began moving slowly in the middle of the road in a bee-line toward them.

The cat was about four times the size of a normal house cat. Because of the lack of light it was impossible to see its markings or know its coloring. All that could be seen were the occasional glint of its eyes as it silently made its way in their direction.

Both Fletcher and Irene had heard and read about accounts of such creatures still living in the area. No one, to their knowledge had been killed, but recently the Mayfield Gazette described how a wildcat had mauled a local teenage boy. The boy had been severely scratched across his face and upper torso. A group of local hunters had attempted to find and kill the wildcat but they had been unsuccessful. Could this be that same creature?

In such moment as this, Fletcher had two courses of action, flight or fight. The woman he loved stood at his side so the first alternative would be impossible. As to the second, every bone in his body demanded that he fight and he was even tempted to attack even though he had no weapon to defend himself with.

Irene knew her man and knew what he must be thinking. She cautioned him, “Don’t do a thing. It is his road, let him have it.”

Inwardly, she felt her own body shaking from the danger but outwardly she did not move a muscle and she could tell that Fletcher was trying to follow her example. She cautiously pulled Fletcher to one side of the road and they both watched the dimly lit wild cat continue its stroll toward them without varying its speed or direction.

It was now ten feet away. Five. It passed them without even a glance in their direction. Whatever the cat was heading toward was much more important than what it was passing. Without words, Irene and Martin commonly agreed, “After all it is his road.”

Irene was tempted to turn around and see what the big cat was up to but instead remained immobile and silent. After a few minutes, she felt Fletcher moving slightly ahead and pull her hand with him to walk very slowly at first but with each step a little faster. As they both picked up speed they laughed out loud because of the sight they must be making and also, out of sheer relief. Eventually, their pace quickened to almost a trot 248

and after five minutes of this, which should have put some distance between them and the first sighting of the cat, Fletcher stopped and looked back. He had to make sure the wildcat was not tracking them.

It was gone and only the barren road almost invisible now because of the darkness stretched behind them.

Both breathed a deep sigh of relief and resumed their normal gait, which after about thirty minutes brought them back to the lights and safety of Adelante Villa. Fletcher decided from then on, if there were a possibility they might be somewhere in the wilds when it was dark, he would be armed. First a French hermit, then a wildcat, what an afternoon it has been!

^^^^^^^^^

Later the following week on Thursday, October 15, at exactly 7 pm, Leland Stanford Junior University, its faculty, students and staff experienced their first earthquake. The earthquake was a mild one lasting only a second or so. Glasses and plates rattled in cupboards and books that were placed precariously on shelves or pictures not hung properly fell to the floor but outside of those annoying instances nothing untoward happened. There was no significant property damage or any sort of personal injuries.

Maggie O’Grady and her six children were in the front parlor of their cottage near the Mayfield Station practicing what Sam Cutter had taught them the previous evening. Maggie with significant assistance from her daughter, Claire, had become quite a taskmaster.

It was as if a door of opportunity had been opened for her children to walk though and she would not allow it to slam shut. In her travels throughout Mayfield she had begun to listen to the speech of its well- educated citizens and to watch how they conducted themselves so that she could pass on her knowledge to her offspring. She knew better than to rely on the likes of Sam Cutter. He might drop them like a hot potato.

“Now, Wilfred, what do you say when someone catches you in their room?” she asked her son.

“Excuse me…”

“Yes, that’s the start of it.”

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“Excuse me I gotta go.”

“No, that’s not it at all,” Claire, the daughter, corrected him, “I writ down what Sam said last night. He said to say,” and here she did a good job of imitating Sam’s voice and pronunciation, ‘Excuse me; I am on the wrong floor. Sorry I bothered you.’ Then you walk out slow and easy like and once you are around the corner, you run like hell. That is what Sam said you do.”

At that moment the whole house shuttered and shook.

Claire, Wilfred, Maggie and the other children looked at each other for a brief moment and then resumed what they were doing. Such a happenstance was hardly worth noting.

About a mile away, east of Mayfield, at Escontite Cottage, David Starr Jordan was helping his wife clear the dishes from a dinner she had just prepared. It had not been successful. The chicken was underdone and the vegetables overcooked. With all of her assets as a woman, Jessie Jordan was not a good cook and particularly since she was due to have a baby in the next three to four weeks, preparing food was not one of her priorities. They had not been able to replace Ah Sing. None of the potential cooks Jessie interviewed would do beds.

“My God, what was that?” For a second, Dr. Jordan stood his ground while the earth seemed to roll slightly underfoot. He could hear the rattling and clinking sounds of glassware and plates, and then the shattering of a glass falling and breaking that must have been placed near the edge of the dinner table by his young son, Knight.

“Daddy, Daddy.” Knight ran into the room and launched himself into Dr. Jordan’s arms in spite of the plates he already had in his hands making Jordan dropped the plates. Some of them broke as they hit the wooden floor. Never mind, he thought, hugging his son in a safety-assuring embrace

“It’s all right, Knight. Just the wind or something. Must have blown the house a bit. Jessie, Jessie, where are you?” He called out to his wife who was in the kitchen helping the young girl who was staying with them heat up the brownish water to do the dishes.

“Yes, David. I’m here.” She was breathless when she bustled into the room. Normally a small boned woman, the baby she was carrying had almost doubled her body weight. It was not the easiest thing in the world for her to even get around and when your husband called for you in desperation, it was even more difficult. She immediately saw the broken 250

plates and glass on the floor. Sometimes, David was so clumsy. One more job she would have to do. Where was Edith? She should be here, helping. The slight tremor had been of no concern to her but she did say to her husband, “Does anyone know what happened?”

“I told Knight it was a heavy wind,” said Dr. Jordan. He still held his son in his arms in spite of the fact that Knight was squirming to be let down so he could investigate further.

“Impossible, the sensation was from the earth. It seemed to shake for a second.”

Jordan’s eyes lit up. Of course, how stupid of him. “Now, I know what it was. Someone told me this area every so often experienced--an earthquake. . So what do you think of that, Knight, our first earthquake. Quite an experience I would say. No such things in Indiana. Just thunder storms, tornadoes and snow and hale. No earthquakes.”

Knight finally broke free of Dr. Jordan’s grasp. “Earthquake. Earthquake. I will have to tell Edi that we had an earthquake,” and he ran out of the room toward his sister’s bedchamber to tell her the name of the event that had just taken place.

Jordan hurried to help his wife pick up the bits of crockery and shards of glass. With Knight scurrying about, they would have to hurry to clean up the place before he surely cut himself

Edith, Dr. Jordan’s daughter, was reading in her room. She felt the slight tremor, looked up from the page to see that all was back to normal and continued her reading of Mark Twain’s Adventures of Tom Sawyer, only to be thoroughly disturbed when her young brother jumped into her lap on top of her book, shouting “Earthquake. Edi, earthquake.” Edith would have liked to give him a good boxing of his ears. He was such a bother but instead let the book drop to the floor and gave him a hug and listened to his prattle. She loved her half brother dearly even though he was such a scamp.

About a quarter of a mile, west of Escontite Cottage, the electric lights were finally working at Encina Hall. The big event had occurred during the previous weekend and the Business Office had proclaimed, yes, the lights were on but to conserve coal they would be turned off at the Power House at precisely 10:30 pm and remain off until the next morning at 6:00 am. Only candlelight would help those students who were abiding by the number of study hours required for each course. As far as the Business Office was concerned, scholarship was secondary to saving money. 251

Rubin Weinberg, George Gardner, David Cooper and Milt Grosh were in Rubin’s Room #132. They were talking about the rumor they had just heard that the proposed by-law to the student constitution would bar freshman from holding office in the government.

Rubin sat at one end of his bed; David at the other. Milt Grosh had pulled up one of the oak chairs and faced them and George Gardner sat with his two canes leaning on the side of the other chair. Rubin’s roommate, William Greer, a graduate student, had decided to retreat to the lobby and read to leave the freshman to their ruminations.

“I can’t believe they would do this,” Rubin was obviously upset.

George said, “They think they can get away with it and keep all the power to themselves.”

“But the frosh are in the majority. We have fifty per cent of the student body. How can they deny us representation?” replied Rubin.

“They think that we are disorganized and won’t do anything,” added David. He was also upset that the other classes had banded together to oppose them. He felt Rubin moving the bed. He could hear a slight rumbling sound as the stones of Encina Hall settled in. “What are you doing, Rubin?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? What are you doing?” He had thought it was David moving the bed.

George looked at both of them, then at Milt. “That was an earthquake.”

For a few seconds there was silence and then Encina Hall erupted into a form of bedlam amidst the sounds of screams, laughter and shouting. What a great way to escape the tedium of studying Latin or French Literature. Boys jumped up from whatever they were doing, which was mostly studying, and charged into the hallway. Some, who had experienced more serious shakes or were just following the mob, headed down the stairways in various stages of undress to seek safety outdoors. Pretending there was an emergency was more fun than if one had actually occurred.

Rubin, David, George and Milton stayed where they were and waited to see what would happen next. David, Milton and George were from Southern California and had experienced the earth’s shifting before. 252

Rubin, from Omaha, had no idea what was going on but decided to follow the example of his friends.

George with his canes really had no alternative. He could feel his heart beating a little faster than normal. “So what do you think?” he asked.

David looked around and looked up at the ceiling. He went to the window and looked out. Outside it was dark but nothing seemed changed from what it was minutes before.

“I think it has passed. We had a really bad one three years ago in Riverside. You must have had it, too, in Pomona, Walt. Remember some of the older buildings went down and there were a few fires. No one was killed, though.”

“I thought the world was going to end. I was sitting out in the WC in the back and at first I thought someone was playing a joke on me and pushing the outhouse over with me in it.” Walt laughed at the experience but George had to force himself to grin.

They could hear more shouts and then it sounded like the students who had gone outside were coming back into the building and coming back up the stairs. All was returning to normal.

The four returned to their original stations and David looked over at George and said, “I know what you must be thinking and I just want you to know that if we three are around and something like that happens, again, our first thought will be to find you and get you out of here, no matter what it takes.”

Grosh and Rubin nodded in agreement and the four of them made a joint shake of hands. It was a vow. George felt a shiver go up the back of his neck. He had never known friendship like this, before.

Rubin continued his original conversation as if nothing had happened, “This is what we should do. When they come up with that proposal for the constitution, we should all walk out of the meeting as a body and pretend we are going to set up our own student government. I believe Robespierre did something like that once.”

George asked, “Do you think it would work?”

“I have no idea, really, but it is worth a try.”

David agreed, “Let’s do it. Let’s spread the word.” 253

Another grasp of one another’s hands and a shout in unison, “Let’s do it.” George thought this is what the Three Musketeers must have felt. He couldn’t help himself, “All for one and one for all,” he shouted. Milt, Rubin, David picked up the battle cry. David started to jump up and down on the bed accompanied by his companions’ cheers.

A mile directly west from Encina Hall, Miss Bingham, the Mistress of Roble, was sitting in her candle-lit room having a cup of tea. Her girls were all in their rooms after eating a less than tasteful supper in their new dining room. The electric lights were still not working but the coal stoves were, so there was no longer a need to stroll to Encina for their meals.

That was a relief. She hated walking through Encina’s front lobby with all those ruffians about but she did have to admit that this past weekend, at their first reception, the ruffians had become complete gentlemen. She was taken by surprise at their manners and how smoothly the whole event had gone.

Her main concern had become Mrs Leach, the matron, who was the blight of her life. First, the food her staff prepared was terrible and second, the woman took every opportunity to show her up. Miss Bingham wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take and last week had seriously considered going to Mr. Lathrop and giving him her resignation. But then the reception had gone so well and her girls had looked so beautiful and sweet, she had decided to stay on.

What was that? The cup of tea in her hand rattled in its saucer and the chair she sat in moved. She could hear one of her glass vases fall to the floor and break and then the first sounds of girls calling out to one another. It was an earthquake. In Indiana, they never had earthquakes but Mr. Lathrop had mentioned how the earth might shake and he had said if it was serious she should have all the girls leave the building at once. Miss Bingham grabbed the candle in its holder and rushed into the halls.

“Everyone, out. “Outside, everyone,” she shouted in her high rasping voice.

She moved to the stairway and as she went up the stairs, she was still shouting, “Everyone, out. “Outside, everyone.”

Then through the halls continuing her cries of alarm, which were quickly turning to sound more and more beseeching than demanding because no one was moving in the halls and it appeared that no one was going outside. A few of the girls stuck their heads into the hallways and looked up and down and decided to return to their studies. 254

Mrs. Bingham caught up to Miss Leach on the third floor. “What are you doing, you silly woman,” she said and stood before her blocking her way. “It was just a slight tremor and it’s over with and there is no need for alarm. Go back to your room and stop frightening these girls.”

Miss Bingham attempted to push Mrs. Bingham aside but because of her girth found the task was a bit too much for her. Instead she shouted into her ear for all to hear, “Get out of my way, bitch, Mr. Lathrop told me to evacuate and that is what we will do.” Then, she did manage to use every ounce of her ladylike strength to push Mrs. Bingham backwards and in the process the Matron fell to the floor on her bottom.

By now, all of the girls on the third floor had left their rooms and were circling around the two older women waiting to see what would happen next. In the floors below, words were being passed, “Mrs. Leach and Miss Bingham are having at it.” Within minutes the third floor was packed with young ladies in their nightdresses carrying candles.

Mrs. Leach slowly picked herself up from the floor. It was not an easy task. Finally two of the girls helped her. There was a murderous look on her face and she did not take her eyes off Miss Bingham who stood valiantly before her with both of her petite hands gathered into tight fists waiting for Mrs. Leach to continue the fray.. With her legs apart and in a crouching position, her arms rigidly thrust out and fists clinched, Miss Bingham resembled a bantam rooster attempting to do a poor imitation of Jim Jeffries. The girls who had a good view saw hatred in both the women’s eyes. If weapons had been available, assuredly they would have destroyed one another.

As it was, Mrs. Leach wisely looked around and became aware of the spectacle the two women were making of themselves before the very eyes of their charges. She dusted off the broad backside of her frock and quickly regained her composure. She turned away from Miss Bingham and said more to the assembled ladies than to her adversary, “Now, we see what kind of lady you are,” and marched back down the hall and back down the flights of stairs to her office in the cellar where she slammed her door shut. She wished now that she had not involved herself with Miss Bingham’s rantings. She still had work to do to prepare for next morning’s breakfast.

Miss Bingham, currently facing no opponent but the watching girls, slowly dropped her fists, brought both hands up to the top of her head to straighten out the untidy bun of hair that in the fray had become unraveled, turned her head slowly around and saw all the angelic faces swathed in candlelight silently and, in her eyes, contemptuously looking at her. She 255

brought her hands back to cover her face and began to sob softly at first but quickly growing loud enough so that it could be heard throughout the Hall. Even Mrs. Leach in her cellar office heard. The sound brought a smile to her dry lips.

Delores and Sally, who were standing close by, took Miss Bingham by her shoulders and gently led her back down the stairway to the first floor and then to her room. She went straight away to her bed and fully clothed dumped herself on it. They left her there and shut the door and could still hear her weeping through the closed door..

Lying on her bed, her head thrust deep into a downy pillow, Miss Bingham could only think, I can’t stand this any longer. I will straight away see Mr. Lathrop tomorrow and resign. I never want to see that stupid, fat whore, again.

North of Roble Hall, Senator Stanford had phoned Timothy Hopkins and asked him to stop by his mansion after dinner. Hopkins arrived shortly before 7pm and was brought straightaway to the Senator’s study. Leland Stanford was seated in his brown leather chair, waiting for Hopkins.

“Mrs. Stanford will meet us in a moment in the parlor. I wanted to talk to you for a few minutes in private.” He motioned to Timothy to sit beside him. “In a few days’ time, Mrs. Stanford and I will be returning to Washington for the winter session. I doubt if we will return here until the spring of next year.”

This was not new information for Hopkins. He had already heard that the Stanfords would be leaving for the capitol. “Yes, Mary told me. I hope you both have a pleasant trip but with your railroad car it will be just like being at home as you make your way to Washington.” Mrs. Stanford had a private railroad car built for her husband by the men in the Sacramento railroad shops. They adored “the Governor.” He knew them all by name. One of the men’s children became very ill and there was a large bill for medical expenses and Senator Stanford took care of it. Because of this and other acts of kindness and friendship special, care was taken to provide the “Stanford” with all the conveniences for their benefactor and his wife as he traveled across country..

A smile crossed Stanford’s face, his relationship with railroad men was one of his greatest treasures. He said, “They treat both Jane and me very well. When I am not here, I am sure if there is ever a need, they will be there for her.” The smile faded and he turned to Timothy. “There is another matter that I wanted you to be aware of.”

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“Yes, sir.” Timothy’s face also became serious and he showed complete attention.

“Over the weekend, Jane and I made a little walk around the university shop buildings to see what was going on. Ariel was with us.”

“Yes, sir.” Timothy had no idea what was coming next. The Senator was in the habit of inspecting. He had done this when his railroad was being built, his horses were being trained, his vines being nurtured, his university being built. It was his nature to make certain that all was going well and as he said many times, “What I can see, I can believe.”

Stanford hesitated for a moment and then continued, “In the engineering shops, we found valuable tools left out and unattended. Anyone could have made off with thousands of dollars of equipment. We found dust and dirt everywhere and doors that were supposed to be locked were left open for anyone to walk in. A deplorable state, I would say. Ariel had already made certain accusations to me that the student janitors were not doing their jobs properly and that they were completely ignoring his demands for improved performance and what we saw with our own eyes proved him to be right. He feels that his Japs and Chinamen would do a much better job and be cheaper in the process. What do you think, Timothy?”

Hopkins hesitated; it would not do for him to answer immediately. He had noticed that the Senator did not appreciate an “off the cuff” response. “You know how much I admire those Chinamen who serve me, but if my memory serves me right isn’t Dr. Swain in charge of the student janitors. Did Ariel approach him and mention his misgivings regarding the derelict duties?”

“Good thought, Timothy. I had the same question and Ariel assured me that he had approached the good doctor and he had shooed him off as if he were a fly. As a result when he confronted the boys directly, they acted like he were the wall. Ariel was completely undone by their reactions.”

“So it would appear….” Hopkins was unable to complete his thought because at that moment the earthquake struck. The mansion shuttered and moaned and in the distance, perhaps in the kitchen, the breaking of glass could be heard. The Senator’s pearl handled cane that he always kept at his side teetered to the floor making a clapping sound

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Timothy automatically put his hand to the Senator’s shoulder to steady him. He could see that the coloring for a second had gone from the Senator’s face. He appeared ashen.

“Are you all right, Senator?” Hopkins looked about and waited for any aftershocks. “It appears to have passed,” he said in a tone that was meant to be calming.

Senator Stanford looked at Timothy with some relief in his eyes, “You’re right, it has passed.” He raised his right hand and his eyes to the ceiling as if he were cursing the Gods in the Heavens above. “The bane of this otherwise lovely area,” he said and after retrieving his cane he looked over at Hopkins and continued his thought, “Even in Sacramento, we suffered them but here near the San Francisco Bay it is much worse. That is why I insisted on twice the thickness of foundations for the university. If we cheapen the materials surely what we have built will come tumbling down on our heads. I watch the pennies but not in such matter as life and death. I think you know the original design for Encina called for high towers at each end of the structure, which I felt, were unsafe for such a building.” Senator Stanford was still breathing heavily as he spoke but his coloring had almost returned to normal.

Mrs. Stanford rushed into the room. “Are you all right, Leland?” She immediately went to sit by her husband and folded her ample arms about him as if he were her child.

His face brightened with her concern. “Yes, dear. I have weathered the storm? How are you?”

Jane Stanford whispered into his ear, “I am all right as long as you are.”

Timothy Hopkins felt uncomfortable witnessing this intimate act between his two patrons. Certainly his mother, Mary Sherwood, had not treated Uncle Mark in this manner and Timothy, true to his lineage, had not shown his wife, Mary Kellogg, any such affection. Hopkins averted his glance to the ceiling so that he would not to bare witness to such endearment.

Still to his wife, the Senator asked, “Is everyone all right? The house seems to have survived.” She responded with a nod of accent.

He got to his feet with the aid of his cane, surveyed his surroundings and took control of the situation. “Timothy, dear fellow, would you make a telephone call to Escontite Cottage and see if Dr. Jordan and his family are all right and would you and he take a little trip around campus to the 258

Halls and perhaps by the faculty homes and to Adelante Villa to look in on the young ladies and then to Cedro Cottage to see if Dr. Richardson and his family are safe and sound. And if you could stop by on your way home and give me a little report, I will certainly appreciate it.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll call Dr. Jordan and we’ll make a little inspection for you and I would guess he and I will be back here in a few hours.

“Thank you, Timothy, I knew I could count on you.” Timothy got us and started to walk out of the study but the Senator had one more request. “And Timothy, please check on the crippled boy, George, at Encina. I just want to make certain he is fairing well.”

“Yes, of course, Senator,” but Hopkins thought, my God, even the crippled boy. The man is overdoing his role as guardian angel.

He bid the Senator and Mrs. Stanford good evening. He found the telephone box, which hung on the wall at the end of the hallway near the main entrance, took the hearing piece attached by a cord to the box and put it to his ear and then spoke in a loud voice into the mouthpiece on the box, itself. “Dr. Jordan, please,” he said to a telephone operator located eighteen miles away in San Jose. He then waited almost five minutes before the connection was made. Sometimes, he thought by the time the connection was made he could have been there with his horse.

Hopkins continued speaking loud enough so that he could be heard throughout the Stanford’s home. “Dr. Jordan. Timothy Hopkins, here. I am at the Senator’s. Are you and the family all right? Yes, I realize it was only a minor one but the Senator is concerned. Yes. Yes. He wants you and I to make a little inspection of the halls and the faculty homes and then report back to him. Are you up for it? Yes, I have Black King with me and I could meet you at Encina Hall in five minutes. Yes, I realize you have to saddle your horse so what if I ride to Escontite and we go from there? Good. Good, I am on my way.”

On his way out the doorway to his waiting horse, he thought he should perhaps call Sherwood Hall to check on the welfare of his wife. No, no, it was just a minor earthquake. No reason to worry. The sooner he got to Escontite, the better. This little task for the Senator would probably take all evening but he liked it when the Senator said he could always count on him. It was true, he could.

And for these little favors perhaps the Senator might change the entrance from the east to the north toward the home sites he now owned.

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^^^^^^^

Sally knew she was neglecting her sworn oath to her father. Since her attempt to assassinate Senator Stanford at the Opening Ceremony, over two week’s before, she had not been able to formulate any further plans to avenge his murder. She was caught up in the swirl of activities that sprang from going to college…attending classes, studying, walking to Encina for their repast, and spending time with her new friends, Delores and Betsy.

She hated her roommate who was obviously intensely jealous of her. One day shortly after the first day of class, she decided to return to her room during the day instead of studying at the library. Outside the door, she heard her roommate obviously discussing Sally with one of her chums.

“The blonde doesn’t have a brain in her head,” her roommate said in a confiding tone.

“But she has been kind to me on several occasions,” the friend said in defense of Sally.

“Only to get on your good side. She knows you are my friend and she wants to draw you away from me.”

Sally had enough. She burst into the room. “Good morning,” she said but she was glaring at her roommate.

“Sally, dear, I was just talking about a girl we knew back home in Woodlands.”

“Yes, of course, I just came to pick up some books. I’ll leave you to your discussions since I do not have a brain in my head and would not know what you are talking about.” With that she picked up two books lying on her study table, swirled around and made her way back out the door, shutting it gently. Too many time she had seen doors slammed and she always felt the act was infantile.

From then on hardly a word had been spoken between the two, which Sally preferred since in her mind the roommate had nothing to say she was interested in. They went their separate ways. She could have asked for another roommate but what was the use. The new one could be even worse. She knew why it was difficult to make girl friends. Sally could see in their eyes when they looked at her. If they could not accept her beauty so be it. For Sally it was a God given gift she would always be 260

thankful for and never be ashamed of and the gift was forever useful in her dealings with the inferior males.

Delores was the first woman that seemed to accept her as a person because Delores was much more beautiful than Sally… much more refined and womanly.. Delores was the most beautiful woman Sally had ever seen. Betsy was all right, not the same as Delores but acceptable as her friend.

After dinner, upon their return from Encina, Sally had made it a habit to take a brief walk and it was during those times that she could speak to her father. It was strange but the subject of revenge did not come up in their conversations. Her gentle father only wanted to hear what his daughter was doing and how she felt and whether she still loved him. It was not her father that felt denied; it was Sally.

The next evening, after the earthquake, Sally took her usual stroll outside Roble Hall inside the pocket of her jacket was the worn picture of her family. When she had an opportunity in the moonlight she would look at the picture and see the gentle features that were etched in her memory. He was the only one she loved. He was the only one she could speak to truthfully and tell him what was in her heart.

After going about fifty yards west of Roble on the main path, she turned north on a side path, she knew of. As she walked she thought she heard something but when she turned her head there was nothing there. The path lead to a small clearing among the dense trees. She looked around, again, to make certain no one was present and touched the photograph in the pocket of her jacket and aloud in her low dusky voice began her soliloquy.

“I’m sorry Daddy, that I wasn’t able to talk to you last night. We had an earthquake and Delores and I were together and we studied and then some girls we knew had a little feed with crackers and chicken salad and some grapes and cider and it was too late to come outside. I know you were wondering where I was but I hope you understand that when I am not here there is a good reason.”

A even lower manly voice came from her lips in reply, “I understand, dear daughter. Do not concern yourself. I am always sure of your lasting love.”

“Daddy, I think you know that I am worried that my oath to you is unfulfilled. Lately, I have been trying during the day to determine the Senator’s time schedule when he takes his tours around the campus. I am 261

also trying to find a hidden position where I might lay in wait for him and shoot him as he goes by.”

“I do not ask this of you. I only care for your safety not the death of Leland Stanford that I know will soon end his days on earth without your help.”

“But I have made a promise to you and can not find peace until my promise is kept.”

“That is your will, dear daughter. Do what you must.”

“Thank you, Daddy. I will return tomorrow and let you know of my progress. Good night, I must return before night falls.”

“Good night, my lovely one,” were the last manly words Sally spoke as she retraced her steps back to the lights of Roble Hall. She came to the clearing before the hall and mounted the steps to the entranceway; her long blonde hair glistened under the kerosene lights. Just before she pulled open the doors, she hesitated. Why was it she felt some one was following her? She opened the heavy doors and closed them behind her.

^^^^^^^^^^

Someone was following her. It was Sam Cutter. Deep in the shadows, he watched her go inside the hall. He had watched her alone in the forested area. For the first time in his life, he did not know what he should do next.

Sam felt Sally had bewitched him. Never before had he felt this kind of lust in heart or was it lust since fucking her was not the intent. It would be nice but merely touching her, to feel her presence would in some ways satisfy him. What craziness was this?

Perhaps it was the frustration of knowing that she did not like him or more likely loathed him that intrigued him most of all. When he saw her in the morning on the Quad, (He intentionally timed his movements so their paths might cross.) sometimes she might nod in acknowledgment that she knew him but many times it was as if he were air, nothing, mere space for her to move through. As she passed, he could smell her body odors. She wore a light perfume that lingered in his nostrils for moments afterwards. Later he would remember the smell as he masturbated. He wanted to grab her, shake her, and move her in some way so that she would look at him, see him and acknowledge his presence.

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By chance because of the moonlight on the way to a grape foraging trip with his Alpha Phi brothers he saw moonlight strike what must have been blonde hair. Immediately he knew that Sally’s hair was the only one that might have made such a reflection, which was moving, purposely on a westerly course along the main path. Sam made an excuse that he needed to pee so that he could separate himself from his brethren and proceeded to follow whom he assumed could only be Sally.

He could feel his heart beginning to pound with the thought that she was close by. Should he rape her? No, that would cause too much of a scene. It would be the first rape on the campus. Let someone else gain that distinction. He would merely follow and find out what her purpose was. Perhaps she was going to meet someone else? The Jew? Hatred flared in his heart for a moment. Perhaps she smoked opium or even did morphine. He would find out her secrets without her knowing and then he would have an advantage over her that would consume her.

Several yards down the main path, she turned north on a trail that looked barely used. Here it became tricky. He was about 50 feet from her. Close enough to see bare glimpses of the light colored frock she was wearing and close enough that if he made a sound she might hear. His heavy shoes broke a twig. She immediately stopped and listened, then resumed her brisk pace as if she knew exactly her destination. By any means, she was not taking a casual stroll.

Suddenly she stopped in a slight clearing between the trees and brush. Sam stopped as well and stealthily moved forward so that he could better see what she was doing. He could hear her earnest voice talking to someone. Sam realized it might be a tryst and even the thought he might view her making love with someone else made him hard.

He moved closer so that he was only 25 feet from her and with the light from the half moon he could see that she was alone. He could only make out a few of the words she spoke:

“Daddy.”

“Earthquake.”

“Delores.”

“Grapes.”

Then a male voice! What madness was this? On the stage in Chicago he had watched a ventriloquist. Was this her diversion? Then, he could hear some of the words this “man” was saying: 263

“Daughter”

“Lasting love”

Was this voice suppose to be that of Sally’s father? And now Sally’s voice could be heard:

“Senator’s time schedule”

“Lay in wait”

“Shoot him”

Was this the game? His beloved was planning to kill the Senator?

It was the father’s turn to speak.

“Death” “Leland Stanford”

Sally said something about, “Promise is kept.”

Her father said, “Do what you must.”

Then Sam heard her saying goodbye to her Father and he (?) was saying goodbye to her. There was no embrace but if she could have embraced herself, Sam was sure she would have done so.

Sam’s mind quickly appraised the situation. What was he hearing? Shoot him? Leland Stanford? What did Senator Stanford have to do with it? Was he involved? And what kind of madwoman had Sam become infatuated with? She was talking to herself. Some part of him said that he should turn around and high tail it out of there and return to the lights of Encina and forget this crazy woman.

Sam stepped several feet back into the brush and again stepped on twig that caused Sally to turn around but she must have thought it was a small animal passing by because she resumed her return trip bringing her directly past Sam, lurking in the darkness. When, for a moment, he saw her lovely face with its almost classical features and deep set eyes and glistening straight blonde hair that hung slightly below her shoulders, any thought of breaking off his meager relationship with her was forgotten.

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As she went past him, he could catch her body odors, that same light perfume which numbed his senses and made any thought of deserting her, vanish. He followed her to Roble Hall and just as she pulled open the doors to go inside, she, again, stopped and looked around as if she was aware that he was there, watching her and it was as though she looked directly at where Sam was hiding but could not see him. For Sam lurking among the bushes, it was not a new experience.

As he hiked back to Encina, Sam thought, how can I take advantage of the secret I now share with Sally Forrest?” Should I stop her? Should I warn the Senator or tell Dr. Jordan as I had done with Pudge? Certainly I cannot allow a hangman to have his way with her. No, that would be too much of a waste of a good thing.

For the moment, he had no answer to his own questions but he knew he would think of something. To clear his mind, perhaps it might not be a bad idea to take advantage of a house he had found in Mayfield that was used to board whores from San Francisco taking a reprieve from their city labors. These ladies were inclined for fifty cents to make themselves available to the local clientele.

Perhaps a sojourn with the ladies of Third Street might help provide a solution. He walked past Encina and continued toward the distant lights of Mayfield.

^^^^^^^^

Rubin Weinberg was ready for the October 20th student meeting that was scheduled to take place at 2pm. At this meeting members of the LSJRU student body would consider a proposed constitution and by-laws one of which would bar members of the class of ’95 from holding student body class offices. Rubin felt the clause was unfair and had promised to himself that he would do all he could to not let it pass.

The first student organizational meeting had taken place only three days after school began and at that meeting, Rubin could already see the lines of battle being drawn. For Rubin, politics was always a battlefield where the forces of right and wrong were lined up against one another and to the victor belonged the spoils of conquest, or how a government would operate. “Right” for him was those forces aligned with the poor, the misfits, the oppressed, in this case, those students attending Stanford who had to support themselves, like himself. “Wrong” were those students who came from rich families and didn’t have to worry about the costs of having a place to sleep and food to eat.

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Even at that first meeting, Rubin analyzed how groups were aligning themselves. Members of fraternities, particularly members of the Alpha Phi, who had come over in a mass from the University of the Pacific represented the rich and slovenly students. Members of the class of ’95, under his direction, were mostly independent, at this point but soon some of them would be pledged but for now, they were united. There was a third element that could tip the scale in either direction. These were the older students who were returning to college or had attended college back east and now preferred the west.

At Encina, Rubin had befriended one of these fellows by the name of Jack Whittemore. Jack had been an outstanding athlete, particularly swimming, at Indiana University and had followed Dr. Jordan to his new university. Jack was completely self-supporting and was not interested in fraternities. He had been sophomore class president back at IU. If all went well, Rubin thought he would have a role for Jack in the new student government.

Rubin could understand why his opponents were concerned that the Class of ’95 would dominate the electoral process since out of a total enrollment of 545, 147 were Special Students, not yet assigned to a class; 255 were Freshmen; 116 were Advanced Undergraduates (Sophomores, Juniors, Seniors); and 37 were Graduate students. Freshmen equaled the number of the rest of the classes, combined, and Rubin thought he could swing the “Special” students to his cause. Most of them would be freshmen.

At the first class meeting, Rubin felt that both Professors Richardson and Swain who were acting as faculty advisers to the group were even handed. They asked for volunteers to head up the various committees that would make decisions regarding the constitution, by-laws, colors, paper, yell and bulletin board and appointed Rubin to be responsible for the Constitution and Frederick Winters “Winko”, president of the Alpha Phi’s, to be responsible for the by-laws.

With the help of his committee made up of William Greer, who was a graduate student; George Gardiner, Benjamin Tong, David Cooper who were all, Freshmen; Frank Bachelder, Sophomore; and representing Roble Hall, Delores Payson and Sally Forrest, it was an easy matter for them to come up with a proposed constitution particular when Professor Swain gave them copies of Harvard’s and Yale’s and Greer had MIT’s. Then it became a matter of picking and choosing which wording sounded the best and giving Frank Batchelder, who also was the stenographer in the Admissions Office, the edited copy which he made into a final version for distribution at the 2pm meeting.

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The problem was the by-laws committed headed up by Frederick Winters, President of the Alpha Phi’s. Not only did Rubin remember his revolting treatment at the hands of Sam Cutter and his gang but he also had found out that Sam was the mastermind behind the domination of the student government by members of his fraternity for ulterior reasons what those reasons Rubin did not know. Rubin surmised that Sam wanted to control anyone and everything, he could.

For Rubin, Sam Cutter epitomized all the forces of evil. His parents were rich folk from Chicago and he had been brought up in a privileged class that always took advantage of the poor. Sam was a typical Anglo- Saxon with strong anti-Semitic views that he did hesitate to let people know about.

When 2pm arrived on October 20th about 300 students filed into the large classroom that was being used for chapel services and lectures and took their seats. Dr. Richardson was in charge of the meeting. To his left sat Rubin and members of his committee along with class of ’95 supporters. Bert Hoover was toward the back of the lecture hall. He wanted to see what was going on. Politics did not interest him but he considered Rubin to be one of his few friends. To Dr. Richardson’s right were Winko, Sam and the rest of the Alpha Phi’s and also members of the Zeta Psi, the first fraternity to be chartered. Members of the advanced undergrad classes sat behind them.

Dr. Richardson called the meeting to order and then asked that the minutes be read of the first meeting and then the reports of the various subcommittees. The Student Body would have the opportunity to consider these proposals and vote on November 3rd. It was proposed by responsible committees that the college colors would be cardinal, the paper would be The Sequoia and the yell would be “Rah, rah, rah. LSJRU. LSJRU. Rah.”

Rubin was asked to make available copies of the proposed constitution that he said would be posted on various bulletin boards at Roble and Encina and in the Quad. Then Richardson asked Winko Winters about the status of the by-laws. Winko said they were ready for review and approval.

Rubin stood up and said, “Dr. Richardson, we understand that the by- laws contain a provision that class of ’95 class members may not hold student body offices. Is that correct?”

Richardson had not been forewarned about what might happen. “Mr. Weinberg, I have not reviewed the by-laws. I will have to ask Mr. Winters, chairman of that committee. Is that correct, Mr. Winter?” 267

Winko rose from his seat. “Yes, it is, Dr. Richardson.”

Rubin stood up and proclaimed, “If that is the case, as far as the class of ’95 is concerned this meeting has ended.” He walked down the few steps and then directly out of the room. He did not hesitate and he did not look back to see if anyone was following him. If they did not, all was lost.

There was a moment of silence and a dumfounded look on Dr. Richardson’s face. He was not prepared for this. Then a shuffling of many chairs and more than half the students in the room arose in a body, including Bert way in the back, and followed Rubin down the lecture hall steps and out the door. It took about five minutes for all the exiting students to file out. When they got out side, Rubin was waiting for them.

“Follow me,” he shouted to them and they followed him to the southwest corner of the Quad where a ladder stolen from the Maintenance Department was located along with a megaphone that had “95” painted on it. Rubin took the megaphone and climbed to the top of the ladder so he could be seen and heard.

“So, we did it,” he shouted.

“Yes, we did it,” the class of ’95 shouted back.

“No one, no one is going to take our rights from us. If we want to be a student body officer, we will be a student body officer. Right?”

“Right,” they shouted back.

“And we don’t go back until they get rid of the offending clause. Right?”

“Right.”

Rubin started the chant that was soon picked up by the assembled student, “We are the live, class of ’95! We are the live, class of ’95!”

Those loud cheers could be clearly heard inside the lecture hall still containing half of the students who had remained. Professor Richardson could hear them. He imagined that Dr. Jordan and Dr. Elliott in the nearby Administrative Offices could hear them. Everyone in their lab classes on the Quad could hear them. Perhaps Senator Stanford in his carriage could hear them.

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Dr. Richardson motioned to Winko Winters to come to the podium and when he did, Dr. Richardson whispered something into his ear. Winko returned to his seat and had a muffled conversation with members of his By-Laws committee who were seated around him. Sam watched what was happening. Everyone on the committee nodded their head in agreement. Winko arose from his seat. At the same time, Sam Cutter got up from his position near Winko and moved back toward the rear of the hall near where Bert had been sitting before he got up and followed Rubin out the door.

“Dr. Richardson, may I have the floor for a point of order.”

“Yes, Mr. Winters, you may.”

“After a brief meeting, our subcommittee has decided to delete the offending by-law regarding members of the class of “95.”

“Thank you, Mr. Winters and members of your committee, I will inform the freshman class and we will reconvene on November 3rd for the purpose of voting on the submitted recommendations of the subcommittees. This meeting is adjourned.”

Sam could not believe what he had just witnessed. Rubin had tricked him just as the blind and crippled men fooled him on the streets of Chicago. He was not prepared for the show of united action on the part of the class of ’95 and Winko compromising like he did, did not help. All in all, it had not been a profitable morning but it had been educational one, he would not be fooled, again. Some how he had to get rid of Winko and put the fear of God in Rubin.

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Irene and Lucy decided to have a Halloween Party on Saturday night, the 31st of October at 7 pm. It would be their first social activity at Adelante Villa. All of their students, twelve young girls, would participate and some of their parents who lived nearby would attend. David Star Jordan would be there for his daughter, Edith, but Jessie Jordan was indisposed because of the impending birth of their second child.

Former summer boarders, young men like Will Smith, Bert Hoover, Fred Williams, Frank Batchelder were invited along with their friends. Frank would bring along two fellows who had sisters there. Fletcher Martin and Bolton Brown for Irene and Lucy were also coming and were 269 to be the judges, along with Dr. Jordan, of the Costume Contest that would be the highlight of the evening.

During the week prior to Halloween, the young ladies had been busy making costumes and preparing songs to be sung and played on a violin, mandolins and a banjo. Several of the girls had memorized recitations involving broad French or English accents. And there were to be pantomimes. As Irene reviewed the little hand-made programs that had been part of a penmanship class project, she was satisfied that the attending audience would enjoy the program.

The Friday afternoon and evening before the event, Martin and Bolton came over to help the ladies build a special stage for the event and to hang a stage curtain that would lend an authentic touch to the proceedings.

After much consideration, Lucy and Irene decided that the first floor landing at the base of the stairway would be the most logical site for the stage but unfortunately it only measured about 4’ by 6’ and would have to be enlarged. Martin and Bolton were able to procure some lumber, saw and hammer from their workmen friends and after a few hours of pounding and sawing created an extension that doubled the stage area so that all the girls could stand on it for the Costume Contest.

While this was going on, Lucy and Irene with Edith’s help made the curtains for the stage. This consisted of two old white sheets that were hemmed so that a taunt clothesline could be drawn through their top. Volunteers from the audience would need to manually pull the curtains open and draw them at Irene’s order. Irene had appointed herself both director and stage manager and Lucy was quite willing to stand aside and act as her assistant.

Once the hemming was completed, the ladies and Edith used charcoal to outline the inscription to be emblazoned on the curtains, “Adelante Villa Halloween Extravaganza.” After a few tries, they found that it would take three lines for the title. At first, they misspelled extravaganza as “extravagava” but Edith luckily picked up on the error. Lucy had enamel paints she used for artistic projects and carefully she brushed in green for the “Adelante Villa,” orange for “Halloween” and gold for “Extravaganza.” The men screwed two stout screw eyes into wooden walls on either side of the “stage” for the clothesline and carefully, since the paint was still wet on the sheets, tied one end and pulled the other end through and made the line taunt. The curtain was up but could it be pulled? Irene gently pulled both sides back a few feet and then closed the curtains. The pullers would have to be gentle but it did work.

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The ladies and men and Edith stepped back and admired their creation. Given a day for the enamel to dry, both curtains and stage were ready.

The night of Halloween, Bolton came by with his gig to pick up Fletcher at Encina. Bolton had moved to his sister and brother-in-law’s home on Alvarado Row. Fletcher was waiting for him on the Encina’s steps at about half past six.

It was already dark and several of the students were running down the steps out into the night, dressed in various scary costumes to have fun at the expense of the residents of Roble Hall, faculty homes, “the decalogue,” and outlying homes as far away as Menlo Park. None of the students planned on frightening the occupants of the Stanford Mansion but for certain their vineyards would have guests and the watchman would be busy.

Bolton and Fletcher did not have that much to say to one another as the gig made its way past the Quad, Roble Hall and then turned south on the narrow county road to Adelante Villa. Bolton’s interests were along artistic lines. He was a frustrated artist, trying to teach college students, mostly engineering students, how to do freehand drawing. Because of the Senator’s inclination for a “practical” education, any artistic tendencies were destined to be thwarted. Fletcher could understand Bolton’s frustrations but as a topic of conversation, he found that he was mostly nodding his head in ascent without having to say anything. Bolton did not seem to mind his one-way conversation.

By the time they arrived, most of the attendees were already inside the Villa so it took some time to find a tree that could be used to secure Bolton’s horse. Dr. Jordan was there, they saw his horse and rig tied to the iron post in front of the entrance.

The minute Fletcher walked through the doorway, he was impressed with how the girls and Irene and Lucy had created a Halloween atmosphere. Most of the gas-lights had been extinguished and large candles had been placed on the mantelpiece and on the side tables. There were about thirty people there, half students and half parents and guests. They were all seated in three large semi-circles around the improvised stage giving an almost like séance effect. Irene motioned Fletcher and Martin to two seats on the end that had been saved for them. Dr. Jordan was up-front, in the middle in a comfortable leather chair busily in conversation with everyone near him. Apparently they were waiting for Fletcher and Bolton to arrive because immediately the remaining gaslights were extinguished and the show began.

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Bert Hoover on the one side and Frank Batchelder on the other had been commandeered to do the curtain pulling duties. Both gingerly pulled the curtains aside to reveal a stage filled with twelve girls in assorted costumes loudly singing in shrill girlish voices, “Oh my darling Clementine.” Fletcher thought it was certainly a rousing way to start the festivities.

After the completion of the song, the girls dispersed to sit with their parents leaving the stage to a young girl in the dark face of a minstrel performer. She was wearing a scruffy, white and black suit and shirt complete with a top hat that had seen better days. Her eyes had been transformed by make up to portray the wide-eyed look of Negroes and her lips appeared to be wide and flapping. First, she sang in a broad southern accent, “Oh, dem Golden slippers,” accompanying herself on a mandolin. Then she stopped playing and did a soft shoe dance that won the audience approval because of the look of deep concentration on her face. When she was finished, she tipped her top hat and gave the audience a broad beaming smile as she shuffled off the stage. The audience, led by Dr. Jordan, roared its appreciation.

Some decorum had to be restored. Lucy Fletcher arose from her seat and approached the stage while two of her charges, one dressed as a young boy and the other a young girl took their places on the stage. Lucy then read “The Courting” by Robert Lowell and as she read each verse, the two performers acted it out in tableau. It was done exceptionally well. Lucy’s clear voice rang through the silent room and the “boy” and girl were able to project every nuance of Lowell’s flowing verses.

Another resumption of the stage by all twelve girls, this time they had with them an assortment of mandolins and banjoes and, of course, the single violin. There was even a tambourine that gave a somewhat raucous sound to “There is a Tavern in the Town,” a brand new song that was just becoming popular. Dr. Jordan picked up the melody and soon everyone in the audience was singing along. The girls had to play the song, five times, before the audience would let them exit, again to loud cheers.

Now it was Irene’s turn to add to the cultural side of the proceedings. Quickly a thin screen was placed in the middle of the stage and a bright candle as put behind it and while Irene read Tennyson’s “Lady Clare” three young girls pretending to be Lady Clare, Lord Ronald and the Nurse presented a shadow pantomime. The poem was quite long and Irene could tell that the young men were becoming restless in their seats. When the threesome stood in front of the screen to take their bows, Irene wasn’t sure whether the audience was clapping in appreciation for the performance or for its ending.

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Now the piece de le resistance, the Costume Contest. The curtains were drawn and all the young ladies resumed their places on the stage for the final judging. The three men, Fletcher, Bolton, Dr. Jordan stood up and stood at the side of the stage so that they could clearly determine the winner. The curtains were drawn revealing a stage completely filled with laughing and giggling young girls.

Fletcher quickly scanned the scene and knew something was wrong. In his mind, he counted and immediately looked over at Irene and threw up his hands displaying ten fingers. Then he threw up a single hand with three fingers. Thirteen figures were on the stage.

Irene had no time to count because at that very moment, for unknown reasons, the front door opened and a woosh of air extinguished every candle. The room was now in total darkness. No giggles, not a sound. Then, to Fletcher’s way of thinking, he heard the most God-awful laugh that he had ever heard in his life. It was impossible to say whether it was a man or woman laughing. In the turmoil, Frank and Bert attempted to close the curtains but instead the rope broke and the curtain fell on those who were on stage. With a sheet flung over them, the girls screamed in panic.

Fletcher rushed to the place where he had last seen Irene but she had already grabbed an umbrella from the stand she knew was close by and ran to the open doorway and out into the darkness brandishing the substandard weapon in her hands. Whoever or whatever was gone.

When Irene returned to the room, the lights were back on and she found sobbing students and parents trying to calm frightened children. Only Dr. Jordan and Edith standing in the middle of the emotional scene were not perturbed. Dr. Jordan held his daughters hand and they were smiling at the group and looking around as if they were completely enjoying the proceedings.

The boys who were present, Frank, Bert, Fred, Will, weren’t sure whether it had been a hoax cleverly improvised by Irene and Lucy or some of their classmates had somehow gained access. Whatever had happened, it certainly had provided a rousing climax for the evening’s entertainment. But why hadn’t they told their students and why were the young girls so upset?

Irene picked up on their suggestion that the climax had been contrived.

She placed herself center stage and shouted out to the still tumultuous gathering, “All right. All right. Lucy and I are sorry to have frightened 273

you. We didn’t think our little hoax would fool you so.” She smiled at Fletcher as if he had been in on the whole thing.

Fletcher threw up his hands as if he had been found out and cheerily laughed.

“It was a Halloween joke,” he said for all to hear.

Then Irene continued, “There is still plenty of refreshments for all to partake. Plenty of cider and cake for all,” she shouted for all to hear. With that Fletcher and Bolton brought forth plates and pitchers from the kitchen and Lucy and Irene helped them set up the serving lines. And then, she announced the winners of the costume contest which caused most to forget what had just happened.

There was nothing like refreshments to restore normalcy to a celebration. Within minutes, the girls were wiping tears from their eyes and parents were whispering to one another how they had been completely fooled by the goings-on. Dr. Jordan and Edith stood aside and did not enter their conversations. It was as if they knew something, the others did not.

Hours later, Irene and Fletcher, Lucy and Bolton, sat in the kitchen, mulling over what had happened that evening.

Lucy had told Bolton about the ghost but he could not accept that it had been the cause of all the turmoil. “I can only guess that it was the boys from Encina who had opened the doors and laughed. I must say I have heard that laugh after a student has been water bagged or panted or his room turned upside down.”

Lucy turned to Fletcher who was concentrating on the cup of coffee before him. “What do you think, Fletcher? You were the one who counted the thirteen.”

Fletcher hesitated. He believed in Mrs. Coon but should he say what was truly on his mind. “I am not sure, “ he said. “I may have miscounted.”

Lucy knew Fletcher too well. “You lie, Fletcher. I know you. You don’t want to disturb Lucy and me and tell us the truth.”

Fletcher threw up his hands in surrender and spoke directly to the group. “Well, if I must. I must. I saw thirteen figures. One of them was shrouded in a simple white sheet, standing a little taller than the others, at 274

the very rear of the stage as if she had just come down the stairs from the third floor.”

“Then it was Mrs. Coons?” asked Bolton.

“Yes, I am sorry to say, it was,” replied Fletcher.

Irene turned to Lucy, “This is the straw. Next week we start looking for a new location.”

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275

Chapter Seven

’95 Oak Creation

Bert Hoover sat in his room, alone, studying. His roommate, Fred Williams, was off in Mayfield with his Phi Delta Theta friends. That night a bunch of them came by on their way to Mayfield and they were a likeable enough bunch. They weren’t drinking; they were going to the Presbyterian Church to hear Reverend Thoreau, who was attracting quite a few Stanford folks to his small church. Fred wanted to join the fraternity and it looked like the Phi Delt’s were interested.

Bert knew Will Greer, Rubin’s roommate, along with a fellow named Charly Fife and Frank Batchelder, who he and Fred both knew at Adelante Villa and also worked in the Administrative Office. He had heard that Will wanted to get Rubin into the fraternity but some of the other fellows blackballed Rubin because he was a Jew. Bert didn’t understand that kind of thinking. He had nothing against Jews and turned the other ear when someone said a rude joke about them or about any one, for that matter. Bert didn’t believe in making fun of other people. Too many people had made fun of him and his brother and sister because they moved around so much after their parents died..

Will and the gang had invited him along but Bert decided that even though they called themselves, “Job’s flock of turkeys” because they were all poor and working their way through college like Bert was. With taking care of Jim, the horse, at Adelante Villa twice a day and delivering the San Francisco Chronicle to about twenty five students and faculty members each day including the weekends and then collecting and delivering laundry for a Chinese Laundry in Mayfield almost every day, he was almost too busy to study and go to class and certainly no time for fraternities and the likes of that. And he wasn’t too certain how his Quaker relatives would react if they thought he was going “to join a fraternity.” He could just hear the tongues clicking as they gossiped about him squandering his money and all

It was nine at night, November 1st; the electric lights might be going off in another hour and a half or so. No one knew exactly when but usually the fellows at the powerhouse gave them a little warning with a flicker at first. So Bert just had enough time to finish his assignment in Algebra and Trigonometry that was due on Monday at 8:30 in Professor Miller’s class.

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The math classes came easy to Bert. It was that darn English I class taught by Professor Griggs that was giving him trouble. Nothing Bert turned in was good enough. It all came back red marked so bad the white of the paper hardly showed through. All Bert could do is make the corrections and handed it back in, again. One paper had gone back in three times, already.

One lucky thing that happened to him, last week, was he found an old, discarded bicycle in the bushes when he was walking by the Power House on his way to the shops. He wasn’t sure how it had got there and he didn’t care. He took it and it was his, now. He took the bike into the shop and realigned the frame and wheels and now it ran almost as good as new. It wasn’t quite as good as the green bike he had back in Salem but it sure beat walking.

On the bad side of the coin, last Tuesday afternoon Bert heard that the he would soon lose his janitorial job at Encina because the Business Office was going to hire just Japs. The news panicked him because he would be making so much less money that he would have to get in touch with his Aunt and draw on his meager inheritance. At that rate, he would soon run out of money and have to withdraw from Stanford. He did not want to do that and so he immediately decided to visit Dr. Swain to see if he could do anything. If anyone, Dr. Swain would help him.

Dr. Swain taught Advanced Mechanics or Astronomy classes every morning from 9:30 to 11:30 so usually he was in his office during the afternoon. Bert knocked at his door at Room #15 on the Quad and he heard Swain’s voice invite him to come in. He was grading papers with a red leaded pencil. One of the papers appeared to be a bloody mess just like Bert’s English papers.

“Bert, good to see you. Sit here by my desk. Let me finish this poor example of thinking and I will be right with you.”

Bert watched as the doctor continued his correction. He could sympathize with who ever was thinking poorly. From what Hoover could read, upside, down, most of the words Swain wrote were “wrong” or “why?” underlined sometimes two or three times. Bert could see that the good doctor could be demanding.

Dr. Swain breathed a sigh of relief as he turned the offending paper over and placed it on top of what must have been his “completed work” pile. Now he could focus his attention on one of his, as far he was a concerned, favorite pupil.

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“And what can I do for you?” he said. Swain still wondered at Bert’s youthful, innocent appearance. Compared with his bewhiskered and be mustached classmates, he was like a lamb among the wolves.

Bert always felt good when he talked to Dr. Swain. With most of the other members of the faculty he felt intimidated and sometimes “the cat got his tongue” and he could not even speak in their presence, or if he did, he almost stuttered. But with Dr. Swain, it was different. Bert always remembered way back in June, back in Portland, Dr. Swain gave him and Fred a second chance.

“I just heard the Business Office is firing us as Janitors. Without that money, it looks like I am not going to make it through four years. Can you do anything about it? I thought I was doing a good job and no body complained to me or any of the other Janitors,” Bert told Dr. Swain.

“Yes, Dr. Jordan told us last Friday at a Faculty meeting. It seems the Senator complained to Mr. Lathrop that the tools in the shops were not properly cared for and that was all it took for Ariel to take advantage of the situation and bring in cheaper labor. Ariel is always looking for ways to save money regardless of the problems it creates for the us or the students.”

Hoover slumped in the chair, his shoulders drawn in. “So there is nothing you can do.”

“Nothing, when Ariel makes up his mind, only the Senator can change it and since he was the originator of the complaint, that appears to be that.”

There was a moment of silence as Dr. Swain gathered his thoughts to say something positive to his young, who he considered to be, prodigy.

“Dr. Branner, the new head of the Geology Department, will be arriving right after the first of the year for the next semester and I am sure he will need some office help.”

Bert’s face brightened a bit but then turned downcast. “But I don’t know Dr. Branner.”

“You don’t but I do and with my recommendation I am sure he will use your services,” Swain assured Bert.

Dr. Swain could see that Hoover immediately brightened up. The two men arose at the same time and Hoover grasped the professor’s hand in 278 his. “Thank you, Dr. Swain, I really do appreciate all you’ve done for me. If it weren’t for you, Fred and me wouldn’t be here.”

Dr. Swain did not correct Bert. He would leave that chore up to the English Department.

They said their good byes and Hoover walked out the door with a smile on his young face, happy to know that his prospects for another job were good but even happier that he had Dr. Swain as a friend and supporter.

There was a knock at the door and Tim Collins, a new friend of Bert’s, stuck his head in and asked, “Are you real busy? Can I come in?” Bert met Tom when he soliciting laundry business and two boys who were younger and shyer than their fellow classmates had naturally become friends.

That was the way it was at Encina. No one locked their door and if you wanted to visit someone, you knocked first and if no one shouted, “Go away,” you stuck your head in the room and to see if anyone was there and asked, “Are you real busy? Can I come in?” Nine times out of ten, if someone was in the room, they said, just as Bert said, “Sure, come on in.”

Tim was a likeable sort. Bert had him in his Freehand Drawing class in the afternoon and like Bert, Tim needed some extra stimulation during the afternoons while Professor Bolton drew lines on the blackboard. To keep both himself and Tim awake they got in the habit of drawing little pictures of people or teachers they knew and secretly passing them back and forth. The trick was not to laugh out loud because Tim had a real way of catching the look of some of the professors particularly Professor Bolton. Bert thought Tim should make copies of the drawings and even sell them but Tim didn’t want to take a chance of being “sent home.” They both knew several young men, like Pudge, who got in trouble because of the Flatcar Prank and they didn’t want that to happen to them.

Tim was a little shorter than Bert, around 5’ 10” and weighed quite a bit more, 180 lbs or so. Not really fat but sort of chunky looking. He was from Redlands and got kidded a lot about his reddish brown hair, which was thick and unruly and always appeared messed up, spikes, waves and curls going every which way. He tried to comb it in the morning but the minute he walked out the door, after making sure it looked good in the mirror on the wall, it would resume the shape it was when he got out of bed.

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When he walked into Bert’s room it was obvious he had some new information that he wanted to tell Bert. He was breathing sort of fast as if he was excited and his hands couldn’t keep still and his eyes were bugged out. He pulled out one of the wooden chairs and sat at the study desk with Bert and made a deep sigh, to make himself calm enough to speak, and he said, “I just heard the Roble girls turned down our invitation to come to our party.”

Bert had really expected something more earth shattering than this and he could hardly manage to act interesting and his eyes kept going back to the equation he was trying to differentiate but the fact was Bert didn’t have too many friends and Tim liked him and Bert thought he was a pretty nice fellow but Bert had a difficult time pretending he was interested when he wasn’t. “I didn’t know we had invited them to a party,” was what he said and Bert had hardly got the words out of his mouth and he regretted them.

“Bert, you got to take more attention to campus life. My Dad tells me it is the best thing that is ever going to happen to me so I better enjoy it. It is no fun out there in the cold, cruel world when we have to work and raise a family. I know you need the money but it wouldn’t hurt to do something else than study and work. One of these days you are really going to regret it.”

He was right, Bert thought, and it was really nice of Tim to care about what Bert was doing. No one else felt that way. This time, he tried to sound more interesting, “So why did they turn us down?”

“Because the invitation mentioned “dancing” and the girls felt that was being too forward.”

Bert asked, “Dancing, do you know how to dance?” Bert was raised as a Quaker and “dancing” was one of the many activities they did not condone.

Tim remembered that Bert had told him about the Quaker religion, “Well, I know the kind of dancing where you all line up or you make a circle and then you do steps and hops and things like that and you are sort of together with a girl, but I don’t know much about this kind of dancing where you put your arms,” and Tim got so embarrassed even thinking about putting his arms around a young lady that he started giggling and laughing so much that he couldn’t finish his sentence.

“And, and?” Bert wanted to know what happened next.

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Tim gathered himself together and managed to continue his explanation, “And you put your arms…Get up and let me show you.”

Bert got up from his chair and Tim went over to him and stood before him with about three feet between them. Then he leaned stiff as a tree toward Bert and lightly put his left hand on Bert’s shoulder and with his right hand he took hold of Bert’s left hand and held it. “And now you dance,” and Tim tried to move Bert to his right while singing what sort of sounded like a melody to a waltz. Bert didn’t move.

“When you dance, you move as a couple to the time of the music,” Tim explained, “ When it’s a waltz, it goes, one, two, three, one, two, three. Like that”

Bert looked skeptical, “And that’s dancing?” He still hadn’t moved an inch.

“Not really. When you dance you are suppose to move around and we haven’t moved.”

“So you move around like this.” Hoover took Tim’s hand and pulled him all around the room, singing something like what Tim was singing. Tim could not stop himself from going crazy just like Bert. Finally, they tumbled on the floor and ended up laughing like mad. “Like that?” Bert asked still flat on the floor staring up at the ceiling.

“No, not like that. If you did something like that to a girl, she would swat you good.”

They got to their feet and, again, Tim resumed his formal dancing stance with Bert but this time, Bert let himself be led around the room while Tim sang out, “One, two, three, one, two, three one, two, three, one, two, three.”

After five minutes of this, it was obvious that Bert and Tim were doing a pretty good job of it. They stopped to catch their breath and Bert said, “Well, if we have a dance, I would like to learn how. Would you teach me?”

“Sure, I will, Bert, gladly.” Tim was catching his breath, too. “You’ve helped me with geometry so I will help you with dancing. Fair enough but for now, I don’t think we have to worry.” They resumed their places at the study desk. “Because the Roble girls turned us down, flat. You know, I can’t really blame them. If I were a young lady, I don’t know whether I would want the likes of some of us pawing at me. How 281

would you like to have someone like Sam Cutter, putting his arms around your sister?”

Bert thought about his sister May. “I wouldn’t let him. I would smack him in the mouth. That is what I would do.”

Both Bert and Tim laughed at the thought of Bert smacking Sam Cutter in the mouth. Only the boys in his fraternity seemed to like Sam and most of the Encina students, like Bert and Tim were afraid of him.

The lights started to flicker. Even though it was only around nine, it wasn’t predictable when they might go off.

Tim jumped up. “I better get back to my room before the lights go out. I hear that sometimes those frat guys catch you in the dark and pant you before you know what is happening.”

As he goes out the door, Tim shouts to Bert, “See you tomorrow morning in class. Bye.”

Bert moves the candleholder near him and got some extra matches out just in case a stray draft from the window extinguishes the flame. He has about an hour more studying to do and he is used to doing it by candlelight if necessary. Dr. Jordan told everyone about Abraham Lincoln studying by candlelight so if it was good enough for a president, it was good enough for Bert.

The lights did go out. Bert heard doors opening and closing and whispered shouts. Some of the boys were undoubtedly assuming positions next to the stairwells so that they could frighten others or take their pants off or do something else to them, considered to be fun. Bert wondered where they got the energy for such activity. By now, he was used to it but it was still like living in an insane asylum, maybe worse.

Still in the dark, he thought, yes, he should learn to dance. He wouldn’t join a fraternity but there was nothing wrong in learning how to meet young ladies and acting properly with them and dancing was part of that even though his Quaker relatives might not think so. Who knows he might meet someone at Stanford, he might even marry. That would be nice to have someone who loved you. He couldn’t even recall his parents who had died when he was just three years old. But somewhere in the back of his head he still had the memory of warmth and the safety of love and tears almost came to his eyes when he thought about it. It was a good feeling.

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Bert’s thoughts abruptly returned to the studying he still had to do. He lit his candle and resumed looking at the equation in his math book and tried to figure out what he should do with that divisor and dividend on the other side of the equal sign.

^^^^^^^^^

Mary Freeman invited about eight girls including Betsy, Delores and Sally to a bachelor’s party. Mary was a first year student from Woodland, California, near Sacramento. All of the girls were from the same floor and knew each other from class and eating in the dining room, together. Mary had written a note to each of them in a bold pen, “Will meet with our bachelor friends in room 64 at nine pm, sharp. Please appear in masculine attire.”

What a transformation! When the girls entered room 64, Mary, who was wearing a boy’s red gym suit with its pants down to her ankles, immediately greeted them. Her brown hair was combed over her ears and a false brown beard covered the lower half of her chubby face. She grabbed each of the girls by their shoulders and pounded them on their backs and in an extremely basso fundo voice said, “Hello, chappies. Glad to see you, old boy.”

When the invited guests looked around the room, they could see that anything that besmirched of femininism had been hidden from view. The place was in a shambles. Cards were scattered on the floor. Empty whiskey and beer bottles were eminently displayed, everywhere. A Chinese Mandarin Lantern with a large candle dominated the scene along with other assorted red pillows that the girls would sit on. It was truly a den of iniquity where only the most tainted would assemble.

Betsy wore a gigantic straw hat and blue jacket with violets in its buttonhole. Delores looked fetching in a white tennis flannel suit complete with tennis racket and even two or three balls she managed to throw at some of the girls as she entered but it was Sally who stole the show. Somehow or other she had managed to put together all the effects of a Spanish Cavalier dressed in red jacket and black tights and a coal black mustache she had penciled in on her upper lip contrasted mightily with her blonde hair that she had managed to tie in a bun under a black sombrero looped firmly under her dainty chin. She even assumed the attitude of a man as she swaggered around the room introducing herself as “Don Juan Damour.” Delores smiled at the pretense knowing better than anyone what a real “Don” would act like.

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One of the other girls was dressed as a bum with ragged clothes and a bundle tied with a string to a short branch she carried over her shoulder. Another girl borrowed foot-ball togs from one of her men friends complete with the leather cap and she had feigned something that looked disagreeably like red blood on her arms and legs and even on her left cheek and forehead.

As they clapped each other on the back and spoke in rough tones to one another, they all agreed they were truly a motley crew.

Mary stepped to the middle of the assembled “roughs” and gruffly told them, “I have some rules here that we just made up and from now on I want you fellows to strictly observe them.”

Then she read them the following:

Rules of Conduct for Room 64

Rule 1----Leave door open or slam it on entering the room.

Rule 2----If we are studying pull us around the room and disturb us as much as convenient.

Rule 3----Talk as loud as possible.

Rule 4----Throw paper and books on the floor and walls.

Rule 5----Do not mar the ceiling with your feet unless absolutely necessary.

Rule 6----If talking grows tiresome, whistle as loud as possible.

Rule 7----Please do not leave the room without having sung us a song. “Annie Rooney” is preferable.

After reading the rules, she passed around sheets of paper where she had, in beautiful penmanship with all the flourishes, written them.

Immediately, all of the girls started singing “Annie Rooney.” But because of the hour and since a new Mistress, Mrs. Richardson the mother of Professor Richardson, was now in charge, the song was sung with quiet gusto.

Afterwards, Mary took the few remaining copies of “The Rules” and tore them into little pieces and threw them up in the air in the middle of 284

the room. It was a great ending but she did regret it because she thought how she would have to pick up each piece by hand after everyone left. Oh, well, she thought, “Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you may die,” and that was from the Bible.

Then the treats were brought out for all to partake. Apple cider was drunk in lieu of whiskey and beer in appropriate shot or beer glasses with soda crackers and various spreads, chicken salad, apricot jam and, of course, assorted grapes left from previous forays.

The girls now dug in and in the process forgot their gruff mannerisms and reassumed the proper speech of college women eating and gossiping. By now most of them were seated, cross-legged on the floor.

“You heard that the Encina boys have already sent us note that due to circumstances over which they had no control they could no longer receive us,” said Mary.

“Such babies,” Sally was sipping on her cider, “just because most of us thought we were not acquainted enough and it would be more proper for us to give the first dance.”

“I understand that some of them have been practicing and they even had got a little orchestra together for us,” added Delores. She had heard this from David after class on Friday.

“Well, too bad,” Mary said with no sympathy, “I can just see them holding each other and dancing around the reception area. Such a sight.”

Just the thought of it made all the girls laugh.

“I bet if we had decided to go, it would have been in all the papers that the Roble girls were so anxious to make the acquaintanceship of the Encina boys that we just couldn’t wait to get over there.”

“Can you imagine our parents reading that at home? They would think we were a bunch of wild hussies,” added Betsy speaking while still chewing the soda crackers in her mouth.

Delores said, “Well, I think we handled the whole matter properly. At our meeting agreed that it would be best to send a note to Mr. Fesler that we preferred not to dance at this early date and we didn’t decline the invitation. It was their idea to snub us.”

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Mary got up and went over and picked up her mandolin and started to play a waltz. “Talking about dancing, fellows, how about us showing those Roble hussies a thing or two about dancing.”

Sally nonchalantly, parodying as well as she could the antics of some of the boys she had seen, strolled over to Delores and in a gallant manner said, “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Senorita?”

Delores couldn’t help but wonder if Sally had contrived her costume purely for Delores’s sake. She arose from the floor and for a magic moment stood squarely before Sally. The white tennis outfit displayed her dark features, beautifully. Then they both smiled and Sally held her left hand waist high and her other hand in the air and Delores slid her body and hand into Sally’s grasp and the two swooped across the floor in time with the music. One, two, three, one, two, three one, two, three, one, two, three. By then, all of the girls were dancing.

At 10:45, the festivities formally ended and for fifteen furious minutes the girls feverishly put Mary’s room back into order including the tiny bits of paper scattered on the floor. At precisely 11:00, all was feminine, again. The pastel colors, the room tidy and the floor cleaned and a box hidden under a blanket under the bed containing the remnants of the infamous, stag party.

Everyone told Mary they had a wonderful time and Delores and Sally left hand-in-hand down the hall toward their respective rooms.

^^^^^^^^^

At least once a month, on Saturday morning, Fletcher Martin, returned to Mayfield sometimes to get his hair cut but mostly to see Fred Behn, the owner of a local saloon and the man who had befriended him when he first arrived in the area.

On this Saturday, he got to the Barbershop about 10 am, just about the time when the town started to come to life, again, after a night of drinking. There was no one in “Frank’s Barbershop,” not even Frank Schmidt, so Fletcher sat in one of the wooden chairs underneath a long mirror that ran the length of the room, waiting for Frank to appear. Since the front door was open, he figured Frank was across the street getting a cup of coffee from Fred. He grabbed some of the old Police Gazettes that were lying on the chairs and thought to himself that this was the one of the few times, he wasn’t reading something in Latin or Greek. Most of them were 286

almost in shreds with covers off and pages missing. Some of them dated all the way back ten years or more.

Fletcher chuckled at the pictures and articles as he quickly leafed through the magazine. Most of the women pictured were dressed in tight fitting corsets or tights with black hose covering legs that were about twice the size of Fletcher’s. Fletcher could not help but compare Irene’s small, wiry figure with these humongous women.

The articles were mostly about extremely odd circumstances. A three-headed cow and sheep were pictured that belonged to some farmer in West Pennsylvania and there was a long story about a strange tribe of women living in a remote section of east Africa who ate their husbands after mating with them. The article’s title was “African Spider Women.”

Frank Schmidt walked in with a tin cup brimming with steaming coffee. He was a real likeable fellow with thinning hair plastered across his baldhead and little squinty eyes that always looked like they were laughing.

“Well, aren’t you the early bird. Ouch! Let me put my coffee down, it’s scalding my fingers.” He did that and put on a white apron that made him look like a doctor which he was at times, if it was called for. Fletcher had heard that before there was a real doctor in town Frank had amputated an arm that had become gangrenous. Frank had two shiny barbering chairs in the shop. Sometimes, if he was busy his son who was fourteen would help out.

“Do you need a cup, Fletcher?”

“No, no thank you. I’m going over to see Fred after this.”

Fletcher got out his wooden side chair and stepped up to the high barber chair. Frank threw a green cloth over Fletcher to keep the hair from getting all over him.

“So what can I do for you, today. The usual. Looks like you could use a shave, too.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Frank cranked back the back of the chair so it put Fletcher in a reclining position and started to use a horsehide strop to sharpen his Swedish made razor. When he was done with that he picked up a white enameled mug filled with shaving soap, wetted his lather brush with hot water from a pitcher of hot water, he had already heated up and vigorously 287

churned the brush in the cup to created a mug full of hot lather which he started dousing on the lower portion of Fletcher’s face.

He knew all about that scar on Fletcher’s face. The bottom third of it dipped into what might have been the right side of Fletcher’s beard. He understood that was the only reason Fletcher was beardless. Frank carefully cleared the lather from the thick scar tissue and thought what a wound that must have been. It came real close to Fletcher’s eye. He was lucky not to loose it. Frank didn’t want to nick it and do more damage to Fletcher’s poor face.

Fletcher enjoyed the feel of the hot lather even though Frank always managed to get some in his mouth and up his nostrils. It came with the territory. With other barbers he had always declined the shave part but Fletcher knew that Frank was extra careful with his keepsake from the Indian Wars. He noticed that Frank was always quietly efficient when he shaved people. Fletcher appreciated this. With a keenly honed razor in his hand, a gabby barber caught up in whatever he was saying could do immense damage to a body’s face.

In the Territories once, Fletcher had got a shave that had left his face, particularly his scar bleeding in several places. Then, the barber had put little pieces of paper over the bleeding but Fletcher felt funny when he walked out of the shop into the street and he could see that people chuckled when they passed him by. He must have been a sight!

The shaving only took a few minutes and Frank wiped Fletcher’s face clean with a hot white towel that he kept near the coal burning pot stove in the center of the shop. And when Fletcher looked at the towel, he couldn’t see any blood so he knew his face was all right. Usually Frank did a good job but even he could be distracted and the razor might slip and do damage.

Frank stepped back and looked over his customer to make sure he hadn’t missed anything or cut anything he shouldn’t. It must have to his liking because then he took his shears and a comb and started to cut Fletcher’s hair. It had been a while, maybe six weeks since the last cutting so there was lots of straight black hair to be cut and dropped to the floor to be swept up, later.

Fletcher thought, now it will begin. If anyone wanted to know the latest goings on in the metropolis of Mayfield, they came to Frank’s Barbershop and in ten minutes they would know anything and everything worth knowing, plus. After the shaving it was Frank’s time to palaver like the rush of cold water through a spigot.

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“You knew Mr. Mathews, the County Health Officer, made his annual official visit to our fair city last Wednesday?” All Frank required from his clientele was a grunt that could signify a “yes” or “no.” It didn’t matter which since they were going to find out all about the subject in question whether they liked it or not.

“Well, as you can guess, the results of his survey were pretty negative with the serving of thirteen notices to abate nuisances and I’m thinking that if he had looked closer he could have served thirteen more.”

My, God, thought Martin, I have eaten in some of those places but he merely grunted. He knew that a conversation was not a consideration.

Frank continued, “You and I know that our fair city contains about as many backyard cow, pig, duck and goose hatcheries as well as butcheries as any city in the valley. And we have all the filth, stench and water pollution that goes with it. If we don’t have a stiff breeze from the bay it gets downright unbearable around here at times. I’m hoping that Mr. Mathews doesn’t wait another year before he comes back. And as you can guess, after paying a dollar or two fine, the questionable establishments will go right back to doing whatever they were doing.”

Frank continued his snipping and combing, a snip there, a comb here.

“I guess you heard the Mrs. West was bit by a tarantula last Wednesday morning.”

Fletcher grunted. Both he and Irene had encountered their share of tarantulas and when they did, had given them a wide berth.

“She was sweeping down the ceiling of her house when a tarantula in one of the cracks ran down her broom handle right on to her cheek. Could you believe it? Well, Mrs. West let out a scream that would have awakened the dead. I even heard it here even though it was three blocks away. Everyone rushed out on to the street thinking that someone was being killed and in a way they were. While she was screaming, Mrs. West was also raising her other hand to smash the tarantula and she struck it and herself such a blow that she knocked herself out. Killed the spider, though, but not before it had bit the poor women right there on her cheek.”

“Well, we all rushed to her house and found her unconscious, flat on the floor. Right away we sent for Dr. Ross out at the University but before he got here, it took him almost an hour, the deadly poison almost done her in. She’s a Catholic, you know, and her folks sent for Reverend O’Reardon to do those final rites that Catholics do, but Dr. Ross finally got here and drained the poison and although Mrs. West is still feeling the 289

effects, she’s out of danger, now. In fact, I saw her yesterday buying groceries at La Peire’s with a big bandage on her face and everyone was stopping her to see how she was doing and she would retell how the whole thing happened. She is sort of a celebrity around here. Can’t ever tell when one of those dang things will jump down on you.”

Frank stopped his cutting and looked up at the ceiling to check to see if all was clear overhead and Fletcher looked up with him. They could see numerous cobwebs and long squiggly cracks in the plaster. Frank breathed a deep sigh of what will be, will be and returned to his task.

Then he started using the clippers to catch the hair on Fletcher’s neck, which meant the end of the barbering was drawing nigh.

“Well, finally Constable Coulter is beginning to show a few signs that he’s got a little spunk in him. Monday afternoon, he brought into the jail three Chinese damsels of questionable repute from Quong Wo’s Laundry on Main Street and charged them with being inmates of a whore house. They’re supposed to go before Judge Quinn next Tuesday but I have a hunch we won’t see hide or hair of them, again. I would bet all the gold in China they are back in the city plying their talents. Some of our city fathers and your Stanford friends are going to be mighty unhappy when they go looking for their yellow girl friends. But there will be plenty of others to take their place.”

“Hey, how long are you going to keep my friend in the chair? We got some bacon and eggs ready to serve him.” It was Fred Behn sticking his head inside the doorway using his wooden leg to hold the door back.

“He’s all yours, Fred. Just let me dust him off and get a few of those hairs off his coat.”

Franks swooshed the cloth from Fletcher and then used a stout brush on Fletcher’s jacket just in case there was some cut hair there and Fletcher pulled out a quarter and gave it to him as much for his work as for all the local news he had provided.

Fletcher walked out the barbershop’s doorway feeling like a new man. Now, for a good breakfast over at Fred’s.

Fred, even with his wooden leg, managed to get across the street and disappeared into his saloon. Fletcher couldn’t figure how he had done it. All he could see between him and the saloon was a dusty, rutted dirt road filled with horses pulling carts and wagons and rigs. All of them going every different way. A man could easily get killed or permanently maimed if he didn’t have his wits about him trying to get across. 290

Fletcher was about half way across and thought he had clear sailing when a big black stallion thundered up the road and almost ran him over. He could feel horse hide from it’s flanks brushing past him. It was that close. From the back, Fletcher could see that it was Tim Hopkins riding the horse and Tim didn’t even bother to turn back to see if he had ran him over or not.

“Typical,” Fletcher thought, as he finally made it to the other side of the road and through the swinging doors of Fred’s saloon. A cloud of dust appeared when he brushed himself off and he made his way to the back where Fred was sitting with his younger brother, Jorgen, having breakfast.

As usual, the two Behn brothers were arguing in Danish about something or other. Jorgen was just like his brother except larger and younger and with two legs, of course. The brothers quieted down when Fletcher sat at the table.

Fred, looking at Fletcher, said, “What happened to you? You look like death just crossed your tracks.”

“Well, death did damn near cross me. That damn Tim Hopkins with his black stallion nearly bowled me over as I was crossing behind you.” By then Fred’s Chinaman was pouring some coffee for Fletcher. It was scalding hot. So much so that Fletcher had to blow on it to cool it and the brothers waited patiently while he was blowing and sipping. “Not even a look back to see if he’d done any damage. If I had wanted to I could have picked some black hairs off that stallion’s hide.”

Fred looked thoughtful. “You’re sure it was Hopkins?”

“Positive,” answered Fletcher, “No one else sits upright in the saddle like he does. Reminds me of a colonel I used to have in the 7th.”

“Well, I swear, strange that he should be hereabouts on a Saturday morning,” Fred said while holding his cup of coffee up to his lips and taking a swig.

Jorgen said, “I bet the man was carrying a revolver or at least had a stout whip handy if he was riding in this town. The folks in Mayfield are not too happy with him. I guess you heard how he fandangoed poor Alex Gordon who was planning to develop “Palo Alto” as part of Mayfield.

Between sips, Fletcher managed to say, “Yes, your brother told me.” It really didn’t make any difference. He would still hear Jorgen’s version. 291

He could smell eggs and smoked ham and bacon being cooked in the kitchen.

“Sir Timothy goes to Alex and tells him how upset the Senator is that he has appropriated the name of his farm and if he will give it up, the Senator promises to give Mayfield a front entrance to the university grounds. Front entrance he tells him.”

Fletcher remembered the mounds of earth being moved to create Frederick Olmsted’s oval and he wondered how anyone could have believed a Mayfield entrance would be created.

“So poor gullible Gordon gives up the name and renames his area, “College Terrace” and shortly Tim Hopkins and his “University Park” crew pick up the name for their own array of vacant lots.”

Fred added his comments, “And I would bet on my Mother’s sacred honor,” and he crossed himself and looked to Heaven, “they will hold that name in a death grip for as long as we see the light of day.”

The Chinaman quickly served the men breakfast along with newly baked bread and freshly churned butter. More coffee was poured from a tin pitcher.

“You know the man is a complete sham,” Jorgen said with a slight smile on his lips.

“You’re talking about Timothy Hopkins?” asked Fred.

“Of course I am talking about Sir Timothy.”

This is new information for Fletcher. He stopped putting another piece of smoked bacon into his mouth and concentrated on listening to Jorgen.

Jorgen acted like he relished telling the story. “From what I hear, Mark Hopkins and his new wife took young Timothy in as a young boy. Why they did this no one seems to know exactly but there are sure more than one story I’ve heard and no knows which one is true. One story was that Tim’s father worked for the Hopkins and died from an accident at the Hopkins’s home in Sacramento. Another story was his father was drowned when he tried to swim out to the boat that had carried his wife and little son from Massachusetts to California and the Hopkins took in the bereft wife and boy. In this story, Tim’s mother married a local rancher and went off to Montana to start a new family and was never heard from again. Whatever the rumor, the mother always leaves the boy and just plain 292

disappears. Mighty strange I would say. Particularly with him gallivanting around the countryside acting like he owns the place.”

“Well, he does, dear brother, with 500 acres of choice land, and the mansion Mrs. Hopkins gave him as a wedding gift. He is almost as big a landowner as the Senator,” Fred said, sitting back in his chair and taking a breather from eating. “I wonder what he was doing in town, this morning?”

For a moment all the men concentrate on dipping their fresh bread into the remnants of eggs and bacon and ham, and savoring the concoction as they plunk it into their mouths.

Between bites and chews, Fletcher tells them, “Irene and Lucy will be looking to buy ground for a new school.”

Fred chuckled, “So they have given up the ghost.”

Fletcher still looking at his plate, said, “I think they only have two girls left that are staying on until the Christmas break and then all of their students will be gone so temporarily they’ll be taking in Stanford people while they build another school. You know I think I saw the ghost.”

Both men with mouths full said, “No.”

“Yep, on the little stage we built for the Halloween Party. There it was with all the other girls. It was like she wanted to be part of the festivities.”

Fred had a quizzical look on his face, “Are you sure it wasn’t one of those mischievous students. They were doing all kinds of shenanigans Halloween Night. Widow Swenderton reported her cow was tethered to the top of the barn. Can you imagine that? Hoisting a cow that high. Wouldn’t have been nothing to pretend to be a ghost for a minute or so.

Jorgen believed Fletcher, “That must have been some experience seeing a real live ghost.”

Fred looked at his brother, “Yes, Jorgen, live ghost,” then he turned back to Fletcher. “If you are convinced it was a ghost, did you ever think that experience of yours in the Army, facing death and all, might left you with some kind of gift or something. You seem to be sensitive to other worldly goings ons that most of us don’t even know about.”

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“I am not sure,” said Fletcher, “of anything. It might have been the students but I could never understand how they got up on that stage and left without anyone seeing them and as for the gift, I don’t know about that, either.” Fletcher didn’t even look at Fred so it was obvious he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

Fred decided to change the subject. “Well, I hope you will put in a good word to Irene and Lucy to talk to Alex Gordon about building in “College Terrace”. A girl’s preparatory school would be a real asset for this town.”

“I’ll try but you know what the problem is, Fred.”

“Yes, I know. I told you how when the Senator first came to us and asked that we close the saloons, I was all for it. Even though it is the only business I know, I figured there would be lots of opportunities if we got the university heading in our direction. Now, with all the students drinking up a storm, it will probably get worse. More saloons are going to be opening up and I hear that whores are coming from the city and using Mayfield as a vacation spot with its student clientele to rest up for the more rigorous city life.”

“You hear, I know they are,” added Jorgen. “Some real beauties, they are.” He saw his brother’s scornful look. “You’ve got your widow Malgren with her eight children to play with.” He looked at Fletcher as if to gain his approval, “There is nothing wrong with ladies of the night. They perform a very useful service for old men like me without a wife to bed and for other young men who may need a little education not offered at the university.”

Fred responded, “For old geezers like you, I have no problem. When you talk of young men, I am not so sure. Exposing them to the wages of sex and sin at such an early age could be terribly bad if syphilis and gonorrhea go along with the lessons.”

“Luck of the draw,” said Jorgen.

“Let’s say that I wish the cards were being dealt at another city, not Mayfield,” said Fred.

^^^^^^^^^

Tim Hopkins had an important business appointment that Saturday morning and he was already late. Mary, his wife, had insisted that he look at a new dress she had bought in the city. She wanted to wear it at 294

the Stanford’s last party before they went back to Washington, D. C. for the Senate’s winter term.

Hopkins had stood there in her bedroom as she pranced around showing off her new, red dress complete with its ostrich feathers. She was a good looking women, already getting a little too plump for early thirties but her breasts looked provocative in the tightly laced corset she was wearing underneath. Hopefully, she would be in a good frame of mind when they went to bed that evening.

In light of that, he had nothing but good things to say about the outfit and with her smiling, he took his leave. He was already thirty minutes late for his meeting with Quong Wo at his laundry in Mayfield.

Astride Black Knight, galloping down the county road, he really didn’t see the tall, dark-haired man crossing the street until it was too late. Riding in the area, he had run into his share of drunkards who always managed to jump out in the roadway at the most inopportune moment. One time, he had lost a mare that way. She broke a leg and he shot her where she laid and walked back to Sherwood Hall and got another horse and had some of his Chinamen go get the mare in a cart. He wasn’t sure what they had done with the horse. He heard, later, that the man he had run into broke both legs and Hopkins sent him over to Dr. Wood to take care of him and gave the doctor ten dollars to give to the man for his future needs.

If the dark-haired man were injured, Tim Hopkins would hear about it. Everyone knew him. That was why he had to be so careful when he visited Quong Ho. He cut through some side streets so he could approach the laundry from the rear. He found the Railroad Livery Stable a block away and had them care for his horse while he conducted business.

Briskly, he walked to the laundry’s back door and before he stepped inside he looked around to see if anyone was watching. If there had been he would have walked right by and come back later. He couldn’t see anyone so he entered the establishment. Quong was expecting him and immediately ushered him into a small room where he conducted private business with his clientele and he shut the door behind Timothy. Here they could talk and not be disturbed.

Quong was dressed in his usual black attire, which always reminded Timothy of the pajamas he wore at night. Quong wore a black skull cap and had a short pig tail at the back of his head. Hopkins really didn’t know what his face looked like because Quong never looked at him. His eyes were always diverted to the floor in front of where Timothy stood or if they sat to something on the table before them. 295

A single small window, placed high in the wall so no one could see in, lighted the room. The simple furnishings were several square stools made of black teak wood. In the center of the room was a single low table, also made of teak, delicately and minutely inlaid with lighter woods.

Quong Ho gestured to Hopkins to sit down but he ignored the gesture and remained standing. Timothy saw no reason to sit and prolong his visit. It was not for social reasons that he was there. “You have my money,” asked Timothy.

“Yes, it is all here.” Quong spoke perfect English. He had been raised on the Sherwood Hall estate. His mother and father worked in the Hall’s laundry and Timothy quickly surmised that young Quong was exceptionally bright and loyal and as he grew older gave him more and more responsible and finally decided to stake him in his own laundry business in Mayfield.

He gave Timothy a good-sized leather pouch filled with currency and gold coins.

Timothy could tell by the feel of the pouch that it was a sizeable amount. He put it in the inside pocket of his jacket “And the accounting paper listing the transactions and how much your share was.” The two of them had never signed a contract. Timothy had learned that Chinamen do not believe in written contracts. Their word is their bond.

“It is there, too.” Quong smiled. “I think you will be very pleased with the amount. Our lovely ladies have been very profitable. And the opium den will soon be. ”

“I hear you had a little problem with Constable Coulter.”

Quong held his two hands together as if he was praying. He had seen his parent do that when they spoke to Mr. Hopkins and felt it was part of the servility he was suppose to portray. “Coulter wanted too much money to shut his eyes and not see what our young ladies were doing so I did not pay. He tried to prove his power but I will still not pay what he wants. In the end he will take what I give him. He needs money and we have money. It will work out. For now, it is a little game we are playing but in the end, I will win.”

“That is your business. I know you can handle Coulter but I do not want anyone killed.”

“Mr. Hopkins, no one will be killed. There are other ways.” 296

“Good.” Timothy turned toward the door. Quong understood his visitor would not stay long. “Good bye, Quong.” As he left he shook Quong’s hand. Timothy felt it was a necessary part of doing business with another person. Quong hated the ceremony. He was never sure whether Mr. Hopkins had clean hands.

Back outside, Hopkins looked up at the sky and could see storm clouds gathering. The fall rains would begin soon. As he walked back to the livery to pick up Black Knight, he thought how relieved he always felt after he had seen Quong. It was not something he liked doing. He did not enjoy his business relationship with Quong, the money would help tide him over until Searle came to his senses and gave him part of his Mother’s estate.

When the college boys started to arrive, Hopkins knew they would need libation and activities to satisfy their sexual appetites. There was no reason why they should have to go all the way to the city or Menlo Park for satisfaction when Mayfield was so near at hand. There was the added benefit that helping Mayfield’s image, as a den of iniquity, would insure the Senator’s continued support in promoting the properties he owned which now could be called, “Palo Alto.” Hopkins also assumed that the university people while some of them might use Mayfield’s amenities regularly secretly would openly prefer their families to live in neighborhoods without the tinges of sin. His “Palo Alto” would be such a place. Hopkins would benefit both ways.

He also felt a unique kinship with his Chinamen. They worked hard and did their jobs. Within the property lines of Sherwood Hall, he had created a village devoted to housing them. Quong’s mother and father lived there and until recently, Quong. With so much talk in the area about running out the “Asian Hordes” who were taking jobs from the slovenly Irish and Italians, Hopkins began military drills in his village so that his Chinamen could defend themselves and if need be, Sherwood Hall.

Once a week he had lined up over 100 to 200 Chinamen in lines armed with shovels and pitchforks and had them perform military drills to the commands he gave while astride Black Knight.

Before he knew it, he was back at the Railroad Livery Stable. He untied his horse, mounted it and made his way to the County Road and headed north toward Menlo Park and Sherwood Hall. This time, in a much more leisurely fashion. As he rode, the hefty money pouch in his inner coat pocket felt good as it rubbed his chest.

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^^^^^^^^^^

Quong Wo remained in the small room after Timothy Hopkins left. He sat down on a teak stool and poured tea in two china cups from a crack between two bowls one inverted over the other. The tea was hot water flavored by an aromatic herb and was colored light lemon yellow. Quong was always prepared for Hopkins to take tea with him even though he knew it would never happen. Hopkins would take money from him but not tea. White men were barbaric. Why should he expect Hopkins to be different? Chang Lu would take tea with him.

Chang was his second in command and was in charge of the brothels and opium dens. Quong looked after the gambling and his legitimate business—laundry. Chang entered the room. He was very tall, almost six feet, and had large hands and feet and was very strong. His face was a mixture of Chinese and Anglo-Saxon features and it could be quickly surmised that his birth was a result of a master taking advantage of a servant. Who the master was, no one cared to know but Chang’s mother also lived in Hopkins’ village. When Quong had first seen Chang as a teenager, he knew that Chang would make an excellent enforcer.

The two men spoke in Mandarin Chinese.

“Was he unhappy about Coulter,” asked Chang after he had seated himself across from Quong who gave him the other cup of tea he had poured.

“He was not unhappy because I gave him the money. Money erases unhappiness.”

“You told him, Coulter would be taken care of?”

“No, I told him nothing. I told him, ‘It would work out.’ That is all he wants to know. He does not want to know how.”

“I have much to learn,” said Chang as he took another drink of his tea.

Quong smiled. So far his wife had provided him with two daughters. She was not well so there might be no son but if the fates decreed that, Chang would be his son. The Gods had been very kind to Quong.

To Chang he said, “Yes, you do.”

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^^^^^^^^^^

Rubin Weinberg was pleased.

On Tuesday afternoon, November 11th, at 4pm, LSJrU students met and formally adopted the constitution for the student government that he and his committee had originally proposed without the offending “no freshman candidate” amendment. He was also pleased that his nominee for the President, John Whittemore, of the class of ’92, was elected President. John was a friend of Will Greer’s and Rubin liked him. He was not a fraternity man and he was an outstanding athlete and scholar from Indiana University who had, along with others, followed Dr. Jordan west. John had an immediate presence that asserted leadership. Along with Whittemore, J. C. Capron was elected Vice-President; J. N. Metcalf, Secretary; and Professor Richardson was Treasurer and Dr. Swain, Member of the Executive Committee.

Now that there were officially classes, Rubin was trying to create an event that would make his class, the class of ’95, obviously superior to the others--something that would go into LSJrU history books.

Previously, he had some experience doing this. Back in Omaha, in high school, he had always been the instigator of pranks and schemes. One time, he organized painting a prominent cement wall that ran along side the main road from the east into town. Omaha citizens awoke one morning to find, “There is only one and that is ‘91’” embellished in black paint on their tranquil landscape. Of course the city required that he and his fellow culprits white wash out the inscription but the notoriety was worth it.

All he wanted to do now was to place “’95’s” in prominent positions that would not have to be whitewashed out and would be for all to see, but where?

It was only two in the afternoon and he had plenty of time to study later in the evening, he thought to himself, “Why not reconnoiter a bit and see what’s the best possibility?” He strolled out of his room, down the stairs and out a side door to the path that ran on the east side of Encina facing the road leading to Mayfield.

The weather was cloudy but warm. It reminded him of Omaha without the humidity. Rain was out there somewhere. He hated to think what it would be like when it started. There was only the one paved path that ran north and south between Encina and Roble with the Quad half 299

way between the two halls. The only boardwalks were along Alvarado Row for the faculty and their families to use. Only dirt paths, which would quickly turn to mud led to other sites on the campus. It would be a muddy mess particularly for the young ladies with their long skirts.

Rubin looked to the east and could see Escontite Cottage and the outline of the new homes going up in the College Terrace area. He understood that some of the fraternities were building in the area and also a few faculty members. Well, Rubin didn’t have to worry about a fraternity asking him to join. Will Greer had attempted that without success. By now, Rubin was used to the irrational behavior known as “black balling.” It was such a cowardly way to treat a person. Unnamed and unknown the blackballer could change a person’s life and then, later, pretend to be his friend. Rubin wanted no part of it and it looked like he would have no choice.

As he walked around the back of the hall, he constantly looked above to check the windows on the other floors. One of his fellow inmates could be waiting for a target to hit with a balloon filled with water or even worse, a heavy earthen jar. In the past, balloons had regularly hit their targets. Luckily, the jars had not. It looked safe as he darted around the corner and kept close to the building for safety.

From his own east-viewing window Rubin had seen a fellow student proudly showing his mother around the impressive building where he lived and watched in horror as a large water bag hit the poor lady, full force. The student made a menacing sign with his fist at his unseen adversary but it was to no avail. The meaningless gesture was answered with derisive laughter. The embarrassed student shepherded his now drenched mother to safety where she could dry herself off. Since that time, Rubin had been very wary when he was close to Encina.

Continuing his quest for potential ’95 landmarks, Rubin could see the ten faculty homes on Alvarado Row. He understood they were called “The Decalogue.” Maybe it was because he was Jewish, but for but for the life of him he could not see the resemblance to the Ten Commandments. There was a water tank about twenty feet from the ground at the top of the row where its inhabitants daily got fresh, pumped water for drinking and cooking purposes. That was a good possibility. Rubin made a mental note that it would be simple enough for two or three stalwarts to climb up the side of the tank and do their painting duties.

Immediately before him, he could also see the outline of a baseball diamond being laid out directly behind Encina in preparation for a baseball game to be played between the seniors and member of the faculty at the end of next week. To his right was the new Men’s Gym that was 300

almost completed and a football field was roughly outlined in the clay soil on the other side of the main path that ran north and south near the new gym.

Rubin turned to face west when he saw it--“The Chimney.” It rose over 60 feet, a thin smokestack, completely and utterly vertical with absolutely no competition. It dominated the countryside. It was perfect. Rubin stood in awe of it, contemplating how the black numerals, 9 and 5 might be painted up its side. For full effect, the nine would have to be on top and the five shortly below. There would have to be some space between the two figures but not too much. In his mind, he could see “The Chimney” transformed into a ‘95 phallic symbol.

But further thought revealed there was a problem. How would they get the paint and brushes up there to do the job? And the chimney was next door to the powerhouse where workmen were stationed around the clock. And also, The Camp was nearby and already stalwarts from all the classes were deserting Encina for the cheaper accommodations. Rubin, in the future, might be one of them. No, the chimney would remain a challenge to be conquered, perhaps, at a later date.

Continuing his visual tour, Rubin faced west toward the Quad and toward Roble and a better possibility loomed before him--the oak tree standing squarely in the path between the two halls. Anyone passing in either direction would have to pass it and a ’95 on such an object would create ownership that no one could deny.

He would talk to David and his roommate, later, this afternoon. The “Flatcar Prank” had taught him that it was better to have just a few, trusted chums perform the task. That way, there was no chance that the authorities would be able to identify the culprits. They would paint that evening.

^^^^^^^^^

It was past midnight when Rubin, David Cooper, and Milt Grosh made their way outside into the night, using one of Encina’s windows on the ground floor on the eastern side. Rubin made arrangements with its occupants. Only the light of a quarter moon lit their way and this disappeared and reappeared as gathering clouds passed by. Their only other light, to be used for actual painting, was a single kerosene lantern; David had bought in Mayfield.

David carried the unlit lantern and Milt had a large pail of white wash taken from Stanford’s Maintenance Department. Rubin carried several brushes from the same source and he helped Milt with the pail, which was 301

both heavy and cumbersome. They found they had to walk slowly, at the same pace with the pail between them, otherwise the paint would slosh out. Without paint, the whole escapade was doomed.

Every so often, Rubin could feel intermittent raindrops on his face. The job had to be finished before the heavy rains came otherwise the paint would wash away.

The threesome was walking on the path toward Roble.

“Careful, careful, it’s sloshing over. Slow down, Rubin,” said Milton.

Rubin couldn’t help himself. His excitement was getting the best of him and the darkness also frightened him. He was an excellent planner but a poor doer was his thinking. “I have a feeling someone is creeping up on us like Henry, the night watchman,” was what he said.

“He’s too busy patrolling the Senator’s vineyard,” David whispered.

Milton could not understand why Rubin was on edge, “Henry is harmless. We’ll just tell him we wanted to take a stroll in the dark.”

“With a bucket of paint?” Rubin asked.

In a few minutes they had passed the front of the Quad. Not a light could be seen in any of the buildings. Sometimes, a professor might stay late for one reason or another, but not tonight.

The boys spoke in low tones. It was so quiet they thought their voices might travel all the way to the ears of the single watchman on duty, Henry Travers.

There it was before them, the majestic oak tree that leaned out from a brick coping and almost touched the ground beside the walk to Roble. Its trunk measured about eight feet at its widest girth. It was far from symmetrical; greater growth was on the side facing the Quad. Helpful workmen had already built a sturdy wooden bench around the tree. As yet, no carvings marred its bark or the bench.

The boys put down the pail and David lit his lantern so they could see what they were doing. The numerals would have to be carefully laid out so they would be legible.

“Who’s the artist?” asked Rubin. For some reason, he preferred not to have the pressure of wielding the brush.

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David, who considered himself to have a steady hand, said, “I’ll do it unless you want to, Milt.”

“No, no, you go ahead.”

David picked the side facing Roble, at the trunk’s broadest point. He took a brush from Rubin’s hands and put it quickly in and out of the pail of whitewash so as to not get too much paint on it. First, he lightly outlined the number nine starting at the top. It was about three feet tall. The bark was rough and not easy to paint but David managed to complete a fairly legible “9.” Then he started working on the five. This was more difficult. Because of the trees’ symmetry, the top of the five was three or four inches lower than the top of the nine and he had to be careful to start the 0 of the five close to where the 0 of the nine ended. He did this and now only the little curly end of the five remained to be completed. He stood back and looked over what he had done.

“What do you think?” David took the light that was sitting on the ground and brought it up close to the tree. Rubin and Milt could see that the strategy was first to outline the numbers and then go over them, again, so they would really show up.

They looked and nodded their head in agreement. The numbers looked good to them. Then Rubin thought of something. “You forgot the apostrophe.”

David said, “You’re right I did. Do you have a smaller brush we can use for that?”

Rubin was resourceful. “No, but if I stick my thumb in the paint, it will be the same.”

“Go ahead, do it,” Milt prompted.

Rubin daintily dipped his forefinger into the white paint. It was easy to see he did not like getting his hands dirty. With his finger dripping, he said, “I should try it on something.”

“Try it on that wooden fence. Do it lightly so no one will notice,” David had to get in on the act.

Rubin went over to the fence and pressed his finger against it. “Not a great apostrophe but it will do.”

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“Wait, Milt and I will fill in the nine and five and then you can finish with your dap of paint. That way we will all have a part in the painting,” David said.

They agreed that it was appropriate that each would do part of the painting. Already they were thinking of future retellings of the night’s adventure. David took the original paintbrush and filled it with quite a bit of paint and went over the outlined nine. The white number stood out from the brown bark. Milt did the same thing for the five. Then Rubin dipped his finger into the paint and added the apostrophe.

They all stood back and admired their accomplishment. It was not beautiful but the “’95” would not be mistaken for any other number. The oak tree was now officially the “’95 Oak Tree.”

The three boys’ faces lit up with smiles that could even be seen in the dim light of the quarter moon.

But they were not finished. Rubin urged them on to the next task, “Now, on to “The Tank,” he said.

The three of them picked up their materials and headed west back toward Encina but about fifty yards from the Hall they took a footpath that led past the newly completed Men’s Gymn toward the eastern end of Alvarado Row where the water tank stood. This was the source of drinking and cooking water for residents of Alvarado Row. Each night students at Encina could see the Professors who taught them during the day, duly queuing up with six and eight-quart tin water buckets to take home the water that would be used during super and the next day.

The wooden tank was about fifteen feet high and had a diameter of twenty feet. It set on a solid wooden platform that raised the top of the tank to almost forty feet or about as high as the two storied homes it serviced.

Here a whole new set of problems presented themselves to the would be ’95 painters. As opposed to the isolated oak tree, professor homes surrounded the water tank area in particular the Registrar’s home, Dr. O. L. Elliott and his family, was about fifty yards away. All of these homes were now darkened but many of them had dogs sleeping inside or in fenced areas near the homes. Extra caution had to be observed so that no sound would awaken these sleeping dogs and if so, the professors and their families.

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There were also problems related to how the painters would get themselves and their pail of paint up to the narrow walkway that projected from the top of the platform upon which the tank sat. The walkway was only three feet wide. A narrow, wooden ladder led up the side of the platform to the projection. Anyone with any form of vertigo should not attempt to go to the top of the ladder. Rubin hated heights.

The three boys huddled together in the darkness at the base of the tank and in a whispered conversation discussed what should be done. The lantern could no longer be used. It would attract too much attention. They would have to rely on the irregular moonlight.

Looking up at the tank, which appeared to Rubin to be one hundred feet from the ground, Rubin whispered, “I can’t go up there. I should never have even considered it. Let’s go back. We did the tree. That’s enough for one night.”

David and Milt felt challenged by the task. Being country boys, both of them had climbed trees all their lives. Height was not a problem. Many times they had fallen from high branches and lived to tell of it.

Milt tried to dissuade Rubin, “David and I can do it, Rubin. You stay close to the ground with the paint and brushes and pass a brush full of paint up to me when I say, ‘OK’.”

David added, “Milton will climb up first and I will follow. I’ll support him as he paints.”

Milt chuckled, “Don’t expect the masterpiece like we did on the tree, but the ‘95 will be seen.”

Before Rubin could object, Milt immediately made for the platform’s ladder and started to pull himself up. After a few seconds, David followed. On the ground, Rubin could hear a faint “OK” from the top. What could he do? He forced himself to dip the paint in the whitewash and then made his way up the ladder. It was even more difficult because he could only use one hand for holding on to the side of the ladder. The other one had to hold the paint brush steady to keep the paint from falling on to the ladder. Thank goodness he only had to go up ten feet but that was a real challenge for him particularly in the dark. Step by step he pulled himself up the ladder. Finally he could see David’s hand reaching down for the brush. It was like a relay team. Once he felt David gripping the brush, Rubin let go. Unfortunately, David did not have a firm grip on the brush and it fell to the ground. In the process, it hit one of the wooden supports and made a “bang” sound. Rubin thought it really wasn’t much of a sound but would it be enough to awaken a dog? 305

Rubin retreated backwards down the steps. For a second, he considered bolting for it and running back to Encina but his friends remained on the platform. He could not desert them. He found the brush, replenished it with paint and started back up the steps, again. This time David and he allowed more time for the passing and the brush safely made its way into Milt’s hands.

Milton considered waiting for the moonlight to brighten a bit so he could see what he was doing but when he heard a lone dog starting to bark, any thoughts of waiting disappeared. The dropped brush had acted as an alarm that could not be turned off. With several mighty swishes, he painted the 9. There was no more paint. It had to be replenished. He gave the brush back to David with a whispered, “I need more paint for the 5.”

David, in turn, whispered, “He needs more paint,” to Rubin.

Now two dogs were barking and a single light went on in the Elliott’s home, the one closest to the tank. Rubin’s heart was racing. He could hardly hold the brush. All he wanted to do was get out of there. He still managed, once more to get down the steps, dipped the brush, back up the steps and firmly handed it to David.

By now, another light came on and Rubin could see a candle flickering in the windows making its way to the back door.

Milton made more swooshes and a rather crude 5 was completed. Also, he didn’t forget the apostrophe. He could hear Rubin on the ground whispering, “Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go.” Each “Let’s go” became more frantic and intense.

A ringing voice rang out from the back of the now lit up house, “Who’s out there.” It was Dr. Elliott. and he had a lantern and he was starting to walk toward the tank.

There was no time for ladders, now. Milton and David remembering all the times they had either fallen or been pushed out of tall trees, fell to the ground. Both of them luckily landed on their feet. Leaving their paint pail and brushes on the ground, Rubin was already running across the field to the safety of Encina. With racing hearts, David and Milton followed him,

Leslie Elliott saw the three boys running toward Encina. At first he did not know why they had been in the neighborhood but then he saw the ’95 on the side of the water tank and the pail of paint and brushes strewn 306

on the ground. His dogs were still barking and he was sure that everyone in the neighborhood would ask him next morning what happened during the night. All he would have to do is point up at the water tank. When he had first seen the tank, he had thought how it would make a good spot for someone to paint.

When the three boys reentered Encina through the same window they used to exit, they were breathing in great gulps from their excitement and exertion. As they were running across the field, they were laughing and shouting to one another. One inside the building they had to subdue their boisterous activities but all three were obviously pleased with themselves. Silently they bid each other good night. Rubin went to his room and Milt and David went to theirs. Each of them thought that, unlike the flatcar prank, this time there would be no chance of anyone finding out who had devised and carried out this wonderful scheme. The three boys trusted one another.

^^^^^^^^^^

On Tuesday, November 10, 1891, when Knight Jordan, Dr. Jordan’s young son, woke up, it did not start out like every other morning.

He could hear his father’s big voice booming in some distant part of the cottage, probably the kitchen. He was talking to another person, who must be the neighbor lady. That was different. Usually it was his Mama’s voice.

He got up and pulled out the ceramic pot that was beneath his bed and tinkled in it. He had to go bad because of all the cider he drank last night. There was a steady stream from his little penis into the bowl. Sometimes he missed the bowl and his Mama got mad. This time he was right on target. Little bubbles flowed from the point of contact to the side of the pot. When he was finished, he pushed it back under the bed. Later, Mama or Papa or sometimes Edi would take it away and throw it outside in the back of the cottage.

He pulled on his flannel shirt and cotton pants and white woolen socks and the big brown leather shoes, his mother had bought him when they went up in the train to the city and he sat by the window and watch the smoke from the big locomotive at the front of the train drifting back over the cars.. He liked to watch trains and when he saw one he would stop whatever he was doing and watch it.

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He could smell bacon being cooked in the kitchen, probably by the neighbor lady since Mama wasn’t feeling too good. She stayed in her bed a lot, now. He missed the Chinaman who cooked for them. He made good pancakes and he always let Knight lick the wooden spoon if there was sweet stuff on it.

The house was cold. Papa had not built a fire yet but the closer Knight got to the kitchen, the warmer it got. He pushed open the swinging doors. There was the neighbor lady and his Papa. Knight remembered that her name was Mrs. Mack or Mark or something like that.

David Starr Jordan and Hannah Marx, Professor Marx’ wife, saw young Jordan come into the kitchen at the same time. Dr. Jordan wondered to himself how his young son would take to the new brother or sister that was on the way. Knight was always at the center of Jessie’s world, up-to-now.

Hannah rushed to the little boy and swept him off his feet and pulled him up to her ample bosoms. Ladies were always doing that to him. He was used to it but at three going on four and almost forty pounds he was getting to be quite an armful. Less robust ladies would have been inclined to let him stay on the ground and lean over and give him a little kiss on his forehead. Mrs. Marx was not such a person. “What a beautiful child,” she thought, “almost too beautiful to be true.”

She said, “There’s my gorgeous boy,” and gave him a long, wet kiss on his mouth that had a “smack” sound to it. Knight drew back. He wasn’t used to that kind of affection particularly in the morning. Usually a peck on the cheek from Mama and a hair tousling from Papa were his morning greetings.

“Good Morning, Knight,” said Papa and tousled his flaxen, tow- headed curls while he was still in Mrs. Marx’s arm. “How is my boy, this morning?” Dr. Jordan took his son from Mrs. Marx’s and held him so that his eyes were parallel to his own. He always felt that this was a better way to talk to a child rather than peering down on him like a giant talking to a midget. He wondered what he would do when Knight got bigger. Already, he could feel his heft.

Dr. Jordan decided that this was as good a time as any to tell his young son about the new arrival. Dr. Watson and Lillian Swain and Ellen Elliott were in their bedroom with Jessie now and it wouldn’t be too long before the birthing would take place. Dr. Watson told him that everything was going along fine and the baby was in a good position and Jessie was dilating just as she should be.

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“Knight,” was it too much that he had named him that. Jessie had said his classmates would make fun of him but Jordan liked the name. He wished he had had that name. “Knight Starr Jordan” that would have made them sit up and take notice.

“Yes, Papa.” His brown eyes looked into Dr. Jordan’s.

“We are going to have a new baby in the house.”

“Will it be my brother or sister?”

Edith, his eldest daughter, must have told him already. Drat her, why couldn’t she hold her tongue? “We’re not sure, as of yet.” Jordan would have guessed a girl but why confuse the child. “You will be the older brother, no matter, and I want you to help me and your mother take care of our new arrival. Will you do that for, me?”

“Yes, Papa. Edi told me all about it and she said that one day she will have a baby just like Mama after her husband sticks his Johnny into her and plants his seeds.”

Mrs. Marx let out a little shriek and then contained herself. She was mostly laughing at the expression on Dr. Jordan’s face as much at what had just been said.

Dr. Jordan managed to keep a straight face as he said, “Yes, Knight, I think we will tackle that subject at a later date. For now, let’s be concerned with helping Mama and Papa with the new arrival, right?”

Knight had enough of this face-to-face, serious conversation. He started squirming to get down from Jordan’s embrace and he was big enough that even Dr. Jordan’s strong hands could not constrain him. Within seconds he was back on the wooden floor again where he was his own master. “I’m hungry. I’m hungry,” he said to anyone who would listen.

As Dr. Jordan returned Knight to his natural habitat, he looked over at Mrs. Marx and his eyes said, “So what do you think of that. My four year old son telling me all about sex.”

Mrs. Marx was already dishing up some bacon and eggs on a good- sized green china plate that she had set aside for Knight. She cut up the bacon for him but she knew he wanted to break the sunny-side eggs, himself.

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Then he climbed up to a seat at the big kitchen table where Jordan, Marsh Illustrated catalogs had been stacked so that his stomach was next to the edge of the table. Knight managed to get on top of the catalogs but Mrs. Marx had to push his chair into the table so he would be close enough to eat. Immediately the clickety clack of silverware against china could be heard as Knight broke one of his two eggs and started eating the fried potatoes and bacon.

“May I have some, milk, please,” he said between gulps of food.

“Certainly, darling,” as Mrs. Marx poured milk from a tin pitcher into a large glass, a piercing scream was heard. It was Jessie Jordan.

“Was that Mama?” Knight asked and already his eyes were misting over with potential tears.

Another scream, this time longer and even more intense. As if he, too, was feeling his Mama’s pain, Knight forgot the breakfast before him. He brought his two elbows up on the table and started bellowing cries of anguish almost as loud as Jessie’s.

Disregarding his son, Jordan rushed out of the kitchen to their bedroom to be near his wife during this trying time. Mrs. Marx was left alone with Knight. She moved a chair next to him and tried to console him.

Jessie’s screams, turning into loud moans, mixed with Knight’s cries would continue for the next two hours. Outside the cottage, Jordan’s two sheep dogs began to sympathetically howl so the whole campus and even parts of Mayfield were intimately aware of the progress of Jessie’s birthing.

Suddenly, after a particularly long and painful moan, a new sound was heard. It was the high-pitched cry of a baby. By now, Knight’s throat had turned raw and his cries were more rasping sounds rather than crying. “Is that my sister?” he asked in his hoarse, little boy’s voice. Hannah Marx would always wonder how he knew.

“Yes, that is your sister,” she said, not really knowing what else to say.

In a flash he was out of the kitchen, down the hall and almost through the bedroom’s doorway when Dr. Jordan who was standing nearby grabbed him by the waist as he went by and held him back from entering.

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“Hold on, son. Your Mama needs a little time before she can see you.”

“I want to see Mama. I want to see my sister,” he insisted and was out of Dr. Jordan’s grasp and through the doorway before Jordan could do anything about it.

They were all looking at him when he entered the bedroom. Auntie Ellen, Auntie Lillian and even Dr. Watson who had his sister in his hands by the legs, upside down, and was wiping a strange mixture of blood and ooze off her little body. As he wiped, Knight could see pink, pink skin underneath. The baby was bravely attempting to cry out, faintly, even in its upside down position

His mother raised a limp hand motioning him to come closer. She was too exhausted to speak in more than a whisper. “Come here, dear Knight. Come and see Barbara, your new sister.”

Now that Knight had gained entrance to the room, he suddenly became shy, and very hesitantly moved toward the bed. By now, Dr. Watson had the now vigorously crying Barbara cradled in his arms and he gently gave the baby to its Mother to show to her son.

Knight stopped about two feet from the bed in which his Mother and his new sister laid. “It’s all right, Knight. Come closer and touch her,” said his Mother.

Even Ellen Elliott who was not a great fan of Jessie Jordan after the way she had got rid of her cook and the sojourn with the Jordan’s had so abruptly ended, was deeply affected by the scene of Knight who was such a boisterous boy, gently putting out his fingers and touching Barbara’s minuscule hand. Once he had touched it, he withdrew his hand as if the baby had shocked him. But he did touch her and that in itself represented some kind of a bond.

Everyone in the room, including Mrs. Marx who had followed Knight and witnessed what had happened, breathed a little sigh of relief. The baby had arrived safely. Jessie was none the worse for wear and Knight had been introduced. All without incident.

David Starr Jordan, standing at the doorway surveying the scene, thought, “Thank God, it is over. On Saturday, I have the Senior vs. Faculty Baseball game.

^^^^^^^

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Something very strange was happening to Sally Forrest. Where once her whole life revolved around avenging her father’s death, living in Roble Hall, being around young ladies her own age and daily being challenged by the studies she was pursuing had the effect of lessoning her fanatic devotion to her dead father. It was as if, within her, the once dormant personality of a young woman who wanted to meet young men, perhaps marry one of them and together have a family, similar to the Delores’ personality who was now becoming her best friend, had become more assertive.

That part of her that had taken a revolver to the Opening Ceremonies and was only thwarted from assassinating Senator Stanford by a cloudy sky did not appreciate the competition of normality.

Since the bachelor’s party in Mary Freeman’s room, Sally and Delores had become fast friends, almost inseparable. Some of this closeness was due to the fact that Betsy, Delores’ roommate, was struggling with her studies.

Betsy had already received a “conditional” from Professor Griggs in her English class and her French Professor, Dr. Todd, warned her if her work did not improve, he would be giving her a “conditional.” “Conditionals” were warnings the professors gave to students that they were failing their class. Two failures in one semester meant the student would be temporarily suspended from school and would have to wait until the next academic year to reapply for entry. Betsy had put on hold any social activity except for seeing Mitch on the weekends and when she was not in class, she was in the library studying. She told Delores if she were suspended she would not be returning to college for the next semester. She would stay in Southern California and go to the Catholic College for Women, that her parents wanted her to attend in the first place. .

Being around Delores had changed Sally profoundly. She could feel herself laughing more and just being alive had more meaning. She felt that she was growing to love Delores not necessarily in a sexual way but in a way that two young women can find satisfying and rewarding but would mystify young men.

Now, she dreaded her evening walks when she would communicate with her dead father. The walks were twice or three times a week instead of daily and the conversations were more arguments between Sally’s two conflicting personalities. Wednesday evening, after Sally heard that the Senator and Mrs. Stanford would be leaving for Washington, D. C. at the end of the week, there was a confrontation between the two. It was not 312 with the dead father who understood the change that was taking place within his daughter. It was within Sally.

“I don’t know what to do, Daddy. I do love you so much but I also love another.”

“I understand dearest daughter. Your happiness is all I care for.”

“But you have my oath that I will avenge you. My oath.”

“Forget the oath. Live a normal life, love others, have children. That is the way you can honor me, not by killing the Senator.”

“I can not do that, Daddy. I could not live with myself as long as Senator Stanford is alive.”

“Do what you must dear daughter. My love for you is eternal.”

“Now, I know the route the Senator’s carriage takes each day when he tours the campus. He is a punctual man. He must take a nap after lunch until 1 pm and then his driver takes him down the “Governor’s Path” directly to the Stock Farm. I have watched from the woods next to the lake and seen him ask the grooms and trainers questions but he does not get out of his carriage. Then he takes the road toward the Quad and circles it by the Chimney and continues toward the new Gym and then turns toward Encina. All this I have seen from the woods. The carriage then turns back toward the quad and heads for home at the oval. He continues on the drive where they are planting palm trees to the road that leads past the mausoleum and then to his home. All this takes about two hours.”

“And where will you shoot him?”

“When he is heading home on the Palm Drive. There is one spot close to the road, which is still dense with underbrush. No one should see me and if I run quickly I will perhaps escape to Roble. If not, so be it. I would have kept my oath.”

“Do what you must dear daughter. My love for you is eternal.”

Sally felt at peace with herself. She released the tattered picture she has been holding tightly in her hands and dropped it into her purse. She adjusted the little hat she was wearing and smoothed down her blouse and skirt to make certain that she was presentable. She would go back to her room, gather some books together and then go to Delores’ room to study.

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Sam Cutter had been standing silently, close by, and heard every word spoken.

^^^^^^^^^

These were busy times for Sam.

He was getting top marks in all of his classes, Economics I from Dr. Elliott, English I from Dr. Griggs, History 4 from Dr. Howard and German 2 from Dr. Griffin. Dr. Griffin already felt that Sam should go on to advanced German studies under his guidance. It seemed that whatever he read he could recall in detail. His greatest failing was English. He could not write fast enough in English to keep up with his thoughts, which were always in German. Even with that liability he was passing all of his classes and his marks were far and away higher than his classmates. Because of his photographic mind he did not have to study.

Pledging the fraternity had worked out well for him. He still provided ample treats in his room and on the weekends he had gone with fraternity brothers to both Mayfield and the city for adventures. Some of them wanted him to partake of the virtues of the lovely Chinese ladies or the smoking joys of opium but Sam begged off such encounters. Anything that might detract from his abilities to think and to act was “verboten” as far as he was concerned. He would simply reply, “Das ist nicht gut fur mich,” and they would press no further. He knew that even his brethren feared him.

His work with the Flynn family was progressing. This week during the faculty-senior baseball game would be the real test of how well the boy and girl were trained. Wilfred would rifle the Encina rooms for valuables while Claire would pick the pockets of attendees at the game. A drop off point had been established near the road to Mayfield that Sam would go to after it was dark and then deliver the goods to the Flynn residence for divvying for eventual sale.

His only failing, and he knew this to be true, was his fascination for Sally. Logically, he should not involve himself in her matter of killing and avenging. The girl was obviously deranged, standing alone in the bushes near Roble and arguing aloud with herself. But his logic evaporated when he intentionally crossed her path on the Quad and he would say, “Good Morning, Sally,” and she would usually ignore him or at best give him a slight nod of her beautiful head as a sign of recognition.

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Lately, even with his activities with the women of the night in Mayfield, he had taken to masturbation more than he had ever done in his life. Part of the reason was because of Sally. Under the covers at night, he would find his prick up right and proceed.

Both he and Mitch openly masturbated. Several times, they had a contest to see who would come first. Usually Sam won, but on some occasions, he let Mitch win. Mitch’s affair with Betsy was in the kissing stages so Sam would hear the rustle of his hand against skin and the moans and groans as Mitch’s labor came to fruition. If Sam was awake, he might make a comment such as, “That sounded like a good one,” and Mitch would breathlessly reply, “Yes, it was.”

On Sam’s part, all he had to do was to conjure up the face with its long blonde hair and blue eyes and white skin and petite nose and as he progressed, imagine the blonde pubic hairs surrounding her quim…that was usually enough. Then, Mitch, who was getting excited himself just listening to Sam, would say something and Sam would breathlessly reply.

^^^^^^^^

Sam pulled Sally into the undergrowth.

The carriage had passed and neither Senator Stanford nor his driver had noticed the two figures grappling among the bushes.

Sally still had her revolver in her hand as she rolled on the ground with Sam on top of her. She looked up and saw the face of her assailant. It was Sam, whom she had never liked. What was he doing here and why had he stopped her? He was trying to pry the gun from her hands but she was hitting him in the face with her other hand and finally she was able to aim the gun and fire.

The sound of the shot rang over the countryside. It was not an unusual sound. Many Mayfield men carried weapons and at any time of the day there might be shots heard but usually they were not on the campus.

The little minx had fought like a tiger and now she had shot him. Both Sally and Sam stopped their struggles. Sam got up off of Sally and felt his left shoulder. The fabric of his jacket was frayed where a bullet had graved him. He felt under the jacket and withdrew his hand. There was blood on it. He was bleeding but he could tell it was not serious. He would not die. 315

Sally also got up and stood there watching Sam as he carefully checked under his coat to check how badly he was wounded. .

“Give me the gun,” he said to her.

“No, why should I?” She said defiantly. For some reason, she was relieved she had not killed him. Stanford was her target not this sniveling young man. .

“Because I am going to tell the doctor that I shot myself accidentally. Nothing will happen to you and then we can plan a better way to kill the Senator…. by poisoning.”

Sally could not believe what she had just heard. How did this stranger know so much about her, then it struck how. “You are the one who has been following me?”

“Yes, I don’t have a lot of time. I must see to this wound so I will see you later and we can talk. Do you know who I am?”

“Your first name is Sam that’s all I know.”

“My name is Sam Cutter and I love you.”

“You what. You don’t even know me and I don’t want to know you. Love is not a word I want to hear from the likes of you.”

Sam smiled wanly. It was as he suspected. Even after shooting him, she had no feelings for him. For some reason, this made him love her more fervently.

His voice was beginning to show the effects of the wound, “No mind, go back to Roble. but give me the gun.”

Reluctantly, Sally handed her revolver over to Sam. She started to brush herself off and said, “Will you tell them who shot you?”

“No, it was an accident. Go.”

As Sally was leaving, she called back to Sam, “Later we’ll talk about the poison.”

“Yes, we will.”

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Sam put the revolver into his coat pocket and started walking toward the Quad where he knew he should find Dr. Wood. He could feel that his jacket was becoming wet with his blood and he felt somewhat faint but his heart was happy with the thought that Sally had some what accepted him as a confederate in the crime she contemplated.

In his mind, Sam was already working out a believable story to tell the doctor and his fraternity brothers. He was target practicing and slipped and hit his shoulder by mistake. It hardly sounded plausible but no one would have believed the true story, either. .

^^^^^^^

317

Chapter Eight

Faculty vs. Seniors Baseball Game

Autumn days have followed one another without perceptibly changing. As November 1891 passed by, more clouds appeared and sunsets that were once dreary became brilliantly radiant with sharp colors ranging from coal-like blacks to oranges and yellows shimmering like tempered steel. There has been moisture in the air. Some called it heavy dew, mist or fog, not yet wet enough for black and yellow slickers but enough to know, for certain, that winter’s rain was up there, somewhere in the heavens preparing to come down--- in sheets, in torrents.

It was Saturday afternoon, November 14th; just after noon and Reverend Wilson Wilbur Thoburn was walking briskly on Sherman Street in Mayfield from the small cottage he shared with two members of the Stanford Faculty on Third Street toward the university. He looked up at the cloudy sky and uttered a silent prayer that the heavens would hold off one more day so that the baseball game he was going to umpire could take place. As the Minister of the local Methodist church he felt entitled to ask the Good Lord not only for guidance but a little help where weather was concerned.

He was a thin-faced fellow with small dark eyes and thin lips. People said he had a sensitive face and his long arms and legs made his medium height appear taller than it actually was. When he first arrived in Mayfield, he had tried growing a full beard which he thought would make him look older, more distinguished looking but the scraggly mass of hair only managed to make him feel uncomfortable and when he looked in the mirror, it was not the image he desired so he shaved it off but asked Frank the barber to keep his dark, fine hair cut long, almost to his shoulders like a poet or an artist.

Three days before on Wednesday, Reverend Thoburn had dropped by Escontite Cottage to pay his respects to Dr. and Mrs. Jordan on the arrival of their new baby girl. After he had visited with Mrs. Jordan and the baby Barbara, Dr. Jordan when he was seeing him to the door said, “Reverend, we are going to have our first annual baseball game this Saturday afternoon between the Faculty and Seniors and I wonder if you would like to umpire. I was thinking about having someone like our Register, Leslie Elliott, do the job but the Seniors might think he was partial to the Faculty or, knowing Leslie like I do, he would be partial to the Seniors to show them how even handed he was, so it would be much better to have 318 someone like yourself who would not be partial to either side. We had the game every year at Indiana and everyone had a good time and I think it should be fun for all and we all need a little break from teaching and studying and preparing papers. What do you think?”

Thoburn was totally unprepared for the offer. He had heard Dr. Jordan was inclined to move right ahead when he wanted something and he could see by his look that the man could be very determined. When Thoburn was caught off guard, he sometimes stammered and this was one of those occasions. “Uh, …Dr. Jordan, ….I have played baseball… a few times…. but I have never…. umpired in my life.”

“Yes, I thought you might not have, so I took it upon myself to obtain this small book.” and he took a black bound book about the size of the New Testament out of his left coat pocket and held it out to Rev. Thoburn, “It contains most of the baseball rules we might be concerned with. With a little study, I am sure you could master them. I have used similar rulebooks in the past.”

The Reverend did not take the proffered book. As a man of the Lord, he did not want to make a spectacle of himself particularly when some of his small congregation that might be in attendance. “Thank you, Dr. Jordan, for you kind offer,” he said this time without stammering, “but may I inquire why you, in your capacity as President of this fine university, do not want to umpire.”

“Ah, I thought you might ask that and I know you don’t know me that well but when you do you will understand that I have many, many interests in life and most of them I pursue with great enthusiasm and gusto but none with more passion than playing the game of baseball. On Saturday, if you accept, I will have the honor of playing first base with my esteemed colleagues. If you decline, I will have to forgo that pleasure. So you see how indebted I will be to you and who knows, one of these days, I may be able to return the favor.”

In the back of his mind, Rev. Thoburn thought that one of these days he might like to be considered for a position on Stanford’s faculty. He took the little book and promised to see Dr. Jordan next Saturday at about 1pm.

That night, he had the usual Wednesday evening prayer meeting with the Student Christian Society led by Frank Batchelder who worked for Dr. Jordan in the university’s administrative office and after the meeting he asked Frank what he thought about umpiring the game. He liked Frank and trusted his judgment.

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“Oh, you will have a blast, Reverend. This should be right up your alley with your sense of humor and all.”

“Then neither side takes the game too seriously?” The poor Reverend had no background at all with such affairs. For two years, he was the Professor of Biology at the ill-fated University of Pacific in San Jose, and there had been nothing like it there.

“All I can tell you is what I hear Dr. Jordan telling Dr. Elliott about all the funny things that happened when they had the games at Indiana University. Everyone wore old clothes and slouch hats and all and some of the Seniors wore women’s skirts and had a hard time running the bases with their skirts dragging in the dirt and when the umpire said something they didn’t’ t like…” Abruptly he ended his narrative and stood there with his mouth open and then shut it and was quiet.

Thoburn could see that he was not going to finish his thought. “Yes, when the umpire said something they didn’t like…. What happened?”

Frank wished he had never brought up the subject but the Reverend deserved to know what he was getting into. “Both teams piled on the umpire. Reverend, it’s like a circus and the players are the clowns.”

“And I am to be one of those clowns.”

“Yes, sir, you are,” and then optimistically with a smile on his face, Frank said, “but because of your being a Reverend, and all, I am sure they won’t pile on you, and look on the bright side of it. Imagine how many spectators will think of you being a good sport, and all, and not worried about appearing…”

“Foolish, is that the word you are seeking?”

“Yes, foolish, that’s the word,” and Frank had a grin on his face as if he could see the whole spectacle. “And they they’ll think maybe they should come and see you at your church. I know when I tell them about what you are doing, most of the students aren’t interested.”

“Yes, maybe that is how I should look at it as a form of missionary work.”

Looking back on that conversation with Batchelder, Thoburn still wondered if he had made the right decision accepting Dr. Jordan’s offer. Perhaps he could get out of it by telling Dr. Jordan he had an important mission for the church that afternoon which would prevent his attendance. No, that was not his way. He had made a promise and he would keep it. 320

He tried to remember some of the baseball rules he had studied during the past few days. The “strikes” and “balls” were difficult enough to determine (He knew approximately where the “strike zone” was.) There was also the matter of “tagging a man out” and what if a player and a ball reached first base simultaneously? What if he had to call Dr. Jordan “out”? Now that would be an interesting situation. He determined, as Frank had suggested, the only way to handle all this was with good humor. He and the players were all clowns at a circus only in this case the center ring would be the baseball diamond behind Encina Hall and some of the spectators might be members of his own congregation.

He decided to make a real show of it with grand gestures and all the rest and if the good Doctor was unhappy about his call, he would go face- to-face and if need be nose-to-nose with him. A smile came to the Reverend’s face when he thought about such a confrontation. And if, during the course of the game, everyone did jump on him, a man of the cloth, no less, then he would take that with a grain of salt, too. He was prepared for it. He had worn his oldest, shabbiest attire complete with a starched collar and an old black cap that gave him an appearance similar to the illustrations of umpires he had seen in his baseball book. For a moment, he thought, ”I have been looking in that book so much recently that I have forsaken my Bible. I hope the Lord forgives me.”

To his right, on the corner of Sherman and First Street, stood the Methodist Church, his church. It was a small, Ngonle-storied, wooden building. Small compared with the two storied Occidental Hotel that stood on the adjacent corner facing Lincoln Street. The Occidental Hotel had one of the largest saloons in town and sometimes during Sunday morning services, but particularly during the Wednesday evening prayer meetings, members of his congregation and he could hear loud voices Ngoning bawdy songs and shouting profane words and once, shots rang out and a witness to the shooting ran into his church and interrupted the service and asked him to perform the last rites, thinking it was also part of the Methodist rituals.

Thoburn could not deny the man’s request. He left the prayer meeting went into the saloon with all its depraved ruffians hanging about watching the barbaric proceedings. He leaned over the fallen victim still alive but in a pool of his own blood. The dieing man was conscious enough to realize that the wrong clergyman was looking down at him and gave Thoburn a look of “What are you doing here?” Luckily, Father O’Rourke was in the vicinity and heard the shots and surmised he might be needed. He rushed in and took over from Thoburn. When the Father realized what was happening, he smiled slyly at Thoburn as if to say, “What would you done if I had not come?” Later, when he encountered Thoburn on the streets of 321

Mayfield, he asked that same question and Thoburn would later regret that he said, “I knew enough Latin to have got the poor chap in to Heaven.” In spite of his lack of tact, the two of them continued to be good friends.

It was a good story and one Thoburn had recounted on many occasions, not including his tactless remarks to the priest, as an example of the toughness of the town (Most of the townsmen wore guns at night when they went out and even some of the students when they were in town.) but also of its heart. Certainly there were many boozers and losers but even they could be good-hearted and good-natured.

Thoburn would never deny that, originally, he had great trepidations about coming here as the Methodist Minister. If anything, most of Mayfield’s residents were Catholic and of those, very few even attended their church except on the mandatory Christmases and Easters. Of the 450 Mayfield residents, the Methodist Church had forty-three adult male and female members of which about twenty to twenty five might regularly attend services. Being a man of faith, be it Methodist or Catholic, was not considered to be an advantageous quality within Mayfield’s city limits.

As for his coming to Mayfield, he really had very little choice in the matter. With limited credentials, (He had graduated from a two-year seminary.) the University of the Pacific had accepted him as a Professor of Biology. Thank goodness his UOP students had limited knowledge of Biology. He was just barely able to keep up with them in class but somehow he managed and he loved standing before the class and teaching them. It certainly paid better than what he would have earned as a young minister. Then, the explosion happened in the chemistry laboratory. It was claimed, but never proved, because of faulty equipment and one of the students had been seriously injured and teachers and students had left the University of Pacific in droves and he had been given his walking papers. He needed immediate compensation and his only recourse had been this lowly ministerial position.

With the advent of nearby Leland Stanford Junior University, Thoburn’s fortunes had vastly improved. Young students like Frank Batchelder and others were making their way to the little Methodist Church and Thoburn, since he was the only non-Catholic minister in the local area had been called upon by Dr. Jordan to perform various clergical functions. He had already spoken several times at Stanford’s early morning chapel with good results. Students, particularly female students, came up to him after chapel and asked where he preached and some of them had even appeared at the following Sunday services. He heard the university had made definite arrangements with a prominent clergyman in the East to become its official university minister but the man was 322

apparently dragging his heals and it was uncertain when he might appear on the scene and take up his duties. Thoburn happily filled in for him.

No matter, here it was a Saturday on a brisk day in November and Thoburn in his umpire’s attire was walking down the back streets of Mayfield. Even if he had been in his Sunday best, he would have preferred to walk on Sherman Avenue rather than Lincoln Street, one of the main streets in town. Lincoln had all the local traffic, wagons and horses, but Sherman was still mostly residential with empty lots and trees. B&L Wagon Shop at the end of Sherman where it ran into Main Street was the only commercial dwelling on the whole street so it was Thoburn’s preferred way to get from one end of town to the other.

When he came to Main Street, the County Road, it was difficult to cross the busy thoroughfare. When he saw a gap in the traffic between a long wagon filled with hay pulled by a pair of white horses and Winston Swig out for a drive in his gig, Reverend Thoburn scampered across, carefully avoiding the deep ruts in the road, to the other side of the road. He got there in time to briefly wave to Winston who momentarily pulled back on his reins to allow the Reverend a safe journey. As he was pasNgon, in acknowledgment, Winston raised his white-gloved hand to the brim of his derby and noted the clothing of the new Methodist Minister. The man looked like a hobo with his worn clothing and ungainly cap.

^^^^^^^^

Approaching Encina Hall from the road that led by Escontite Cottage, Reverend Thoburn could see a crowd was gathering.

The baseball diamond was directly south of Encina, home base lined up with the hall’s western edge and adventuresome students were already sitting precariously on stone windowsills and narrow ledges overlooking the playing field, waiting for the game to begin. The diamond and the immediate viewing area had been cleared of the hayfields that had previously grown there and were now simply gray parched hard dirt. Home plate was a simple wooden board that had been sawed to the proper dimensions and was held in place by four long nails driven into the dry soil. First, second and third base were white flour bags filled with gravel from the dry creek’s bed. Sheer weight would hold them in place. The outer fields, left, center, right, still bore traces of hay that had been tamped down by numerous heavy boots shagging baseballs but there still remained clusters of upright alfalfa where baseballs could be lost. Beyond the playing fields in the outer reaches toward where Faculty homes stood and where no ball was supposed to be hit, there were unharvested fields turned 323 almost mauve with too much sun and no moisture. Here baseballs would be lost forever. For a baseball field, it was extremely primitive.

About five hundred students, members of the Faculty and their families, and visitors from Menlo and Mayfield curious about what their neighbors were up to, were in attendance. Eighteen carriages, rigs, buses were parked directly next to the diamond. This included Jasper Paulsen’s long bus that had brought a group of Menlo people but remained there just in case the victors needed a conveyance for celebrating afterwards. This would mean Jasper was counting on the Seniors to win since it was extremely doubtful the Faculty would have any plans for a night on the town, in Redwood, with their wives.

Most of the other rigs belonged to Faculty members, both playing and non-playing, and they were also an excellent place for their wives and children to watch the proceedings. Some wooden chairs had been delivered to the site by the Maintenance Department. The few Ngonle Faculty members who were not playing utilized these. Also seated were members of the Business and Administrative Office, Ariel Lathrop, Burt Fesler and Leslie Elliott. Leslie’s wife, Ellen, had deemed that little Louis was not yet old enough to enjoy the game so she was not there and, of course, Jessie Jordan still recuperating from the pangs of child birth was not in attendance. Knight Jordan, their young son, wanted to come but Dr. Jordan felt his attendance might be a distraction so he promised to take him along with the dogs for a long walk toward Frenchmen’s Lake after the game.

As Wilson Thoburn got closer to the diamond, he could see that the Seniors, dressed in outlandish outfits, were taking batting and fielding practice. Some of them were costumed as women with long skirts and in some cases petticoats and had grotesque headgear clad with feathers that appeared to have once belonged to vultures. One player had put charcoal on his face and had a red kerchief tied around his head. Another wore black tights and a pink garter adorned his left leg and a blonde wig was on top of his head. Another wore a suit of red underwear, under which was, hopefully, more underwear.

Thoburn was also impressed with the casual clothing both male and female students were wearing and particularly the variety of headgear the male students were sporting. Frank Batchelder and his lot when they came to his services mostly wore their student attire, which consisted of dark, heavy pants and coats, white shirts and dark ties and a derby to top it off. Here in the casual environment of the game, women were dressed in colorful skirts and blouses and brought jackets and sweaters they might put on as the coolness of evening approached. Men wore sweaters as well as jackets and corduroy and heavy cotton pants. The ladies for the most 324 part were bareheaded with a few wearing bonnets but all the men were wearing hats. As Thoburn walked by groups of men students lolling on their red blankets, he could see linen and navy blue yacht caps and several Stetsons stood out. Bicycles were laying on the ground and their riders wore golf caps or bike hats. Thoburn even saw a cream-colored top hat adorning one man’s head and several sombreros. If headgear was any indicator of personality, then Stanford students must certainly prize their individuality.

Dr. Jordan must have been looking out for Thoburn because he hurried up to him and shook his hand and said, “Thank goodness, you made it. I was beginning to worry.” He stood back and checked the Reverend’s attire. “Well, you certainly dressed the part. The black cap particularly suits the role you will be taking.”

Apparently the Seniors were finished with their practice and it was the Faculty’s turn. Jordan immediately excused himself and took up his position at first base. For obvious reasons, the Faculty was dressed much more conservatively than their counterparts. Jordan wore a slouch hat and work shirt and had a pair of pin-stripped, knee length knickers that he must have worn when he was much thinner. They clung to his belly and appeared as if they might fall down with the least provocation. Thoburn did not know the names of the other Faculty players but some were sporting top hats and derbies and one actually had a baseball uniform that must have come from long-gone playing days. All of them had thin leather gloves that they exchanged with their opponents.

Their practice consisted of one fellow up at home base hitting balls to the in fielders and another fellow who was situated along the sidelines hitting balls to the outfielders. The infield play went fairly well but unfortunately the number of balls the outfield hitter put into play was limited. All would have gone well if his outfielders caught the fly balls but, in fact, they missed most of them badly. Once missed, the baseball was difficult to find among the clumps of alfalfa so at one time all three fielders were engrossed in finding their respective baseballs and the hitter stood, bat in hand, ball less.

By now, it was almost two o’clock and the crowd was getting anxious for the game to begin. Both men and women students were in attendance. Since their elders had taken the wooden chairs, they were seated on either light blue or red blankets that had been issued to them at their respective halls. At the outset, it was apparent they would be rooting for their fellow classmates even though they were Seniors and usually did not socialize with the freshmen that vastly outnumbered all the other classes.

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A young man attired in red pajamas led the upper and lower classmen in a yell:

Rah, Rah, Rah. LSJrU 92. Rah, Rah, Rah

Reverend Thoburn stood there, quite alone, in the throng. He did not recognize a soul other than Dr. Jordan. Some one tapped him on the shoulder and he looked around and it was Frank Batchelder. Even he was dressed differently in a sweater and a French Pocket Hat.

“Good to see you, Reverend.”

“Good to see you, Frank. I was hoping to see a friendly face.”

“Charley Fife and all the Phi Delts are over there, Reverend.” Frank pointed to just behind third base and a group of boys raised their hands in greeting. It did make Thoburn feel better that at least he knew someone in the crowd. Frank turned to move back to his place. “Good Luck, Reverend.” And he was gone and Umpire Thoburn stood for a second and then decided to assume his role of umpire in a grandiose style. If they wanted caricature, that was what they would get.

“All right, let’s get this game started,” he bellowed out to the delight of the students who cheered on his exuberance. This was what they had come for. Then he shouted out the question, looking directly at Dr. Jordan,” Where are your line-ups?”

Dr. Jordan looked back at Thoburn as if to say, “Who do you think you are asking?” then thought better of it. He had his list of players in his pocket and John Whittemore, captain and pitcher for the Seniors and President of the Student Body had his and both of them stepped forward and gave their respective line-ups to Umpire Thoburn.

Here were the line-ups and batting orders.

For the Faculty: For the Seniors:

George Bryant, Short Stop Ed. Richardson, 1st Base Joe Swain, 2nd Base Joe Wallingford, 3rd Base David Starr Jordan, Captain & 1st Base Charley Chadsey, Catcher Graden Howard, Pitcher John Whittemore, Captain & Pitcher George Richardson, Catcher Frank Dennis, 2nd Base 326

Carl Marx, 3rd Base Jason Trebgloan, Right Field John Miller, Right Field Paul Cooley, Left Field Amos Griswold, Left Field Jeb Stephens, Short Stop Albert Warner, Center Field Steve Brown, Center Field

Thoburn took a two-bit piece out of his pocket and called out to Jordan and Whittemore to come over to him. “Dr. Jordan, please call head or tails while the coin is in the air to determine which side will take the field, first.”

Dr. Jordan was dismayed. How had Thoburn picked up this umpire persona so quickly? Thoburn threw up the coin and Dr. Jordan obediently called out, “Heads.”

They all looked down at the coin lying in the dry dirt, “Tails, it is,” Thoburn said and then he asked Whittemore, “What say you, Captain of the Seniors, bat or field.”

Whittemore had no doubts of the outcome. The Faculty was old and out of shape. His Seniors would prevail. “Bat,” he said.

Thoburn shouted for all to hear, even the fellows sitting precariously on Encina’s windowsills with their feet dangling over the edge could hear him, “Faculty, take the field. Let,” and here he paused for shear dramatic effect, “the game, begin and may the best team, win.” Everyone cheered.

^^^^^^^^

Until he stepped out onto the diamond, Leslie Elliott had never seen Reverend Thoburn before. Of course, in the office, he had heard Frank Batchelder Ngoning his praises but Leslie was not a religious man. He had gone to chapel at the Quad several times when some well-known clergyman visited but he had not felt that a Mayfield Methodist Minister warranted his attendance. So, he was somewhat surprised that Dr. Jordan had chosen Reverend Thoburn to umpire the baseball game. Leslie fully expected that he would be the one chosen for the task of arbitration between the two teams, but he was not; and Leslie couldn’t help but feel that Dr. Jordan had craftily maneuvered Reverend Thoburn into the job because he thought he could dominate him and gain an advantage for the Faculty cause. Dr. Jordan was not above such an act when it came to winning a baseball game or for that matter winning any cause. 327

So it surprised Leslie when the Reverend/Umpire ordered the game to begin so forcefully. He was sure Dr. Jordan had not bargained for this show of independence. Perhaps, Thoburn had a little more spunk than Jordan had counted on. That in itself would make it more fun for Leslie to watch the game unfold. He liked it when what was supposed to happen, didn’t.

If it had been Leslie’s decision, there would have been no game at all. If there was one area of disagreement that Leslie had with Dr. Jordan it was regarding the significance of athletics, whether it was foot-ball or baseball or any kind of sport where two teams were in contact with one another. The benefits of any such contact were automatically nullified when personal injury might result. There were other ways to institute competitiveness rather than breaking legs or arms of in some cases, heads. Leslie had read in Harper’s Weekly that twenty-four young men had died the previous year from participating in contact sports. At Cornell he had seen a young man collide with another young man and hit his head. The Cornell man did not see the light of day, again. He died in the Campus Hospital the next day. Leslie knew the young man and from then on, thought playing such games was a pointless waste of young men’s talents and even, lives.

Leslie understood that on his side, Jordan felt it was extremely important for men to traverse the trials of sports as a part of their “rite of passage.” The potential for injury was part of that trial. Leslie wasn’t sure whether Hegel or Nieschke could be blamed for the Doctor’s beliefs but it was either one or the other or both and part of it could also be laid to the Doctors’ partiality for that which was Anglo-Saxon. Leslie though if Jordan had his way he would have instituted German dueling societies at LSJrU and a rapier scar by the eye or nose would have been the sign of upperclassmen’s manliness. Jordan, himself, if he had the opportunity, might have been thus scarred. Leslie considered the whole matter to be utter folderol.

Since Ellen, his wife, shared his anti-athletic feelings, and was at home with Louis, Leslie was forced to sit at the game by two people he disliked immensely---Timothy Hopkins and Ariel Lathrop. Ariel hardly spoke to him and if he did have any comments, made them to Burt Fesler who sat on his other side. Leslie heard Lathrop, upon seeing the plethora of red and blue blankets; tell Burt that he should put out a note that LSJrU blankets were not to be taken out of the dormitories. Burt responded by nodding his head in agreement.

Timothy Hopkins obviously considered Leslie to be an underling, a mere lackey for Dr. Jordan, who did his bidding. If Hopkins did speak to 328

him it was in a condescending tone, as if he was talking to his valet or one of his foremen. Leslie knew that in many ways, he was right. He not only accepted his role as the man behind the bigger than life image of Dr. Jordan, he preferred it. Even as a boy growing up in Ithaca, he had learned how to maneuver his older, more physical brothers. There were more subtle ways to get what he wanted. Without a doubt, it would be the same here at Stanford.

Deep in his thoughts, Leslie did not realize that the game was in progress and in fact, the Faculty’s pitcher, Dr. Howard, had already managed to strike out Ed Richardson and Joe Wallingford had hit a fly ball to Dr. Jordan and he had cleanly caught the ball and then fired it over to Dr. Swain, at 2nd base. Dr. Swain, at first appeared surprised by having the ball in his glove but eventually threw it to 3rd baseman, Dr. Marx, for a little “pepper” in the infield which drew a ripple of appreciative sighs from the Roble ladies. Hopkins punched Leslie in the ribs with his elbow and said, “Aha, our stalwarts are showing those young bucks a thing or two.” He seemed to be enjoying the whole thing immensely and Leslie wondered if Hopkins had ever thrown a baseball in his sheltered life.

Charlie Chadsey was up and Leslie knew from his Michigan scholastic records that he had an admirable record in all sports. Dr. Howard was pitching and Reverend Thoburn was behind Dr. Richardson, the catcher, calling strikes and balls. The count got to three balls and two strikes and Howard threw a ball right over the plate, which Chadsey hit squarely. The ball ended up in front of Dr. Miller in right field and although he threw the ball feebly he still got it to Dr. Jordan but by then Chadsey was already safe at second base. With a man on second, Umpire Thoburn moved out into the middle of the diamond behind Howard. Students were roaring their support and a spontaneous cheer went up for the Seniors because John Whittemore, the campus hero and student body president was the next batter.

Leslie knew and liked John. Everyone did. He was quiet and unassuming like Leslie with a very handsome, square-cut, beardless athletic face without the handle bar moustache that some of the other athletic types assumed. But Leslie knew, again from his records, that underneath Whittemore’s quiet exterior, he was very, very competitive. He had been an Olympic diver at Indiana University. Howard, the pitcher, must have known this, too, because his first pitch to him was a fastball, which John just managed to hit. Unfortunately, it was another high fly. Dr. Griswold playing left field juggled it for a moment but finally cradled it in his mitt and John was out. Leslie could almost hear the wind going out of the students’ sails. The top of the first inning had ended and it was the Faculty’s turn at bat.

329

Whittemore, being the star athlete he was, assumed the pitching chores and uNgon a combination of fast and curve balls, quickly retired the side, one, two, three. Bryant, who looked like he knew how to play the game, but still struck out, then Dr. Swain who appeared not to be able to even see the ball, and finally, Dr. Jordan who was almost comedic in his vain swipes at the ball. Leslie could tell that the students were holding back their laughter. Someone tittered and he heard an audible, “shhhh.” The first inning ended 0 to 0 and Leslie breathed a little sigh of relief thinking that perhaps the Faculty might just barely have a chance at winning. He knew that if Dr. Jordan lost the game, he would be a bear the following Monday.

An improvised scoreboard had been erected in foul territory just behind first base. Two boards were nailed together and painted black and marked off to represent the upper and lower half of the nine innings. The scoreboards were then bound with bailing rope to two high ladders that the scorekeeper mounted for painting in white paint the appropriate numeral or numerals. Two goose eggs, so far, were there for all to see.

^^^^^^^^

Sam Cutter was at the game with his fraternity brothers. They were all sitting on the ground next to first base on an accumulation of red blankets. Winko was there along with Mitch and there were several new fellows who had pledged Alpha Phi. Freck had “gone over the edge of the world” due to bad grades and was back home in Fresno. Winko was really into it, cheering the Seniors on. He had got to his feet when Whittemore was at bat and then issued a loud, “Ah” when he flied out. Sam was trying to follow the game but his mind was elsewhere.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see little Claire O’Grady darting in and out of the crowd, picking men’s and women’s pockets. Women had pocket watches and purses that might be left unguarded. Claire was an excellent pickpocket. Sam noticed how she was dressed in the gray, simple dress she had worn at the Opening Ceremonies. She was a pretty little thing with face and hair clean and washed. Sam noticed she attached herself to different family groupings and at times even played with some of the children and then would disappear, into the crowd, only to reappear at a different spot near a different family group. Sam had placed a box in the middle of some bushes near the Mayfield road where Claire and Wilfred could deposit their loot and then return to the game. Sam would retrieve the box after dark and take it to the O’Grady’s residence for distribution. 330

Sam looked over at Encina Hall and wondered how Wilfred O’Grady was doing. By now he should be through most of the unlocked rooms on the lower floors. Thank God, he was big for his fourteen years. He, too, was dressed so that on a casual glance, he would appear to be a rather youthful first year student. He had been trained to say, “Sorry, I must have got into the wrong room,” if someone interrupted his thievery. If he was quizzed any further, he was to run like Hell toward Mayfield.

Sam warned him to stay away from the corner rooms that overlooked the playing fields. They would be swarming with students vying for the dangerous windowsill seats. For some reason, they all thought some of the spectators at the game might look over at them and be thrilled at their daring. Sam considered them all very foolish.

Sam could see Sally Forrest on the other side of the field, next to 3rd base. She was with her Spanish friend, Delores, who Sam could sense, like a dog in heat, was interested in him. Of course, most women were except for Sally. David Cooper, “Bump,” was with them. Why was he always hanging around? Sam despised him. And, of course, his clueless friends, Milt Grosh, the footballer and the Jew, Rubin and the legless wonder, George Gardner and the Chinaman who thought he was a student. In Sam’s eyes, the Jew the legless one and the Chinaman were all the same, inferior.

He watched every move Sally made. Even from afar when she took off her wool jacket, he could see her ample breasts pressed against the cotton blouse she wore. When she leaned close to Bump or the Jew or for that matter, anyone, his heart skipped a beat.

Sam felt his wounded shoulder that was still protected by a gauze bandage. Dr. Wood had not even questioned his story about wounding himself accidentally. It must happen regularly. Since then, he had tried to speak to Sally but she had mouthed the word, “Later.”

Now, he waited for a note or any sign that she wanted to see him again. In fact, he had fantasized meetings where she might change her feelings toward him, but there was nothing. No note, nothing. All he could do was watch and wait.

A cheer from the students interrupted his thoughts. Winko was on his feet, once again. The Seniors had scored three runs and were leading.

^^^^^^^^^ 331

Even though the weather was brisk, in the low 50’s, Reverend Thoburn felt warm under his dark suit. In fact, sweat was pouring off his brow and he had to take his baseball cap off several times and wipe his forehead with his white handkerchief. Otherwise he would not have been able to see and it was somewhat critical that he should be able to see. He was not sure whether it was purely physical exertion or mental but keeping track of all that was going on was demanding. He kept asking himself, “When does the circus begin?” It seemed to him that both sides were only concentrating on winning and having fun had been tossed out the window. Only he was overreacting and overacting.

In the top of the second inning, the Seniors scored three runs. Frank Dennis, 2nd base, had hit a Ngonle to left field and Jason Trebgloan had followed him with another Ngonle into center so two men were on base when lanky Paul Cooley, the left fielder approached the plate.

Cooley looked uncomfortable swinging the bat and the Reverend would have guessed that Cooley was going to strike out after he called two straight strikes. Thoburn could see that pitcher Howard’s face lit up with anticipation of a “strike out” at such a critical moment of the game. Perhaps it was this anticipation that caused him to send a fastball right over the center of the plate, slightly below the waist. Cooley sighted the ball and swung his bat mightily cauNgon it to soar into space over the head of center fielder, Dr. Warner.

For some reason know only to Dr. Warner, he ran towards the ball not realizing that he should have been running in the opposite direction. What might have been a two base hit quickly turned into a home run because, after the ball sailed over Dr. Warner’s head, he also had some problems finding it in the underbrush and then more problems picking it up. At last, he threw the ball to Dr. Swain, acting as a relay, but it was already too late. All the runners had circled the bases and were home. Cooley had homered. The Seniors led 3-0.

Timothy Hopkins hit Leslie with his elbows in the ribs, again, and commented, “The puppies can bite.”

Howard, the pitcher, somehow pulled himself together and managed to strike out Jeb Stephens and got Steven Brown to fly to Dr. Marx at 3rd base. Marx looked very professional when he caught the ball and threw it to Jordan just for good measure. The final out came when Ed Richardson on a rather curious play tripped on a slight rise in the dirt on his way to first base after hitting what appeared to be a safe Ngonle. He briefly fell to the ground getting both of his knees quite dirty. Short stop Bryant was a little slow at getting the ball to Jordan but with Richardson getting up and 332

dusting off his pants before continuing his run, the ball arrived at first before he did and Thoburn called him, “Out,” at first. The Seniors were retired. Now it was the Faculty’s turn.

Before his team went up to bat in the bottom of the second inning, Dr. Jordan gathered them around him for a brief “pep” talk.

He spoke in a low voice so that only team members could hear. “Now, gentlemen, if we let these young scalawags get too far ahead of us, we will never catch up. It’s now or never. Let’s get some runs up on the board.”

He led them in an improvised cheer, “Rah, Rah, Rah. LSJrU Faculty. Rah, Rah, Rah.” A few faculty members and their family joined them.

Graden Howard, the Faculty pitcher and other than George Bryant, the best athlete on the Faculty team, could hardly wait to get his hands on a bat and hit the ball. He wasn’t given an opportunity because suddenly Whittemore lost control and for the life of him could not throw a strike over the plate. Thoburn called four balls in a row and Howard walked to first base. It progressively got worse for Whittemore. When Dr. Richardson was up, he threw a ball that floated over the head of his catcher and landed very close to Dr. Griffin’s carriage with his wife still inside. The ball not only frightened Mrs. Griffin, it also frightened Griffin’s sorrel mare, who reared up on her hind legs and looked as if she might bolt. Griffin, standing nearby, quickly grabbed the reins and in a quiet voice calmed not only the horse but his wife as well.

While all this was going on, Howard ran to 2nd base standing up. With the horse rearing and the ball going close to Mrs. Griffin, Whittemore became somewhat unhinged and preceded to walk Dr. Richardson. In the last eight pitches, he had not thrown a strike.

Chadsey, the senior’s catcher asked Thoburn for a “time out” and motioned Whittemore to meet him halfway between the plate and the mound. Thoburn from his position near the mound could only partially hear what was being said.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Whit?”

“I don’t know. For the …. I can’t get the ball over. Maybe we should …... You pitch. I’ll catch.”

“Imagine Jordan with his pants down sitting on the crapper…….”

333

“What did you say?”

“In fact imagine all the Faculty sitting on the crapper …….”

Thoburn saw Whittemore smirk and look over at Jordan. Jordan looked back at him, wondering what these two young men were up to. Thoburn ended the two Seniors’ meeting and what must have been their smutty conversation with a “Play ball.”

Apparently whatever Chadsey said worked, Whittemore after imagining those distinguished gentlemen doing their duty, struck out the next two batters, Marx and Miller. Only Dr. Griswold remained at the plate to be vanquished and the Faculty would have been retired without scoring a run.

Griswold appeared to be impervious to what was happening around him. He stood at the plate with his bat balanced on his shoulder watching Whittemore wind up and deliver a ball that zinged by him, untouched. “Strike one,” Thoburn bellowed. Then a second ball, also untouched, also a “Strike.” His bat had not moved from its resting place.. Griswold had one more chance and raised his bat ever so slightly. He saw the ball leave Whittemore’s right hand. He saw the stitching that held the ball together and even the name of the manufacturer and he hit the ball soundly. Griswold was surprised, as everyone else was, that the baseball flew over center fielder Steve Brown’s head, like a released homing pigeon, into no man’s land. It was a homer. As he rounded first base, Dr. Jordan came out and clapped him on the back and the whole Faculty team was up and cheering. Griswold’s face had become a broad grin that went from ear to ear. As he crossed home plate Howard and Richardson who had preceded him across the plate immediately surrounded him and clapped him on the back. It was now a tie ball game and the Faculty still had one more out.

Elliott and Hopkins were on their feet. Even Lathrop and Fesler were up and had smiles on their faces. Hopkins embraced Leslie around his shoulders as if he were a long, lost brother. Leslie was at a lost as to what he should do in return and ended up cuffing Hopkins on his left shoulder. He noted the surprised look on Hopkins’s face at this reaction.

After the Faculty supporters calmed down, Whittemore quickly dashed any hopes of a Faculty lead with three called strikes on Albert Warner. At the end of the 2nd inning it was 3 to 3.

Under those circumstances, Reverend Thoburn knew circus’ time was not a possibility. Team members on both sides, in spite of the ladies costumes and slouch hats, had decidedly determined looks on their faces. Both sides thought they might win. After all, it was a tie. 334

^^^^^^^^^

Wilfred was returning to Encina after delivering a sizeable haul to the strategically placed storage box. Upon Sam’s instructions, his mom had sewn oversized pockets into the pants he was wearing. Even though some of the articles stuck out where they shouldn’t, it still looked less obvious than carrying a bag.

He felt very good about how his thievery was going. Most of the unlocked rooms on the floors closest to Mayfield had been searched and relieved of items such as watches, jewelry, fountain pens, a few thin wallets with meager amounts in them and other items that caught Wilfred’s fancy.

No close calls, in fact on one occasion, he had purposely followed one of the students he encountered down the hallway. He had watched students when they were in Mayfield and they all seemed to have a definite gait to their walk, an air of jauntiness, an assured swaying from side to side that gave them the appearance of certainty and self- confidence. Wilfred knew this was not the way he walked or appeared and he decided that if he was supposed to pretend to be a student, he might as well walk like one. After the boy he was following turned left, probably toward the baseball game, Wilfred turned right and began to do his imitation. He threw his chest out and put back his shoulders and moved his hips from side to side and instead of looking down at his feet, he looked straight ahead and the experience made him feel as if he were another person, not a lowly Mayfield Irish boy but a LSJrU student. He liked that feeling.

He was working the rooms on the second floor toward the middle of the hall, room 142 to be exact. He opened the door slowly, calling out softly, “Is it all right if I come in?” just as Sam had instructed him to do. No answer, so he opened the door fully and let himself in. As usual the room was a shambles. Clothes were strewn all over the floor; drawers were half in and half out. Papers were flung on the desk in a haphazard fashion.

Success has made Wilfred somewhat less vigilant and as he inspected the bedlam, his eyes took in all the miscellaneous items that were attached to the walls in one way or another. There were pictures out of the Police Gazette, a large LSJrU pennant with cardinal and white lettering, a battered tennis racquet, a framed, family photograph showing a handsome man and woman, obviously well-to-do, surrounded by three children--an older boy, a younger girl and boy who was probably eight or ten. Wilfred 335

drew closer to the picture so that he could see it better. The family was at some kind of hotel in the mountains and there were skis and poles at their feet and in their hands and snow on the ground and behind them and on the tops of the rails of the fence they were leaning against. The photo was inscribed, “To Mark, don’t forget us.” And it was signed with different signatures, “Mother, Dad, Beatrice, Timmy.”

Wilfred was tempted to take the photograph and then thought better of it.

The door opened suddenly, and Wilfred glanced over and saw a dark- haired boy entering the room. “Hi, what are you doing here?” he said.

For less than a second, Wilfred stood there, thinking, he would take a chance. He said, “I’m waiting for Mark. Have you seen him?”

“He’s watching the game with all the others. That’s where I’m going. Want to come along?”

“No, thanks. I still have some studying to do. I’ll walk down the hall with you.” Somehow he managed to say the words slowly and in a relax voice, even though he felt like he should be running out the door.

The two boys exited the room together and walked down the hall silently, side by side and Wilfred felt that same sensation of well being as they moved together along the wood paneled hallway, past the wc’s with their swinging doors and to the intersection of another hall going left or the stairwell up or down. His companion did not realize it but Wilfred was mimicking his movements as they walked. The boy turned left and as he did said, “See you, sure you don’t want to see the game.”

“Later, see you,” Wilfred said in response, and started to go upstairs and then paused for a moment and retraced his tracks back down the stairs. “See, you,” was something Sam had not taught him to say. As he continued down the hallway back to where he was, a smile lit up his face. If he could have, he would have jumped up and touched the high ceiling with his fingertips. He was elated beyond belief. Whoever it was had thought he was a Stanford student.

This elation soon passed with his realizing that he had almost been caught in that last room by becoming too interested in the wall hangings and family pictures. His job was to look and take. He went back to the room next to the room where he had encountered the boy and continued looking for items he might steal.

336

In the background he could hear cheers. One side or other must be winning. Wilfred had never played sports. He and his family and kids in the neighborhood played group games like tag, or hide and seek, and sometimes capture the flag. He had seen some of the older boys throwing a hard ball back and forth and one of the boys had a wooden bat he was trying to hit the ball with. He watched them play but they did not ask him to join them and he was too shy to invite himself. Next time, he might do that.

He remembered the family photo and thought how he had never seen snow or even thought about it, before. That would be fun, too, jumping and falling into the white stuff. He wondered what it felt like. Could it be hard and soft and wet at the same time?

He entered another room and shouted, so loud that he startled himself, “Is it all right if I come in?”

^^^^^^^^^

An accident, pure and simple, started it all.

Innings three and four went by, uneventfully. The only excitement was a foul ball that Dr. Marx hit into the crowd. The sharply hit hardball came dangerously close to a lady visitor from Menlo Park who thought she and her husband had a safe seat in their carriage next to the field. Dr. Marx immediately left his batting position at home plate and approached the poor, frightened woman and apologized for his actions. The lady tried to be a good sport but she immediately had her husband move the carriage about thirty feet further from the playing field. They had to wait while their black horse relieved itself. Her husband could no longer see what was going on so he left her and returned to watch the game, standing with the other men on the side lines. Most of them, without the ladies present, were smoking cigars or cheroots. Some of them were even betting on the outcome. The betting odds almost coincided with the score. The Seniors were favored 6-5.

During the third and forth innings, Wallingford, Chadsey, even Whittemore, Cooley, Stephens, and Brown either struck out or was thrown out or hit a caught fly ball or infield hit. Bryant, Swain, even Jordan, Howard, Richardson, Marx suffered the same fate for the Faculty team.

Marx’ foul ball did create a small stir but two innings of three up and three down caused the crowd to grow restless and the noise level from casual conversations among the attendees was definitely riNgon. Several 337

of the Roble ladies were considering packing up their blankets and returning to the warmth of their rooms for treats and feminine companionship or even, study.

Ed Richardson led off for the Seniors in the top of the 5th. By now the Seniors had batted around twice so this was Richardson’s third time at bat. He could tell that Pitcher Howard was tiring. The first ball pitched was slower and lower than any other ball Richardson had seen on his previous trips to the plate and he hit it with a resounding “swack.” The ball flew over the diamond out into no man’s land. It was a homer and Richardson rounded the bases with a slow, calculated gait. As far as he was concerned, “It was about time.” Seniors led 4 to 3. The crowd’s attention returned to the game and they gave a belated cheer as they realized what was happening.

Thoburn and everyone who knew anything about the game could tell that Howard’s right arm was hurting. It hung loosely at his side and he spent a great deal of time between pitches, resting it. Jordan watched him carefully. Perhaps it was time for a change but who could replace Howard? Only Bryant could do the job but Howard had no idea how to play shortstop. They would have to muddle through.

Miraculously, Howard managed to pull himself together and after pitching two balls to Wallingford, got three strikes over the plate and struck him out. Charles Chadsey quickly came to the plate, perhaps too quickly because his aggressiveness may have unnerved Howard and instead of giving his arm a moments rest, he immediately threw another slow, low ball to Chadsey, right over the plate. Chadsey took advantage of it and again, the sound of wood against ball rang out over the field. Only this time, the ball did not travel quite as far as Richardson’s. It went over the head of centerfielder, Albert Warner, and landed just beyond him but it was still in sight and playable.

Chadsey, being the excellent athlete he was, had immediately taken off for first base and was rounding second by the time Warner was able to pick up the ball. For a moment, Warner hesitated wondering what he should do with it. He knew his arm was not strong enough to get the ball to third base so he threw it to the relay man, Dr. Swain. By now, Chadsey was rounding third and starting his run for the home plate. Swain with all his strength threw the relayed ball toward Dr. Richardson, the Faculty’s catcher who was standing directly in front of home plate, guarding it.

Those in the crowd who were watching the game, rather than in conversation, grew tense. What they had been waiting for was about to happen. Chadsey was running with a full head of steam directly toward 338

Dr. Richardson who stood firmly like a brick wall between him and home plate.

Leslie, Hopkins, Lathrop, Fesler and others rose from their seats to observe the encounter.

Reverend Thoburn had placed himself about five feet from home plate He realized the importance of his getting a good view of what was about to take place. Swain’s relay arrived in Richardson’s mitt but on the side toward the pitcher’s mound where Thoburn stood. Chadsey saw this so he ran on the other side of Richardson, away from the ball. Richardson in moving his right hand across his body to tag Chadsey, dropped his head, partially protected by a leather and metal catcher’s mask, and part of his mask graved Chadsey’s cheek as he careened by him. By the time Richardson tagged him with the ball, Chadsey had already touched home plate with his left foot. Thoburn shouted out, “Safe.” But as congratulating teammates surrounded him, Chadsey was far from safe; blood was already beginning to stream from the gash on his cheek.

It was not just Roble ladies who were concerned and uttered words of sympathy and pity; Leslie Elliott was also on his feet and silently condemning what he had just seen. Dr. Woods was there but had turned away from the action to discuss something with his wife. Leslie went over to him and touched his shoulder so that he could see that his services were needed. Woods went to his rig and got the first aid box he always carried with him and strode over to the Seniors bench where Chadsey was sitting amidst his concerned friends, staunching the blood with a dirty shirt one of them had given him.

Everyone was quiet as Dr. Woods cleaned the wound. It was a fairly deep but would not require sutures so the doctor put a bandage on it with adhesive tape to stop the bleeding and Chadsey stood up so that everyone could see that he was all right and would continue the game. All the students cheered their hero.

Dr. Richardson after gathering himself together went over to Chadsey to see how he was doing. Everyone of the Faculty team left the field and was mingling with the Seniors around Chadsey. Swain, Marx and Jordan stood close by Chadsey, still on the bench and eventually everyone on the Faculty team ended up touching him or saying encouraging words. Dr. Richardson was particularly concerned and sat down beside him and whispered something into his ear that made Chadsey smile.

After a few minutes, Thoburn shouted, “Play ball,” and the Faculty team slowly returned to their positions on the playing field but Thoburn could sense that the game would be played differently from there on. The 339

air of competitiveness and winning had vanished like a gust of wind. Perhaps, now we will have circus time. Leslie felt it, too, and was relieved.

^^^^^^^^^

Just before the imbroglio happened, Sally Forrest was talking to Rubin Weinberg about the Tennessee coalminers. Competitive sports were not of interest to her. At Anaheim Union High School, the young boys had tried to beguile her with their athletic prowess but she found their efforts to be pedestrian. In fact, nothing about men’s physical attributes attracted her. If anything, men were to be used for purposes that she would determine. Rubin was a rare exception. His mind and socialistic leanings appealed to her because she held similar views. Across the way, she could see Sam trying to catch her eye. In spite of his knowledge of her attempts to kill the Senator, she would contact him when she needed him. The Senator and his wife had returned to Washington, Sally would need Sam when the Senator returned.

She did look on as Chadsey sat on the bench and players from both teams milled around him. Most of the students were on their feet trying to see what was happening. As Sally watched Chadsey stumble toward his bench with blood on his cheek, she felt not a pang of remorse. She looked at Delores and could see her eyes were immediately filmed over with tears of concern. Even Rubin looked worried. Why? Sally could not fathom it. They were grown men. If they put themselves into harm’s way, it was their choice. Why should she feel any pity toward them when there millions of people in the world who were in far worse straits and their only misfortune was to have been born in the wrong place.

Finally, Reverend Thoburn got the game going again and the girls returned to sitting on their blankets. “And what were you saying about the coal miners?” she asked Rubin once the game started, again. She could hear the students were laughing something happening on the field but she could not be bothered to look. She had to punch Rubin in the ribs to get his attention back to her and to what she was saying.

“Oh, sorry.” He looked back at her somewhat surprised after her slender hand punched him. It was an act that no female had ever done to him, before. In any case, he had never met anyone like her, before, either. The lovely, classical features that were almost too perfect. Her hair that fell in lustrous waves to her shoulders. How could anyone and particularly someone as dull and ugly as he was, ignore her? He moved closer supposedly so she could hear him better but actually so he could smell her fragrance and perhaps his elbow might touch hers. 340

He bravely continued, “As you know, my roommates’ New York Times could be from two to three week’s old. Just this morning we got more news about the coal miners working for the Tennessee Coal Mine Co. They were replaced by convict labor and then evicted from their homes when they wouldn’t sign a contract reducing their pay. You remember we talked about it at the Roble reception?”

“Yes, of course I remember the whole thing and I was hoping the miners would take control of the situation and run the militia out of town. ” She, too, had moved closer to Rubin so that she could hear what he was saying otherwise the crowd noise drowned out his quiet voice. She could tell that he was receptive to their heads being in close proximity. Even though Rubin was reacting like all men did to her presence, she did not mind it. In fact, she enjoyed it.

“Well, they did that and more. On the night of October 31st, Halloween Night, one thousand armed miners marched to where the state militia had imprisoned the convicts in stockades. When the militia saw the miners approaching they fled and the miners not only set the convicts free, they burned to the ground the stockade holding them.”

“Good for them. I wish I were there to help.”

Rubin was also for the miners but he was not sure about physically helping them. Sally was much more demonstrative in her support than he was.

“The Time’s article said it was a wonderful sight to see members of the Grand Army, white and black, standing together, fighting for their rights. Some of the convicts instead of skidaddling joined the miners and the company gave in and gave them back their homes….”

Delores had ended her conversation with David and his friends, Grosh, Gardner and Fong and had moved next to Sally and proceeded to interrupt what Rubin was saying, “Sorry, Rubin, but could I speak to Sally for a moment.” Without a word, Rubin left his place close to Sally and moved next to the other boys.

“What is it, Delores?” Sally was a little disturbed with Delores treating Rubin like that but what could she say.

In a hushed tone, Delores said, “That boy, Sam Cutter, keeps looking at me, trying to catch my eye.”

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Sally knew that was not the case but she certainly was not about to let Delores in on their secret relationship.

“Where is he, she asked?”

“Over there, behind that base over there. With all those other hooligans.”

Sally didn’t really care to know Sam’s whereabouts but if Delores was interested in him perhaps there was a way Sally could work that interest to her advantage.

“Oh, yes, now I can see him.” He was obviously ogling Sally, not Delores. Sam was wearing some kind of tall, white sombrero, which set him off from all the rest. The group he was with were constantly in motion, wrestling, one on top of the other, pushing, jostling. Did they ever sit still? It reminded Sally of a group of feisty puppies trying to get to their bitch’s teats.

Delores got close to Sally so that only she could hear what Delores was saying, “I want to get to know him.”

“You, what. You are crazy, Delores. Remember how he acted when he was at our reception. He is like a young bull, always in heat.”

“I can handle him. He is exciting looking and handsome.”

“What about, David? He seems more your type of person.”

“David is all right but he is like all the boys I knew in Los Angeles. He,” and Delores nodding toward where Sam was sitting, “is more like a man.”

Sally thought to herself that Delores might be getting herself into much more than she could handle but if she wanted to meet Sam perhaps Sally could use their relationship, as a cover for her own with him that would be for an entirely different purpose.

“Would you like me to arrange a meeting between you two?”

Delores felt her heart skip a beat as she said, “Yes, I would.” Everyone was laughing, again, at what was happening on the field. She looked over at the diamond and saw John Whittemore doing something strange. He was dancing a waltz with Dr. Jordan.

^^^^^^^^ 342

Leslie Elliott wondered what John Whittemore would do when he got up. The score was now 5 to 3 with the Seniors leading and with Howard still trying to pitch with an arm that appeared to have taken on a will of its own. Howard looked like he was tired and defeated and wanted to go home but there was really no one else on the Faculty team that could pitch so what would happen next?

Howard feebly tried to get his next pitch over the base but failed miserably. Whittemore purposely moved out of the batter’s box to hit the ball into left field. Dr. Griswold tried to catch it but it went through his outstretched glove on to the ground. Whittemore as he was dashing to 1st base saw what had happened and instead of rounding 1st base, slowed his gait and stopped. He bowed deeply to Dr. Jordan and muttered words that Leslie could not hear but deciphered as being a request for a dance. Jordan picked up on the premise immediately and curtsied like a young belle and shyly held his mitt to his face but put out his right hand for Whittemore to grasp and the twosome made lavish, sweeping waltz steps toward second base, passed and continued toward third. In the meantime, Griswold had also entered into the act and ran with the ball as if he were sneaking up on an unsuspecting Whittemore. Just before the twosome arrived at third, he touched Whittemore on the shoulder with the ball and Thoburn who played his part to the hilt made a grand sweeping gesture with his right hand, thumb extended, “You’re out,” he said. Whittemore took the touched ball as if Griswold was cutting in and continued the waltz across the infield but now with Dr. Griswold as his partner.

Dr. Jordan thanked Whittemore for the dance and returned to first base uNgon a somewhat feminine, swishy walk to get there. All the students were laughing to the point of tears but some of the more sober guests like Lathrop, Fesler and Hopkins decided that they could spend their time better elsewhere and departed the game. Leslie left his seat and joined some of the older Faculty on the sidelines that were thoroughly enjoying the antics of their younger fellows.

It would not end there. The Faculty still needed one more out to end the inning and Frank Dennis more than obliged them. Howard, the Faculty pitcher, still did not realize what was going on and resumed trying to get a ball over the plate. He did not have to try too hard because Dennis had decided to try to hit and miss any ball pitched to him no matter where it was. Three balls were pitched and three times Dennis took terrific swipes at hitting them but missed them so badly that on the third occasion he ended up sprawled in the dirt.

The top of the fifth inning had finally ended, score still “Seniors-5, Faculty-3,” and it was the Faculty’s turn at bat. 343

^^^^^^^^

In Encina Hall, Wilfred O’Grady had almost finished his sweep of the unlocked rooms. Four times he had gone out to the box and emptied his enlarged pockets into it and came back for more booty. Each time he left the hall by a different exit and returned uNgon a different entrance. One time when he was exiting, he accidentally followed two boys that must have been heading for Mayfield and had to turn in a different direction until they were out of sight.

He was getting closer and closer to the corner of the building facing the playing field where most of the students were who were not at the game. This would probably be his last entrance. He took a chance and tried a room that was not on his list. Luckily, it was open.

Immediately, he realized the room was vastly different from the others he had entered. This was a place where only a Ngonle student resided and the room was clean and tidy. Its walls were not covered with paraphernalia as the others were. Instead, red and gold banners were hanging on the walls with writing that looked like figures he had seen on Chinese Laundry signs. A photograph n the wall was not the usual family gathering but instead pictured a group of several Chinamen wearing dark kimonos and weird little hats. None of them were smiling. From the room’s ceiling, several red and gold Chinese lanterns hung and the Ngonle cot was covered with gold pillows decorated with dragons belching red fire. On the floor were colorful thick rugs with similar dragons and fire patterns.

Because there was so much new for him to see, Wilfred had to regain his thoughts, again, and get back to work. He surveyed the top of the study desk; it was bare except for a few small statues that he quickly took and placed in his pockets. For some reason his eyes took in the top of the cot and there, partially hidden under one of the pillows, was a black leather pouch. He pulled it out and looked at its contents. Inside was more money than Wilfred had ever seen in his life. There had to be at least twenty to thirty bills all in denominations of one hundred dollars or more. It was a fortune. He immediately stashed the pouch in his pocket and went out the door with his heart pounding. Because of his excitement, on the stairway, he almost tripped on one of the steps going down. He could imagine himself at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious, with the pouch still in his pocket. He reached down to make certain it was still there. It was.

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Outside the hall, he began to make his way back to the box where he had stashed the other booty and then he had second thoughts. Why should he hand over this fabulous find to Sam or to his Mom for that matter? Why didn’t he keep it for himself? But where would he hide it and how could he spend the ill-gotten gain without them finding out. And if they did find out, what might they do to him? He might regret it later but he decided to place the pouch in the box like all the rest, but he would tell his Mom about it just in case Sam kept it for himself. He went to the box, dumped the pouch and statutes into it and started to walk toward Mayfield. In the background he could hear cheers and laughter. It must be the baseball game, he thought.

^^^^^^^^^^

Bottom of the 5th and Dr. Miller was up. Previously he had struck out. Whittemore was pitching the ball, slowly, directly over the plate. Miller stuck out his bat and the ball sailed over 2nd baseman Dennis’ head. Miller headed for first. Dennis turned around to track down the ball. Brown from his center field position also approached the ball. Miller rounded second base and headed for third. Both Dennis and Brown pounced on the ball. From the crowd’s perspective, it appeared as if they were wrestling one another to see who would throw the ball to third. It would be too late because Miller touched 3rd and was heading home. By the time, Dennis had triumphed and threw the ball to catcher Chadsey, Miller was being congratulated by his teammates for the ill-gotten homer. The Faculty had gained a run and the score was 5-4, the Seniors still prevailed.

With the travesty of the Whittemore and Jordan infield waltz and Dennis in the dirt and now Miller’s fluke home run behind them, the Seniors decided to settle down and play a normal, fun baseball game. Whittemore resumed his normal pitching prowess and struck out Griswold, Warner and Bryant.

The sixth inning proved to be quite boring after all the previous excitement. No one from either side scored or even reached base. For one more inning, Howard’s arm was holding out. He struck out Trebgloan and then Cooley hit a fly ball to Swain, and Stephens stuck out. The Faculty was also not successful. Swain hit a high fly ball to Wallingford, which he caught. Both Jordan and Howard struck out. End of the 6th, still 5-4, Seniors.

By now, it was 4:30 and the light of a dull fall day was dimming. The game had been going on for two and a half hours and even the most 345

stalwart of the fans were beginning to fade away and wend their way home. Carriages with wives and children were the first to go, then most of the Roble girls with their light blue blankets. There were about ten senior girls that remained along with most of the Encina males. A few of the daredevils sitting on their narrow windowsills remained to watch the rest of the game in the glow of an autumn sunset.

Dr. Jordan wondered to himself, as he considered every muscle in his body was aching, why he had ever allowed himself to get involved in this infernal game. On the sidelines he counseled his team to do the best they could but to move the game along because it would be difficult to play if it became dark.

Reverend Thoburn, for his part, was also tired and felt the same pangs of boredom as some of the spectators. Because of the darkness and the game’s duration, balls became strikes and those players who might have been safe were out. No one argued the calls.

The next three innings were played quickly and without incident except that in each of the innings, the Seniors scored three runs. They hit home runs and hits to the infield and outfield that were difficult to see so were dropped. The Faculty could not see the pitches too well so missed them with their bats or were too tired to run quickly enough to beat out an infield hit so were called out. At the bottom of the ninth inning, it was a runaway win for the Seniors who were now leading 14 to 4.

By now it was almost dark. Only Leslie, the senior ladies and Faculty members remained on the sidelines along with Jasper Paulsen and his bus still waiting to see if he would be hired for the evening. Everyone else had gone home or was in the dining halls getting ready to have supper.

It would be the Faculty’s last chance to win. Dr. Jordan rallied his troops around him. They were a bedraggled looking group. Most of their faces were caked with the mixture of dirt and sweat. A few had minor bruises and cuts and everyone’s uniform were filthy from falling down in the dust and weeds.

Somewhere within the middle-aged, tired body there still remained that kernel of competitiveness that caused him to fool heartedly think the Faculty still had a chance and say, “Now, gentlemen, we have one more inning to beat these young pups and we can do it. I know there is only a slight chance we can make ten runs in the inning, but there is a chance. All right, let’s show then what we can do.” Most of his fellow team mates thought he was crazy but they still gave a half-hearted cheer but a cheer in 346

any case and even in the semi-darkness, Jordan could feel new energy being brewed.

But Jordan’s words of encouragement did not improve Dr. Griswold’s swing or Dr. Warner’s eyesight and both of them struck out, but with hardy swings that made loud swooshing sounds. Then the fates seemed to favor the Faculty and Dr. Bryant miraculously saw Whittemore’s pitch and with a whack sent the ball down the 3rd base line. He was safe at first. Dr. Swain hit a high fly ball that Brown in centerfield lost in the darkening sky and dropped. By the time he found it and threw it to the infield, Bryant was on 3rd base and Swain was on 2nd. Miracle of miracles, the star of the team, Dr. Jordan was up.

So far, Jordan had struck out twice and grounded out once, so he was “due.” In the dimming light he focused on the white ball coming out of Whittemore’s right hand. He could only guess which part of the plate it would cross but he swung his bat with all his might at where it might be and it was. Another whack but this one looked like it was gone, on its way to no man land. Dr. Jordan took off running, his tight pants under the middle-aged belly, his tired legs feeling like they were running in quick sand. He was rounding 1st and heading for 2nd.

Steven Brown, the Senior’s center fielder, was only half-heartedly looking for the ball Jordan had hit. In many ways, he thought it might be best if he did not find it.

By, now both Bryant and Swain had scored for the Faculty. Jordan was slowly making his way to 3rd base and rounding it. It appeared like he might have sprained an ankle, or both ankles or perhaps his legs were cramping up. Whatever the reason, Thoburn thought he could have walked faster than Jordan was running.

Brown found the ball, it might have been Jordan’s ball or another ball hit previously and lost, but a ball it was and Brown instinctively picked it up and threw it to the relay man, Stephens who in turn threw it to Chadsey at home plate.

Leslie watched as Dr. Jordan crossed 3rd base and began his run toward home plate. Halfway there, Jordan could see Chadsey standing there with a broad grin on his face and in his hand was a ball. For a second, Jordan had the animal urge to attempt to bowl Chadsey over but the smile was his undoing and instead, he literally fell into Chadsey’s arms. His stamina had finally given out. His weary legs would not allow him to move another inch. Chadsey gently touched him with the ball and Thoburn with almost pity in his voice said, “You’re out.” The two men, Chadsey and Jordan, hung together as if they were Siamese Twins, as the 347

two teams surrounded them, cheering, laughing, and crying. The first LSJRU Faculty vs. Seniors Baseball game had ended with the Seniors victorious, 14-6.

^^^^^^^

Leslie had to help Dr. Jordan to his rig. He could not walk without assistance. Then Leslie drove him to Escontite Cottage and Dr. Jordan continued to lean on him as he made his way from the rig to the cottage’s front entrance. So far, he had not said a word to Leslie.

Jessie hearing them coming up the steps was there to greet them in the doorway and Leslie managed to move Jordan’s large frame between them so that Jordan would have continual support into their home. In the doorway with his arm firmly grasping his wife’s petite shoulders, Dr. Jordan stopped for a second and looked back at Leslie and uttered his first words since the final out, “It was a good game, wasn’t it, Leslie. I think it was a memorable game, right?”

“It was truly memorable. See you on Monday, Dr. Jordan.”

As the heavy door shut, Leslie could faintly hear the good Doctor saying, “See you on Monday, Leslie.” He unhitched the Jordan’s horse and led him to the small stable and fed the horse and rubbed him down and when he was finished he made certain the stable door was shut. Then he proceeded to walk to his home on Alvarado Row. Now in the dark with only dim moonlight to guide him, he thought, “There is much to tell Ellen. I am sure she will think that men are crazy to get up to such antics but it was fun. Next year, I’ll take Louis.”

As he passed the playing field, the only remnant of the game was the scoreboards that were still attached to the ladders standing behind 1st base. As far the scoreboards were concerned the game had never ended. At the bottom of the 8th inning, the scorer had given up and gone home. No one noticed. It had become too dark to see.

In the thick brush, Leslie saw a brown ladies’ jacket that someone must have either lost or left behind. He picked it up and took it with him. He would give it to Frank Batchelder on Monday morning to place in the “Lost and Found Box.” Someone might sorely need that jacket and would be pleased to get it back.

Leslie continued his way toward the lights of Alvarado Row and home. 348

^^^^^^^^^

Before the end of the game, while there was still enough light to see, Sam Cutter, using one of his fraternity brother’s bicycle found the box of booty where he had placed it. He firmly tied the box to the bicycles’ luggage rack and with some difficulty (He had only ridden a bicycle a couple of times before.) made his way on Mayfield Road toward Maggie O’Grady’s home. Luckily, he just beat the rain that was starting to fall briskly.

Maggie with her assembled family was anxiously awaiting his arrival.

^^^^^^^^^

Walter Fong, after the game, continued to be with his friends and went to supper with David, Milton. Rubin and George and then returned to his room to study.

When he entered his room he immediately went to his cot and looked behind the pillow where he had put the pouch of money Quong Wo gave to him as payment for opium and prostitutes. His father, Wu Sing Fong, the San Francisco merchant, provided these pleasures to Quong. Walter was used as a courier to take the money to his father.

The pouch was gone. Someone came into his room and took it.

Walter knew that there were thieves at Encina Hall. He had heard several of his fellow students complaining of loosing money and other items. There were thieves everywhere.

Tomorrow morning he would go see Quong and tell him what had happened.

^^^^^^^^

After defeating the Faculty, the Seniors under the command of their Captain Whittemore commandeered Jasper Paulsen’s long bus. Accompanied by several, fair Roble partners they proceeded to make the night hideous in a Redwood drinking and eating establishment and upon their return there were many rousing cheers that awoke their Encina and 349

Roble companions some of whom stuck their heads outside of their windows, in the rain, and cheered along with them.

^^^^^^^^^

When Reverend Wilson Thoburn was a block away from his home, it started to rain. First a gentle drizzle, but by the time he was walking up the path to his front door, the drizzle had become a steady, heavy rainfall. The rainy season had finally begun. Reverend Thoburn did not even consider the remote possibility of a minor miracle.

351

Chapter Nine

Thanksgiving Holiday Plans

With the rain coming down and quickly turning the dirt roads to mud and the ruts in the road made by cart and gig wheels becoming narrow continuous ponds, and the wound in his shoulder still throbbing Sam found that guiding his fraternity brother’s bicycle to Maggie’s house was a difficult task, to say the least. Also, it didn’t help that the box tied to the rear carriage, though not heavy, caused the bicycle to be off-balance and tricky to steer. He was lucky that the rain didn’t start to really beat down until his arrival at Third Street and he could see Maggie’s dilapidated white house on the corner.

Several candles had been lit in the front parlor and Maggie’s repulsive face was looking out for his arrival through tattered curtains. When she saw him coming, it quickly disappeared into the darkness without a glimmer of recognition.

It was not an easy task to balance the bike with one hand and open the gate latch with the other but he managed it. He pushed the bike through, leaned it against a tree in the yard and then loosened the ropes binding the box to the luggage rack. The box was about the size of those used to transport fruit from the valley except that this one had a lid that some craftsman had affixed and painted the entirety a bilious green. He hefted the box to the doorway and found it, in spite of the rain, swung open. Maggie and her brood were still invisible but he knew they were waiting for him, inside.

To his right, a large table in the parlor had already been cleared for his use. In the past, it had been the usual center for divvying up booty but Sam could tell that tonight was different and unusual. There was a certain air, almost menacing, in the parlor that was enhanced by the grim looks on the O’Grady family’s faces, particularly Maggie’s. Even the youngest one, who could have been no more that three years old, kept looking from Sam’s face to the box and back again without a smile. And, of course, still not a word had been spoken to him. Usually Maggie had at least grunted a welcome by now, but not tonight. Since all eyes were on the box, Sam quickly surmised that the O’Grady’s knew something that he didn’t and whatever it was concerned 352 what was inside the box. Without hesitation he opened its simple hook and eye latch and poured its contents out on the table.

It was the usual lot of cheap watches, a few slim wallets and even some jewelry that little Claire had managed to lift from their owners’ wrists. From Wilfred’s endeavors were an odd assortment of inkpots, some expensive and inexpensive pens and pencils, even a few quills and trinkets only young men might prize, post cards of various sport figures and mementos of trips to Niagara Falls or Lake Erie. There were two interesting statutes that appeared to be made of jade and might be worth something and a black leather pouch that bore unfamiliar red Chinese figures.

If Sam had not been surveying the entire lot of ill-gotten gain, he might have noticed that all eyes were on the pouch.

“Ah, what do we have here?” he said and picked it up and as he did this he happened to glance at the surrounding faces and could see that it was the pouch that was center of attention and as he poured out its contents, he could understand why.

“Quite a tidy bit, I would say.” He looked around at the group and announced, “I would say perhaps $2000 in large bills, enough to tide the lot us over for maybe five or six years.” He returned the money to the pouch and threw it back on to the table.

His lack of enthusiasm and interest offended poor Maggie. She had expected a totally different reaction. In fact she would not have been surprised if the pouch had not been there and Sam would have put it to his own use and not even shown up. She more than wondered at her son’s stupidity and cuffed him soundly for leaving such a sum to the discretion of a scoundrel like Sam.

She grabbed up the pouch and held it tightly to her bony chest. Her dead husband’s loaded revolver in the drawer in front of her gave her that kind of confidence.

“Put it back, Maggie,” Sam resolutely ordered.

She did not move. If anything her bony fingers tightened its grip around the soft leather.

Sam saw her eyes glance down at the drawer handle before her and he knew that she probably had a weapon inside the drawer. He also knew that the money she held in her clenched hand was more than either of them had ever seen before. For Maggie it would be enough to care for herself 353

and her family for years to come. If Sam’s dead body were found on the streets of Mayfield no one would bother to investigate the murder. It would be a Stanford Student, unfortunately the first, who had been killed. All would surmise, for whatever reason, he deserved it. Sam did not want that distinction.

Up to now, he had been standing, the center of attraction. He pulled out a wooden chair from under the table and sat down directly across from Maggie. He carefully put both his arms on the table for her to see. This should dissuade her from thinking that he was going to grab the pouch from her or would attempt to disarm her. Some sardonic part of him had to chuckle as he thought that this would be the third time, recently, his life had been in jeopardy. Certainly being an LSJrU student was not without its hazards.

“I know whom the money belongs to,” he said to Maggie who merely continued to stare straight ahead at something only she could see. Her children looked at her and then back to Sam for his response to silence.

“It is the Chinese student, Walt Fong. His father is a powerful Chinaman in San Francisco. I hear he is the head of some sort of tong or something.”

Maggie remained silent. Nothing he said surprised her. The Chinese figures identified the source.

“Are there not Chinamen in Mayfield, Maggie?”

Maggie’s eyes flickered in acknowledgement.

This time, Sam spoke in a loud, clear voice, “I said, are there not Chinamen in Mayfield?”

In a barely audible voice, Maggie said, “Yes, many Chinamen in Mayfield.”

Sam inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, but outwardly he betrayed nothing. “And which Chinaman might have possessed such a sum of money as you hold in your hands?”

“Quong Wo. He has the laundry and the whorehouses and opium dens.”

“I would hazard a guess that you hold Quong Wo’s monies in your hands.”

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As if she did not hear Sam’s words, Maggie whispered in her gravelly voice, “He has a huge Chinaman, Fong Lu is his name. He is his enforcer. John Simms owed Quong money and refused to pay. He said Quong had no contract. Simms was found near the railroad tracks without ears, eyes and nose. He managed to stay alive for a few days.”

As if awakened from a trance, she looked directly into Sam’s eyes. “How do you know it is not the student’s money?”

“No student would have such a sum. I would guess Walter was suppose to give the money to Quong or he was acting as a courier for him to give the money to his father.” He looked at Wilfred. “The room you got this from was it on the list I gave you?”

Wilfred uttered something that could not be heard.

“Speak up Wilfred when Sam talks to you,” Maggie shouted at him.

“No,” Wilfred said.

Sam continued speaking, “Walter usually locks his room. I have tried it several times, thinking he might have valuables like these jade statutes. For some reason, today he was careless.”

Maggie took the pouch from her chest and threw in back on the table midst the watches and trinkets and then she took the Jade statues in each hand and withdrew them from the table and put them under the table so they could not be seen.

“Fair, enough. They are yours. They should bring around fifty dollars, a good amount for a day’s work. I don’t think Quong will mind your having them, if the money is returned to him.”

“You will give it back.”

“Yes, tomorrow morning. Would you have one of your children deliver this note to him first thing tomorrow morning. I doubt very much that he goes to church on Sunday.”

He took one of the pens and inkpots from the tabletop and used them to scrawl the following note on one of the cards he had printed up for himself and always carried in his vest pocket.

“I have something that I would like to return to you. I will be at your laundry at 10:30 tomorrow morning.

355

Samuel Hawthorne Cutter III”

^^^^^^^^^^

The steady drumming of the rain on the roof awoke Ellen Elliott and she could not get back to sleep. Beside her, she could hear her husband’s steady snoring. They always slept apart, at first, facing away from one another then during the night Leslie would turn toward her and sometimes stretch out his hand and touch her.

Leslie was aware that he snored and tried not to disturb her but over the years she had grown used to it. In fact when they were apart, which was seldom, she missed the rhythmic monotonous sounds her husband issued that only became annoying when he was tired or had something on his mind.

She knew the day’s events had exhausted poor Elliott. For him it was mental fatigue, not physical. He worried about Dr. Jordan. He worried whether anyone would be seriously injured and this applied to spectators as well as players. From what she heard, it was pure dumb luck that his worries were not warranted. Why was it that men were so competitive and enjoyed beating up one another? A learned man like Dr. Jordan acted like a young pup when he was playing some fool game. She would never understand why..

Hannah Marx, her neighbor, had come over after dinner, under an umbrella, though the rain, and said her husband had eaten, taken a bath and immediately gone to bed. Hannah said his body was covered with bruises and both his knees were scraped and had bloody scabs from falling on the hard ground. Still he had insisted to Hannah that he had a “glorious time.” She told Ellen that one of the seniors had his cheek cut, rather severely and Dr. Wood had attended to it. She was sure the young man would wear its scar for the rest of his life as if a member of a German dueling society had inflicted it. What was it with it with these men? That type of thinking would surely lead us to war.

As for women, after exhausting the events of the day, she and Hannah discussed the food they might prepare next Friday for their open houses. It would be November 20th, the third Friday in the month and it was their turn along with the Woods, Richardson’s and Griffin’s to welcome faculty and student into their homes for light food and possibly entertainment, a reading or a piano recital. 356

The concept of the open houses had followed Dr. Jordan from the University of Indiana. He was always working so hard to bridge the gap between faculty and students. In this environment, there was not much choice. With only the saloons and brothels of Mayfield close at hand, it behooved faculty wives to organize some form of alternative entertainment. Jessie Jordan had taken the lead to organize “The “Decalogue” made up of the ten cottages into two groups. The first five homes, including the Elliott’s, closest to The Tank, were open on the third Friday; the second five on the first Friday.

So far the Elliott’s had one open house in October, which was moderately successful. Forty to sixty students had visited and a handful of faculty and their wives. This was to be expected since neighbors saw so much of one another during the day, so much so that there was really no motivation to see them again in the evening.

Familiarity, in this case, was part of the landscape. Ellen remembered one beautiful, cloudless morning, after she had prepared Leslie’s lunch and seen him off to work, when she had gone to her back porch and could see all nine of her neighbors going through similar routines. She had shouted out “Good Morning” to no less that five of them from her back porch and only the limitations of her voice precluded greeting the remaining four. No trees, shrubs, fences, woodsheds shielded them from one another’s view. Ellen knew or could guess many things about her neighbors and she was sure they had the same knowledge about her and Leslie and even, dear little Louis.

But soon all this would change, as she knew from past experience living on the campus at Cornell. Trees and lawns would be planted, and close neighbors would leave. Already, last night, Hannah had told her she and her husband were thinking of buying a lot from Tim Hopkins and building a home in his “Palo Alto” development. Ellen knew that Leslie would never consider moving from the campus. Still it would be nice to have their own home instead of leasing it from the University’s Business Office and forced to deal with Ariel Lathrop..

Workers had already begun building two more cottages on Alvarado Row on lots closest to the Quad. One of them would be for Dr. and Mrs. Branner, who would be arriving after the New Year. He would be the head of the Geology Department. The other was for Dr. Griffin and his family who were not satisfied with having a home so similar to their neighbors.

Dr. Branner’s new cottage would have eleven rooms of which seven would be bedrooms making it much larger than the Elliott’s and the other 357

nine original homes. Ellen understood these improved accommodations were to be expected since it was ordained that Dr. Jordan considered Branner, his roommate at Cornell and good friend, to be his heir apparent. He would be the next President of the University. She wondered if Jordan even considered her Leslie for the post. No one knew what was happening at the university better than her husband, but alas, he would always be the man behind the man and she knew he preferred that role.

She wondered if Dr. and Mrs. Branner, coming from Indiana understood what they were getting themselves into. Mrs. Branner’s first adjustment would be the lack of privacy but at least she would only have to contend with the Griffin’s on one side and the Elliott’s on the other. Poor Professor and Mrs. Miller in #5 could do nothing without being seen by the entire neighborhood.

And there was the matter of LSJrU dust and mud and LSJrU ants. Dust from the dried hay and dirt from the dry earth managed to get into everything. Even though Ellen considered herself to be a fastidious housekeeper, she had long since learned to leave dust where it fell. At Cornell, she had always managed to have “live-ins” to help with the cleaning and cooking but here such a rarity was not only difficult to find, it was more difficult to entice good ones to stay. Jessie. Jordan had not only run through two or three cooks, she had also lost her live-ins to better accommodations or changes in plans. Ellen and Leslie were always on the lookout for one to particularly help with Louis but up to now; no one had appeared on the scene they felt they could trust.

Ants were another matter. Now with the rainy season here, what was once a bother had become a calamity. Cooling cupboards had been built on the north sides of the homes and it was here that ants particularly liked to strike. Rather than being a deterrent, insect powder seem to be an inducement. Leslie had told her that Frank Batchelder who worked in the office had told him that when he boarded in Mayfield, his food was regularly served with ants attached as if they were part of the garnishment. Ants were found crawling on their bed sheets in the morning and she had found them in Louis’s hair.

Food itself was not hard to come by. Chinese gardeners made their daily rounds with seasonable fruits and vegetables and Mr. La Pierre was always on time with his grocery cart but once they were gone, they were gone. Any forgotten item would have to be borrowed from a neighbor and it was strange but the same ladies were the borrowers and the same ladies were the lenders. She wondered which Mrs. Branner would be.

Dr. Branner would also have his share of “picnic” duties. One of the wives had said to Ellen, it might have been Mrs. Miller, that living at 358

LSJrU was like being on a “perennial picnic” and Ellen thought it was such a good analogy she had repeated it several times to others. Obtaining water for drinking and cooking was part of that picnic analogy, but it was not the fun part.

Leland Stanford had obviously not done his homework when he considered how his young university would satisfy its need for water but she understood that water in California was always a problem. Running water was available for the cottages, the dormitories and the Quad but that water was from the Searsville Reservoir and it not only looked disgusting, it smelled disgusting, as well.

Leslie stirred in his sleep. He turned over and threw one of his arms in her direction and his hand finding her side there, he withdrew it and returned to a deep sleep and a continuous soft snoring. He and Ellen had entirely different sleeping habits. Ellen, even as a child, had awakened in the middle of the night and used the time to contemplate what was happening around her. Even the slightest disturbance would awake her where Leslie slept like a log from the time he put his head to the pillow to morning and Ellen’s prodding voice to awaken him. The other night when those students were painting their water tank, it was Ellen who heard the dogs barking and prodded Leslie into getting out of bed.

Dr. Branner, from the photos she had seen, appeared to be very distinguished with his neatly clipped beard and refined features. She wondered how he would take to joining his colleagues each suppertime as they wended their way with pails in hand—wooden pails, graniteware pails, tin pails, any kind of pails—to the huge, unsightly water tank, now considered to be the ’95 water tank, near the western end of the row to obtain the precious artesian water that could be used for cooking and drinking. Unfortunately, Dr. Branner would find that living close to the Quad had its drawbacks particularly each and every evening. He had further to go than any of the others.

Leslie had told her there were plans afoot to run a pipe from the distant tank directly to the midst of Alvarado Row where a hydrant would be installed which would lessen the walk for some but eventually the well they were using would run out and what would happen, then. When she brought up the problem to Leslie, he reassured her that several of the professors were working on a permanent solution to the water problem but for the time being they would have to put up with the look and smells of Searsville water for bathing and external usages. Knowing professors as she had most of her life, a solution to a practical problem might be a long time coming.

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As Ellen listened to the rain still drumming on the roof, another thought struck her--from rain came mud, yellow-brown adobe mud. Immediately after the ten cottages were built, a boardwalk had been installed along Alvarado Row and boards had been placed linking the walks to each home. It had been a happy sight to see Louis with the other children in their red wheelbarrows and clattering trains of wooden cars running up and down the new boardwalk. Certainly the mothers felt completely confident that their little ones were safe. But those boards ended where Alvarado Row ended and well-trotted dirt paths that led to the safety of the Quad’s asphalt-covered patio would now be quagmires. Students living in the halls were lucky. There was a paved walkway linking them to the quad. But there were no boardwalks of paved walkways linking the faculty homes. So members of the faculty and their families would find their shoes, hems and cuffs caked with adobe mud. And then to attempt to clean those garments with water that was almost just as dirty. Ah, the joys of our “perennial picnic.”

Surprisingly, with that humbling and unpleasant thought in mind, Ellen drifted back into dreams of soft, green hills, the hills that surrounded Cornell University.

The showers slowed its cadence and eventually ceased.

^^^^^^^^^^

Next morning, Sunday, was clear, brisk and beautiful. The only remnants of the passing storm were lingering pools of water that would soon dry. Walter Fong was glad his visit to see Quong Wo did not include braving bad weather for which he was poorly prepared. His umbrella and slicker remained at his father’s San Francisco home. Over Thanksgiving weekend he would get them.

It was almost 11:00 by the time he turned up Lincoln Road and walked by the Mayfield Hotel on the corner and proceeded toward Quong Wo’s Wash House.

As he turned to enter the building, he wondered whether Quong Wo would be there. There was no way he could let him know in advance of his coming but he was, just inside the doorway, as if awaiting Walter’s arrival. He quickly motioned Walter to come to the back of his establishment where he had his private rooms to conduct business. Tea had already been laid out and Quong poured himself and Walter a cup of 360

the lightly flavored water and gestured with his free hand that he should sit.

They spoke in Cantonese dialect.

Walter realized there was certain verbal courtesies he should have exFonged with Quong but instead he quickly stated, “The money you gave me to give to my Father was stolen from my room.”

“You forgot to lock your door.” Quong’s face was immobile but his eyes were anxious to see how this young man would react to his statement of fact. He was more than rewarded when Walter’s face turned from passive to wonderment.

“How did you know?”

Quong withdrew from the folds of his kimono, the black leather pouch with its valuable contents. “The culprit or should I say the leader of the culprits returned it to me this morning just before you arrived.”

“Is it all there?”

“Yes, it is all there but do not expect to ever see the two lovely jade figures your father gave to you. Their loss is your punishment for being careless. Can I trust this with you a second time.” He placed the pouch on the table.

Walter breathed an audible sigh of relief as if to say the Gods had given him a second chance. He took the pouch and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat and put his right hand over the bulge it made and said, “It will not happen, again,” as if he were taking an oath.

“I do not expect it will. I do not expect to tell your father anything about this matter. That will be up to you.” Quong thought, “This will be a real test of young Fong’s manliness.”

“When I deliver the money, I will tell him. And who is this leader of the culprits? Is he here in Mayfair or a student?

“We agreed that he should go nameless. He honorably returned the stolen goods knowing that it was mine and I respect him for that but I do not trust him. He has organized a small gang of petty thieves that he uses for pick pocketing and stealing items from careless students like you. As long as his activities remain those, I have no problem with him. He has also promised to direct friends and acquaintances to our happy palaces. For this I will remunerate him on the basis of the traffic he creates. He is 361

a very shrewd person and I would prefer to have him within my circle so I know what he is up to. Do you agree?”

“Yes, I agree, Quong Wo. You are almost as wise as my father.”

“Thank you, Walter. Those words give me great pleasure.”

They drank their tea in silence. There was no more to be said. As Walter departed, Quong said, “Do not be too hard on your self. The door you left unlocked may let in new opportunities”

As Walter walked back to Encina, he thought, “Dear Quong if only you knew, my father told me not to lock my door. He said one act of supposed carelessness would reveal two truths. The first, could you be trusted, Quong, and apparently you can be. The second truth, who is responsible for the thefts at Encina. When I told him about the thievery, he said this was one way to find out who was responsible. He and Senator Stanford are good friends and friends protect each other, he said. If the money had not been returned, he would have had Quong’s Fong Lu act but he preferred not to do that. Quong, you did not tell me the name of the thieves’ leader but since you know, it makes no difference. Through you, we can now control his activities. I would guess it is Sam Cutter. No one else, I know of, could be so devious.

My father will be pleased. His strategy worked just as planned.”

^^^^^^^^^

Monday morning was a very busy time in the administrative office. By now, the administrative staff supporting Dr. Jordan and Leslie consisted of Mr. Woodruff, the librarian, Frank Batchelder, the original stenographer, who would come in after his noon classes, and Miss Stillings, another stenographer who arrived in September from Buffalo.

It was Miss Stillings who greeted a whole series of male students, faculty members and even some Mayfield and Menlo citizens who paraded through the office’s wide doors asking for a moment of either Dr. Jordan or Leslie’s time. Their common complaints were that something of value had been stolen from them. Watches, purses, wallets even jewelry from faculty members and wives and citizens and a vast number of small items from Encina residents that were similar in that they were gone, taken, stolen.

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Just before lunch, Burt Fesler, the master at Encina, came in and asked to see Dr. Jordan and huddled with him in his office for a considerable period of time while they spoke in hushed tones.

Perhaps the same gang of thieves that operated during the Opening Ceremonies had been busy during the baseball game. What was most disconcerting was that while the opening ceremonies might have been the act of outside thieves drawn to a well publicized public event, Saturday’s game was know only to the local citizenry and would have to be attributed to local thieves, perhaps Stanford students or Mayfield residents or both.

Frank came in, bearing a large brown bottle labeled “Port Wine.” It was actually fresh water from a barrel located just outside the Quad. It was Frank’s chore to bring it each morning.

As he always did, Frank immediately informed the staff of his current goings-on. It was a one-sided conversation. He needed no encouragement of questions. He apparently lacked any knowledge of the minor calamity that had befallen many during the game.

“Cold, cold, cold in the rooms. I hear we have steam heat but apparently the folks at the steam plant don’t believe in turning it on until we are nearly frozen to death,” he said for all to hear as he settled himself into his desk chair and pulled up the wooden curtain protecting the contents of his desktop.

Out of the blue, he announced, “I have decided to join the Phi Delt’s. They are a good lot and I feel comfortable with them, as their fortunes are similar to mine. We all went to the Christian Association meeting in Mayfield with Dr.Thoburn last night and had prayer meeting and Bible classes.”

Leslie Elliott was hurriedly getting his lunch out for his noontime repast with Dr. Jordan.

Dr. Jordan walked in to get Leslie and Frank looked over at him as they were both scurrying to leave, “Oh, and good job, Dr. Jordan, we were all proud of you on Saturday even though your team suffered a defeat. Everyone seemed to be good sports and all.”

As he and Elliott went out the doorway, Dr. Jordan nodded his acknowledgment toward Frank and said, “Thank you for your kind words.”

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Silently and quickly they exited the office. As they went out to sit on the curb, the two men could hear Frank regaling Mr. Woodruff and Miss Stillings about his Sunday afternoon’s tramp in the hills with his fraternity brothers. Frank was good about sharing weekend activities with anyone who would listen.

Dr. Jordan and Leslie Elliott had more serious matters to discuss.

After they had settled themselves on the curb, both men settled back and dug into their lunch pails to see what their better halves had prepared for them. For Dr. Jordan there were no surprises for he usually prepared his own lunch but for Leslie, Ellen sometimes did provide an unexpected savory snack. As they ate, Leslie always waited for Jordan to decide which path their conversation might take.

“We have thieves amongst us,” Jordan uttered the phrase as if he were a Shakespearean actor.

“And it is to be expected,” Leslie added. “When an institution like ours opens its doors to young men and women and even pays for their tuition, it must be expected that there will be a few bad seeds among the lot.”

Jordan smiled, “I would expect if we could look into the souls of our students we might find the same mix as in any open society.”

“Not only the same mix, dear Doctor, but the extremes. If ever there were “haves” and “have-nots” thrown together in close proximity, it would be within the walls of our halls. It has to be expected the “have- nots” might act to change that balance.”

“But the acts are controlled, Leslie. There is an unseen hand at work. Burt Fesler was here, as you know, and he said that the common thread he noted in was the ingenuousness of the victims. They were the type who could not believe there were thieves about and would not think of locking their doors even after they had been robbed. It was as if someone had carefully determined which rooms were unlocked and those rooms were victimized. Within the two to three hours of the game’s length, almost all of the unlocked rooms were looted with the exception of those on the corner facing the diamond where many of our boys sat precariously. The thieves knew enough of the hall’s viewing habits that they purposely stayed away from that area.”

“Interesting, interesting. Whoever this unseen hand is, he must be given credit for ingenuity.”

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“You and I might give credit but Ariel Lathrop has something else in mind. He has already penned a long diatribe to the Senator in Washington informing him of the general lawlessness of the rabble we have accumulated that call themselves LSJrU students.”

“All this must have made Ariel day. He and his brother have this loathing for whatever our student body does, good or bad. I can only think it is some kind of jealousy of the life they never had.”

“I wish I could tell the both of them to go to hell in a chariot but I am afraid their relationship to our founder will never allow me that freedom. It is something I must learn to live with, Leslie. But between you and me and the lamp post, I do hate both of them.”

Leslie knew that it was time for a twist in the conversation. There were certain things even he did not want to hear Dr. Jordan say. “And what will we do to rid ourselves of these bad seeds and I mean the thieves, of course, not the Lathrop brothers.”

“Burt Fesler, or should I say Ariel has asked Burt to hire several deputies who will patrol both halls to make certain the thieves do not return.”

“But since no one has seen the thieves who will these deputies be looking for?”

“Suspicious characters.”

“Ah, hah, yes, of course, “suspicious characters.” And whom may I ask will Mr. Fesler or Mr. Lathrop hire as deputies who will judge, purely on sight, who are or are not “suspicious characters.”

“Several stalwart citizens of Mayfield.”

“Mayfield?”

“Yes, Mayfield. Ariel is going into town this afternoon and find out from Mayfield’s Constable Brown who he would personally recommend as deputies.”

Leslie almost choked on the small green apple he is eating. After a moment when he was finally able to speak, “And may I say, dear Doctor, if there were to be any “suspicious characters” about the campus, it would be assuredly those Mayfield citizens. Why, may I ask, does this remind me of a Shakespearean play?”

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Jordan’s mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “It is what Ariel wants to do and I am not about to attempt to stop him. I know the Senator is a reasonable man but I do not want to use up the few times I can change the Business Office policy on this matter. I do plan to initiate my own scheme. Do you remember the chap who helped us find out who masterminded the Flat Car Incident?”

“Yes the fellow who came into your office and gave you the mastermind’s name. His name was “Pudge” and I think the informer’s name was Sam Cutter. Forgive me but I have no faith in informers and I would trust young Sam Cutter about as far as I could throw him.”

“You are probably right, Leslie. But the fellow did come forward and I plan to contact him and see if he can be of service regarding this matter.”

“Do you think he will know who this “unseen hand” is?”

“I doubt it but I will educe his help and ask him to keep an eye and ear out.”

“Do you want me to contact him for you and set up a meeting?”

“Yes, you can send him a note regarding some record issue and then when he appears turn him over to me.”

“For this, I wish we had some kind of privacy. Frank and the rest of the staff are fine workers but I do question whether they keep their tongues.”

“My same thought. I think I will excuse myself and wander over to the chapel area and you can bring Sam to me so we can have some privacy. From there, he and I will work out other meeting places so our relationship will be kept secret.”

Leslie found himself somewhat excited by all this intrigue. He and the good Doctor had become detectives of a sort. He only wished that their collaborator was other than Sam Cutter.

It also occurred to him that this whole matter still bore a striking resemblance to a staged comedy and whether he like it or not, he was to be one of the supporting characters.

^^^^^^^^

366

A dark cloud hovered over the campus but it did not bear rain instead it bore the work and worries of mid-term tests and papers that would be due soon and potential finals that would be given and taken toward the end of January 1892. And then, too quickly for most, second semester would begin on Tuesday, February 2nd and the circle would begin, all over again.

Somewhat tempering those worries were immediate concerns about what to do during the Thanksgiving Holidays. Classes would shut down on Thursday, November 26th and take back up again on Monday, the 30th. Students and faculty would have four whole days off.

For those students who lived any distance from LSJrU, the decision was out of hand. Even for those who lived a day’s journey, and that would include most, it was hardly worth the effort of enduring hard travel for half their time off. For those who lived in the immediate area, the Peninsula, San Jose, San Francisco, Sacramento and its environs, it was an opportunity to invite close student friends to visit for Thanksgiving Dinner with family, relatives and friends. The problem then became which student friend or friends did they want to expose to their family or in some cases the reverse could be true.

Those students who remained on campus were already considering, if the weather still held, plans to trek over the Black or Santa Cruz Mountains to Pescadero, La Honda, Big Basin or Santa Cruz. The new Lick Observatory to the east of San Jose could be another destination. Most would use their feet but the more daring would bicycles as their conveyances.

Sitting and studying in his room on Thursday afternoon, Fletcher Martin was not sure what he would do over Thanksgiving. The last of Irene and Lucy’s students had vacated Adelante Villa, even Edith Jordan had returned to Escontite Cottage to help take care of the new baby, Barbara, and to wait for Irene and Lucy to relocate their school. The two women had decided to spend their Thanksgiving with friends from Harvard Annex who now lived in Berkeley. Irene had invited Fletcher to go with them but he had balked at the thought of spending time with four young ladies who were old college acquaintances. Irene reluctantly agreed that he might feel out of place.

Dr. Whitman, his faculty advisor and roommate, had made him an interesting proposal. Dr. Whitman and three other younger members of the faculty were planning to ascend Mt. Hamilton and visit Lick Observatory. It would take them most of three days but it might be just the thing to set Fletcher’s mind into new flights as he made changes to the proposed Master’s Thesis he would be submitting for Dr. Whitman’s review at the end of the semester. 367

Strangely, even though the two saw each other at the beginning and end of each day, he and Dr. Whitman had hardly spoke to one another during the past two months. It was not as if there was any ill will between the two but both had their own routines, what they did during the day, and each had adapted to those routines. Whitman arose late, just barely making his 8:30 am class, and Fletcher arose early. He was up a 5 am or 6 am, studying and reading at his desk or in the library on the Quad at 8 am. During the day, Dr. Whitman remained on Quad. Fletcher was at the library, in their room or spending time with Irene. At night, Fletcher would study until lights dimmed at 10:30. Dr. Whitman might come in after midnight remaining at his office or visiting some of his faculty friends. On the weekends, they both went their separate ways. Neither asked what each other were doing. As far as Fletcher and Dr. Whitman were concerned, it was a perfect relationship.

Fletcher’s dissertation centered on the speeches Pericles made during the Peloponnesian Wars between Athens and Sparta. These wars broke out in 431 BC and lasted for twenty-five years. It was Fletcher’s contention that Thucydides could not have heard the early Pericles’ speeches he supposedly quoted. Instead, Fletcher believed he had put into Pericles’ mouth words that Thucydides believed he should have uttered. Fletcher’s premise was not earthshaking. Several other Scholars had already declared similar thoughts but Fletcher had made new translations of portions of Thucydides’ history, which verified this for the first time and Fletcher was justifiably proud of his accomplishment. As yet, Dr. Whitman had no idea of what he was doing.

Fletcher felt that it was time that he discussed his premise with Dr. Whitman to see if it would be substantial enough to stand the rigorous tests established for a Master’s thesis. The Mt. Hamilton trip would give him that opportunity.

^^^^^^^^

Frank Batchelder usually conveyed the handwritten notes from the Administrative Office to students with the exception of the ones for female students living at Roble Hall. Miss Stillings delivered those. Frank immensely enjoyed this official duty. He liked to see the faces when the door was opened revealing Frank standing there with a deeply serious expression. Leslie Elliott accused him of schadenfruede. Frank didn’t know what that meant but could guess it had something to do with enjoying seeing someone else in pain.

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He delivered the message to Sam Cutter from Leslie. Leslie had used his personal stationary. The envelope looked extremely official and ominous. Notes from university registrars did not generally bear glad tidings. For too many at Stanford it had been the first official notice of eventually “going off the edge of the world” and returning to homes where parents would wonder at the dismal failure of their off-spring.

It was late Thursday afternoon, November 19th, when Frank knocked at the door of Room #132 where Sam and Mitch dwelled. Mitch opened the door and he appeared, at first, to Frank to be just about ready to nod off to sleep. Opening the door and seeing Frank standing there was like receiving an electric shock that instantly moved him to alertness.

Even though he was enjoying every moment of Mitch’s discomfiture Frank eventually had to say, “Oh, sorry for the bother,” and as he gave the note to Mitch he put him out of his misery, “It’s not for you. It’s for Samuel Hawthorne Cutter III.”

Mitch’s face instantly went from apprehension to visible relief. He knew Frank by face, only, but he knew that face was associated with the Administrative Office and meetings of Christians in Mayfield. Since his own grades were just tottering on the edge, he fully expected the message could have been for him.

He took the note offered by Frank. “He’s not here. I’m not sure where he is. I’ll give it to him.”

Frank continued to stand at the doorway as if he expected to be asked in. He had heard Sam had the best room in the Hall and he was curious to see what “the best” looked like, but it was not to be. Now that he was in the clear, Mitch was not to be bothered with the likes of Frank Batchelder and his Christian friends. He gave Frank a disdainful look of dismissal. “Thanks for bringing the message, old man. See you on Quad,” and shut the door in his face. Frank was not surprised. He knew the Alpha Phi’s had quickly passed on him as a potential pledge. Now that Frank was a Phi Delt, they would really look down on him. The Alpha Phi’s considered the Phi Delt’s to be on the bottom rung of the ladder. They called the Phi Delt’s “turkeys” and it was not “Jacob’s Turkeys,” either. Batchelder resolutely turned toward the stairwell to go to his room.

On the other side of the door, Mitch wanted desperately to open the envelope bearing the simple printed inscription, “The Registrar, Leland Stanford Junior University, Menlo Park, California,” but he knew better and stood it against the base of the large desk lamp that dominated their study table. Sam would certainly see it when he came in.

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As he was going down the steps, Frank passed David Cooper coming up. He had heard the other boys called David, “Bump,” so he said, “Hey, Bump, good to see you.”

David, seeing Frank, got that same look of apprehension, but still managed to say, “Hi, Frank, good to see you, too.”

^^^^^^^^

David moved down the hallway, past Sam and Mitch’s room, to the room he shared with Milt Grosh. As he unlocked his door, (Burt Fesler had a meeting on Monday night and told everyone to lock their doors. There were thieves about.) he couldn’t help but look down and check the floor to see if Frank had pushed a note under the door for Milt or him. Even though both of them were doing all right with B’s and C’s on most of the papers and tests they had taken, everyone was still worried about possibly being sent home. Thank goodness, there was no note.

The room was empty which was expected. Milt was working on the new football field that had been made, created, built by members of the team, next to the new Men’s Gym that was about to be opened. Milton was helping some of the others put up goal posts at each end of the field. David should have been there but he had to catch up on some research he was suppose to be doing on a paper entitled, “Description of a Roman Banquet.” The paper was due to be handed into Dr. Barnes for his class, “Greece and Rome,” just after Thanksgiving Weekend. David wanted to finish up the research and start writing the final version and not leave it to the last minute as most of the students, he knew, did.

This would be his first college term paper. He had worked on shorter versions for his English classes at Riverside High School and always got good grades but it was totally different here at LSJrU. David couldn’t get over how different some of his fellow students were from those he knew in high school. There was one fellow who must have been all of twenty-six years of age, in Dr. Barnes class, who had visited Greece and Rome. He had been a sailor on a ship for almost three years and traveled all over the world. David enjoyed hearing about his experiences but he could see, at times, Dr. Barnes didn’t appreciate it when this fellow took over the limelight. David wanted to learn as much as he could from as many people as he could.

David had accumulated several books from both the small library in the Quad and from Dr. Barnes personal library. He also heard that Dr. 370

Whitman, who was Fletcher Martin’s roommate, had some excellent books about Romans and Greeks but they were in Latin and although David’s Latin was improving he still did not feel comfortable translating text into English.

From the a book shelf, he grabbed a deep red delicious apple he had brought back from the Dining Hall for just such an occasion and took a mighty bite out of it. He sat at the study table and crunched his apple and looked at the pile of books lying before him. The apple was crisp and sweet and David’s mind couldn’t help but wander to the new gym that was just about completed down the road from Encina.

He had heard the gym would have seven of the latest overhead and side showers. He had never had a shower unless you called “a shower” having a bucket of water doused on you. He wondered what the experience would be like. Standing like that with no clothes on and all the other boys looking at each other. Thank goodness, he had some body hair. He had seen boys who had no hair at all and everyone said they looked like girls. David had never seen a naked girl so he really couldn’t say. He had seen his sister, naked, but that didn’t count and that was when she was five or six years old..

There would be lockers for all the men students to stow their athletic equipment. Milton had told him that the gym had special pulleys with weights and hydraulic rowing machines that the football team could use. Japanese curled hair mattresses would be available to work out on and dumb bells and Indian Clubs. David couldn’t imagine having all that equipment available for their use.

Milton said that he and James Whittemore were working out what the football team would do to get into shape and that the team would start practicing each afternoon at 4:30 after the Thanksgiving break. They were starting to line up some teams to play right after the first of the year and Dr. Sampson would be joining the faculty next term and he had all kinds of football experience.

But that was football and he was supposed to be reading the books before him and getting information about Roman banquets. Some one knocked at the door and David got up to open the door. It was Walter Fong.

“Hi, Bump, do you have a minute?”

“Sure, come on in. I was just digging (studying) a little but I haven’t even cracked a book yet.”

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They moved to the study desk and David pulled out a chair for Walter. “Sit down. Take a load off.”

“I’ve just been to see “Sosh” and George Gardner.”

“How’s George doing? I haven’t seen him since the game.”

“Fine, fine. He’s studying just like you are. I think we all are. I was wondering if you have any plans for Thanksgiving?”

“No, no. As you know Milt and I are from Southern California and getting home would take over a day so it just isn’t worth it. Milt and I were planning to stay on campus.”

“I have invited Sosh and George to visit my home in San Francisco and they have accepted. Would you and Milt like to come, too?”

“I don’t see why not. I am sure Milt would be all for it. That should be a really big experience for us going to a big city like San Francisco. I am afraid our little village, Los Angeles, can’t hold a candle to it.”

“Great. Do you have recitations next Wednesday afternoon?”

“No, just football practice and I am sure that it will be cancelled because of the holidays.”

“Then we can catch the train at Menlo, together, in the afternoon and my father will have someone pick us up at the train station and take us to Chinatown.”

Even thinking about going to San Francisco’s Chinatowns excited David. What would his family think of it when he wrote and told them all about it! Spontaneously he got up and shook Walter’s hand. “That is so nice of you and your family to do this for us. I can’t tell you how excited I am.”

Walter got up, too, and smiled. Sosh and George had reacted in the same way. He had wisely chosen whom his friends would be and whom his parents would like to meet. “You and Milton and Sosh and George will be honored guests at my father’s home. Be sure not eat too much before you go because you will have much to eat when you get there. I will leave you to your studies”

Walter went toward the door and David opened it for him. “Thanks, again, Walter. It is very nice that you and your parents have invited us.” David patted Walter on the back as he went out the door and Walter turned 372 toward him and said, with another grin on his face. “You are very welcome,” and he walked out the door with that expression still on his face.

David returned, once more to his study desk; the piled books still there waiting to be opened. He opened one of them and looked in the back for the index. “Banquets, Roman, 114-115.” “Not a lot of information but some,” he thought, “San Francisco! Chinatown! How exciting and what an adventure to retell his family in Riverside. He was so lucky to be going to Stanford!”

He leafed through the book until he found page 114.

^^^^^^^^^^

Sam saw the note sitting on their desk the minute he came into the room. It was almost as if he were expecting it. He knew immediately its source. Several of his fraternity friends who were no longer at LSJrU had got similar notes. His charade had been uncovered and someone had told the administration who he truly was--- Sam Cutter, a creation of the streets of Chicago. He would be sent over the edge but not back to Chicago and his uncle’s home. He would never go there, again. He had some resources; perhaps Los Angeles in the south would be his destination. He liked California with its mild climate and air of newness and Fonge. If this is the end of his sojourn at college, so be it. There was a reason for everything.

Mitch sat at the desk with his phony of look of sympathy. No sympathy for Sam Cutter. He would never let Mitch know his true concerns. “Ah, ha, finally Dr. Elliott has time to see me,” he said with a smile on his face and with as much enthusiasm as he could muster for the moment.

“You wanted to see the Registrar?” Mitch could not contain how crestfallen this made him feel.

“Of course, Mitch, Dr. Elliott is an old friend of the family,” as he sat down in the chair across the table from Mitch and ripped the envelope open. “Yes, yes,” he pretended to read what was suppose to be a note of several sentences when in fact there was only the one, ‘Please come to the Office tomorrow morning at 10:30. Dr. Leslie Elliott’ instead Sam read a longer, imagined note aloud to his roommate. “Samuel, so good of you to contact me. How are your dear Mother and Father? Please send them my long overdue salutations. Please drop by the office tomorrow for a chat. 373

Perhaps you can come to the house for tea. Leslie Elliott, Registrar.” He looked from the note to Mitch. “If it’s tea, would you like to go with me?”

“Do you think you could arrange it? I am not too sure. Perhaps its best when they don’t know your name or what you look like.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way. It’s up to you. I’ll let you know all about what our plans are. Well, I don’t know about you but I still have some reading to do for my German class tomorrow. We are reading one of Heine’s short stories and Dr. Griffin has asked me to translate it and lead the class discussion.” He got up, grabbed a book by Heine from the bookshelf and settled himself in the dark brown mohair armchair that dominated the room. He clicked on the electric floor light at its side, slung his legs over the matching footstool and settled himself in for a good read. Then, he thought the better of it and grabbed a cheroot out a wooden box that was close at hand and lit it with the English lighter he had purchased in San Francisco.

He could feel Mitch’s eyes looking at him with admiration. He could read Mitch’s thoughts, “What a marvelous man. Everyone knows him, even our Registrar. I am so lucky to have him as a roommate. I wish I were like him.”

If he only knew the dread Sam felt in his heart about the meeting that would take place in the morning.

^^^^^^^

Next morning at precisely 10:30, Frank Batchelder was surprised to see Sam Cutter waltz in like he owned the place and in a bright and cheery voice tell him that he had an appointment with Dr. Elliott. Frank had Sam wait by his desk by the entrance while he went over to tell Dr. Elliott about his visitor.

Dr. Elliott must have been expecting him because after he crossed the room and whispered something to Cutter, they both disappeared out the front door. Frank had no idea what this was all about. Sometimes, Dr. Elliott or Dr. Jordan did weird, capricious deeds and this was certainly one of them.

The words that Dr. Elliott whispered to Sam were simply, “Follow me, Mr. Cutter,” and Sam did as he was told.

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In silence, Leslie led Sam down the arcade to the large lecture hall that also served as the Chapel. He opened the double doors wide so that Cutter could follow him and once inside, he pointed to the rostrum at the far end of the chapel where Dr. Jordan stood, waiting. Leslie pointed toward the Doctor and said, “Dr. Jordan is waiting for you.” For the first time, Leslie could detect a glimmer of trepidation in Cutter’s eyes. Without a word, Cutter proceeded toward the rostrum and Leslie turned around and exited to return to his office and the non-detective duties he faced during the rest of the day.

As Sam approached Dr. Jordan he purposely threw back his shoulders and thrust his chest out like the roosters, Jordan had seen around the henhouse. Outwardly, he could have been walking in the park or taking a vigorous constitutional around the block. Inwardly, his heart was beating at an accelerated pace and his brain was filled with unanswered questions, “Why am I here? What does he know? Should I turn around and make a run for it while I can? Where would I run to?”

Dr. Jordan, for his part, had to admire the swaggering, young man. He had seen many others in similar circumstances and none had ever managed such a bearing of utter nonchalance. The young man was to be congratulated for his forbearance, but that was not the purpose of the meeting.

“Good morning, Mr. Cutter. Good of you to meet me,” and Jordan stuck out his hand with its long, strong fingers and had it grasped by another strong hand with shorter, squarer fingers but similar strength.

“Good to meet you, Dr. Jordan. Our first meeting was so brief because of the urgent circumstances. It is good to see you, again at a more quiet time.”

Jordan moved to the side of the hall where there were several long wooden library tables and chairs. He motioned for Sam to sit on one side of a table and he sat on the other, directly across from Sam. Sam thought it reminded him of pictures he had seen of the Spanish Inquisition with himself portraying the accused. He looked directly at Dr. Jordan and remained silent. With some difficulty, he managed a grin as if to say, “It’s your turn. What game do we play?”

Jordan had to admit to himself that he enjoyed keeping Sam in suspense just to see how he might react but thought, “Enough of this cat and mouse game. Let’s get this over and done with.”

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He said, “I am sorry to say it is not as quiet a time as I would like it to be. Have you heard that many of our male students’ rooms were robbed during the baseball game last weekend?”

An expression of thoughtfulness filled Sam’s face as he said to himself, “So that is it. My Chinaman friend was not to be trusted. He has sacrificed me as I sacrificed poor Pudge.”

Aloud, he said, “Yes, I have heard some of the fellows complaining about pilfering going on. Apparently it was more serious than I thought.”

“Serious enough, Mr. Cutter, that the Business Office has already notified our founders in Washington, D. C. and will be posting several constables at the Hall starting tonight. From what we know, we think the mastermind behind this is a student and since none of our fair ladies were troubled, we have logically concluded it is a male student.” Jordan had to smile at the obvious remark he had just made.

Now, the accusations would come and Sam was ready to plead his innocence and if necessary accuse others but for the time being, he cautiously said, “It is hard to believe that one of my fellow students might be a thief. For my part I have never met a group of that were more stalwart and trustworthy. Of course, there are always bad seeds in any group like poor Pudge who could not control his basic instincts to do wrong.”

“Exactly what others have said still I was hoping that you might help us find the culprit as you did before.”

So that was it. Dr. Jordan was soliciting his assistance. Praise the Lord, I am safe.

Sam’s brow furrowed to show his deep concern for the plight of the university’s administration. “Whatever I can do to help, sir, I will,” he said solemnly.

Dr. Jordan was equally solemn, “I knew we could count on you. Is there a name you would like to pass on to me, now, that we might use in our investigation? The sooner we rid ourselves of this vermin, the better.”

Sam gave himself a few moments of deep thought while it appeared as if he was seriously pondering possibilities but he concluded his deception by saying to Dr. Jordan, “At the moment, sir, I can think of nothing I have seen or heard that would allow me to make an accusation against a fellow student. It is a serious matter and I would not like to lead 376 your investigation, astray. I can assure you that I will be on the lookout for any possibilities and will surreptitiously use my friends’ knowledge to see if there any potential suspects that I am not aware of.”

Jordan continued, “I wish to make you this offer of $5.00 for any name you might be able to come up with and if the name turns out to be the culprit we will give you an additional $25 reward. Fair enough?” Dr. Jordan put out his hand to Sam to seal the arrangement and create a contract.

“More than fair, sir.” Both men rose from their seats, shaking hands.

“Needless to say, Mr. Cutter, I want our relationship to remain confidential. You may leave a note with Dr. Elliott if you have information and I will arrange to see you, quickly and secretly.”

“I will not breath a word of our meeting to anyone. You can count on my vigilance.”

“Good day, Mr. Cutter. We hope to hear from you again, soon.”

“Good day, sir,” and Sam left the chapel, out the double doors into the subdued sunlight of a winter’s day. Contrasted to the manner of his entrance, his exit was in high spirits. Instead of planning his trip “off the edge” to Los Angeles, his thoughts turned to whom he should accuse of the thefts so that he could garner the proffered $5. The Jew, Rubin, the country bumpkin, called David and what about that oaf who had laid hands on him, the old soldier, Fletcher Martin or even “Wonk’ to eliminate him as a rival in the fraternity, all of them were prospects. He would have to think and plan his next moves, carefully.

Dr. Jordan, remaining in the chapel, optimistically hoped for a quick return on his investment of trust in Mr. Cutter. There was something about the way Cutter looked and carried himself that Jordan had to admire, in spite of himself---a wonderful specimen of the Anglo-Saxon phyla, a man who would always survive by whatever means were available. If he were a fish, he would be a shark.

Dr. Jordan did smiled slyly to himself. Of course there was always a chance that Sam was the culprit. If so, Jordan had long ago made the discovery that the best protection against thievery was to solicit a thief’s protection.

^^^^^^^^

377

By Monday, November 23rd, most plans for the long upcoming weekend had been consummated.

Delores Payson had been in touch with her aunt and uncle in San Jose and gained their permission to invite both Betsy Marshall and Sally Forrest to visit the DeBustamente Hacienda in the Almaden area. Uncle Reynaldo planned a huge fiesta in their honor on Thursday and to take them on an extended buggy ride to visit Mission Santa Cruz for the day for Friday and perhaps stay overnight in Camp Capitola Hotel.

Betsy told Mitch, her boy friend, about their plans and Mitch decided that he, too, would go to Camp Capitola and perhaps meet Betsy there. He realized that it would be strictly by chance that they might get together but since his home was in Pasadena and he would prefer not to most of the holiday for the journey, he thought, “why not.”

When he shared his thoughts with his roommate, Sam said he might be joining him in Camp Capitola but he could not guarantee it because friends of his parents who lived in Burlingame had asked him to dinner. Actually, Sam wanted to go alone to Capitola to possibly encounter Sally and he also wanted time to consider Dr. Jordan’s offer of the reward. Sam felt that events were spinning out of control and he needed time to think about his future. He now had second thoughts about revealing his tie to the O’Grady family to Quong Wo. There were too many loose ends in his life. He did not like the thought of leaving the future to others who he could not control.

Mitch felt complimented by Sam’s offer since he knew that several of his fraternity brothers had invited Sam to their homes for Thanksgiving dinner and he had turned them all down claiming the press of studies.

George Gardiner had begged off the visit to Chinatown with Walter Fong. His parents from San Diego would be visiting him for the Thanksgiving weekend. They would arrive in San Jose via the railroad and would rent a rig from the local livery and pick up George at Encina and take him back with them to Pacific Congress Springs near Saratoga, a small village in the Santa Cruz Mountains where they would stay for the holidays.

George was their only son. He had never been away from home before and they were concerned, particularly his mother, about how he was doing, getting around campus with his wooden legs. When he wrote them regarding his potential visit with his new Chinese friend to Chinatown they became worried about his safety because of the stories they had read about the Tong War that was taking place in San Francisco. His parents immediately sent a wire to George telling him they wanted 378

him to join them in Pacific Congress Springs. They did not mention the Tong War.

Wu Sing Fong. Walter’s father was also concerned about the safety of the young men his son had invited to visit. He decided because of his prominent position as head of one of the Six Companies that it would be safer to have the young men stay at the Palace Hotel and he would visit them there. There were many sites they could visit in San Francisco and he was sure his son would agree with the change of plans. Three students would now be visiting Walter—Bump Cooper, Milt Grosh and Sosh Weinberg.

Fletcher Martin was looking forward to the trip to Mount Hamilton and Lick Observatory. Friday, he and Professor Whitman and three of his friends would catch an 830 am train from Mayfield to San Jose and then trek the rest of the way to the summit. On Thanksgiving he would join his friend, Fred Behn and his wife and family and Fred’s brother, Jorgen, for dinner. He had heard that a group of Stanford Wheelmen would also make the journey to Mount Hamilton on their bicycles.

Bert Hoover would be spending the holiday time, alone. Fred had decided to return to Salem to see his parents. Bert did not have the money for such an extravagant trip. He decided to have Thanksgiving dinner with some friends he had made at “The Camp, “ the temporary shacks by The Chimney that had formerly housed workmen but were now being taken over mostly by lesser-privileged male students who had no thoughts of joining a fraternity. This group was called “barbarians’ or “barbs” by the members of the Alpha Phi fraternity and this name was becoming part of the Stanford lingo. Bert was also considering living at the camp to reduce his living expenses.

Professor Gilbert had organized nine students, four ladies and five men, into a hiking party that would be leaving for the coast on Thanksgiving Day. Will Greer and Frank Batchelder would be among them.

The approaching weekend appeared to have the makings of good comradeship and exciting times.

378

Chapter Ten

Palace Hotel & Chinatown

Although not as direct a one as with Leland Stanford Junior University, Senator Stanford still played a role in the establishment of San Francisco’s Chinatown. He and his partners who owned the Central Pacific Railroad learned while building the transcontinental portion that Irish and Mexican laborer would not work as hard or as fast as Chinese workers. And besides, a Chinaman did not complain, took no holidays, was not sick and bathed each day so he did not smell. All in all, a great improvement over his Irish or Mexican, or for that matter, American brethren.

Charles Crocker, one of Stanford’s confederates, worked out arrangements with the Six Companies, a uniquely Chinese combination of contracting companies and fraternal organizations in the Canton area of China, to import young and vigorous laborers to the United States. For this opportunity, each worker signed a promissory note for $75 to be repaid in seven monthly installments to the Six Companies, which continued to govern his activities even after he arrived in San Francisco.

Accommodations from Canton ports to San Francisco were worse than those offered to Irish and Jewish immigrants to New York City and Boston and just a cut above those for Negro slaves. The journey from China to San Francisco took better than 62 days.

Crocker quickly had 9,000 Chinese laborers performing construction jobs that were arduous and dangerous such as hand picking out the sides of mountains, building precarious bridges, and dynamiting tunnels dug deep into granite mountains. Hundreds of Chinese workers were killed in the process. Similar to the occupations of East Coast Irishmen, these were jobs no one else would do.

With the completion of the railroad in the early 70’s, and the continuing lack of women in the West, unemployed Chinese laborers were drawn to those jobs women would have otherwise performed, laundry and cooking. From satisfying those needs of their hosts, enterprising Chinese found ways to exploit basic weaknesses common to all men regardless of race. They established pleasure houses offering sex, gambling and opium.

In San Francisco’s Chinatown, these services were provided abundantly.

379

On Wednesday, November 25th, at almost 4pm, Bump Cooper (formerly David), Milt Grosh, Sosh Weinberg (formerly Rubin) and Walt Fong were among the forty to fifty students waiting at the Mayfield Station for the train to San Francisco. The journey of thirty miles would take approximately one hour traveling through the northern peninsula cities of Menlo, Redwood, San Mateo and San Pedro and would terminate at San Francisco’s Third and Townsend Terminal, in the middle of the city by the bay.

The one-way fare from Mayfield was ninety-five cents, a vast sum for struggling students. As they lined at the ticket office facing Mayfield’s Third Street, the boys started to dig deep into their pants’ pockets for the fare money. Walt saw them doing this and said, “No need to worry. My father gave me money for all our expenses. He said it is a small repayment for the friendship you have given me.”

There were words like, “Oh, gee, you shouldn’t do this,” and “We really appreciate it.” All three boys breathed a collective sigh of relief. They hoped this would happen but, just in case, had brought along enough money to cover basic expenses.

After they boarded the train, Walt led them to seats where they would be facing each other, Walt and Sosh faced Milt and Bump.

As they got under way, the high-pitched steam whistle could be heard even on campus. Gradually the train picked up speed to about 25 mph. Screeching sounds of steel wheels against steel track and the creaking and moaning sounds of the passengers cars as they swayed from side to side took some getting used to, but eventually the even louder sounds of back and forth conversations between Stanford students drowned out all the rest.

“Do you know Billy Williams, he’s from Sacramento? Don’t you think he’s cute?”

“My goodness, I thought you were staying at Encina. Are you pledging Sigma Nu?”

“My father is meeting in San Francisco and then he’s driving me home to Woodland. Do you need a ride?”

“What do you have in that sack, jelly sandwiches? Can I have one?

“Where’s my Uncle Tom’s Cabin? I have to read it before Monday and write a book report.” 380

Walt, who was sensitive to the smells around him, picked up cigar and cigarillos and the pungent odors of beer and whiskey. He could smell the body odors of his companions and the smell of perfumes the ladies were wearing. At first the smell of young men’s sweat had made him noxious. One time when he was waiting to get into the dining room, he had to rush outside to vomit. Out of necessity he had got used to sweat as for the scent of perfume, it was still unpleasant.

The conductor came by and punched their tickets. Walt’s face took on a grave look and he lowered his head and asked his friends to draw closer, he had something his father wanted him to tell them. Head to head, the four boys huddled as if they were conjuring up the next play in a foot-ball game.

Bump spoke first. “Thanks for paying for the tickets. None of us expected to be treated like that.”

“Yes, that was great of you,” agreed Sosh.

“You’re very welcome, all of you. My father told me I should tell you before we arrived in San Francisco that we are not going to my home in Chinatown.”

All of the boys looked disappointed. They were looking forward to seeing the sights of Walt’s mysterious neighborhood. Milt said, “That’s too bad. I wrote my parents and told them about the trip but we understand whatever you parents want is fine with us.”

“Instead, we are going to stay at the Palace Hotel and then visit Chinatown.” Walt tried to keep a straight face but it was obvious that he enjoyed telling them about the change of plans.

Sosh was the first to exclaim, “The Palace Hotel, the Palace, why that’s the best hotel in the world. I’ve heard they have over 200 rooms and Kings and Queens and Presidents stay there and they have elevators that work. I can’t believe our good fortune.”

Milton was also excited, he had read about the Palace in some of his architecture books. Bump felt like a ninny. He had never heard of the place but he joined with everyone else pretending he knew all about it as they said, “I don’t believe it.” “Wow.” “Hurrah.” It ended with all of them shouting three cheers for Walt. “Walt Fong. Walt Fong. Walt Fong. Hurrah. Hurrah. Hurrah.”

381

Everyone in the car turned to see who this “Walt Fong” person was. Walt was hunched over with his face in his hands, in embarrassment. He was not used to such a public display of gratitude.

After the young men’s excitement died down, Walt asked them to resume their huddling formation. He, again, spoke to them so that only they could hear; “I know we will all enjoy the conveniences of the hotel particularly after our stay in Encina Hall. I have eaten there with my father but have never stayed there, myself, but I understand it is a wonderful place. But now I want to tell you why we are going to that hotel rather than staying at my home in Chinatown. Right now Chinatown is going through troubling times and my father is concerned about your safety.”

When Walt said the words, “your safety,” Milt and Bump’s facial expressions became slightly anxious looking. Milt’s parents had written they were worried about what might happen to their son in Chinatown. Mr. Cooper wrote to Bump that he should be careful.

Sosh didn’t even mention the trip to his mother. He said, “I know a little bit about Chinatown but I’m afraid it is from people who are prejudiced against the Chinese because they think Chinese have taken jobs from them. I believe your people are victims just like Jews.

Walt agreed, “You are right, Sosh, Jews, Irish, Chinese, Negroes have much in common. My father wants me to be part of the Anglo-Saxon community but it is difficult. You and I know how they pick on us.” Milt started to say something. “Please, no offense, Bump and Milt, I know you are different and it is people like you and Sosh and me that may change the way things are. That is why my father wants to meet you. You will visit Chinatown and meet my father. Unfortunately, you will not meet my mother. She is very shy and can’t speak English but she sends you her best wishes.”

Bump could already see that Chinatown was very different from Riverside. He hoped one day he could introduce Walt and his new friends to his mother and father.

Walt continued speaking, “As you will see, my father is a very important man in San Francisco. He is the president of the Sam Yup Company, the most powerful of the Six Companies who rule Chinatown.”

Bump looked doubtful, “Six Companies,” he said, “I thought that when you were in the United States you were ruled by the president and the other people in Washington, D.C.”

382

“That’s true, Bump,” Walt answered, “except when you are Chinese living in Chinatown you are ruled by Six Companies and the Consul General of the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco. I have no idea how this arrangement came about but I wager that Senator Stanford and his friends had a hand in it.”

Sosh said, “Probably didn’t want United States laws interfering with their taking advantage of Chinese laborers.”

Walt thought that Sosh might not realize it but he had just made a derogatory statement against his father. But in his heart he knew it was true; the Six Companies did take advantage of Chinese laborers. He hoped Sosh did not say anything like that in front of his father but he could not tell him not to. It might hurt Sosh’s feelings. .

Instead, he agreed with him, “You’re probably right, Sosh, and the arrangement did work out for a long time. They settled legal disputes, since Chinese had no rights in the United States’ courts. They issued exit visas and did all kinds of charity work like taking care of workers who were injured on the job or became ill. My father told me they sent $1000 to the victims of the Johnstown Flood.” He wanted Sosh to know that the Six Companies and his father had done a lot of good things for Chinatown’s residents.

Sosh was still inquisitive, “So why is it so dangerous for us to visit your home?

At that moment, a young man in a battered top hat jostled the group. He had a silver flask in one hand and was taking sips of what smelled like whiskey. The aroma that hung around him made Walt feel queasy. His speech was already slurred. “So what’re you fellows doing? Plotting to blow up something? Come on n’join the fun. It’s holiday time.” He gave them a broad grin and continued on his drunken way down the aisle, grasping on to the tops of the upholstered seats to keep from falling as the passenger car swayed from side to side.

The train came to an abrupt stop as the conductor cried out, “Redwood, Redwood, everybody out for Redwood.” The young man toppled over and lost his top hat under an empty seat.

There was a great deal of jostling and people getting up and getting off the train and others getting on. After a few minutes, the conductor shouted, “All aboard. All aboard.”

While this was going on Walt and his companions watched what was happening. The young man picked himself up, found his hat, plopped it 383

back on top of his head and resumed his staggered way toward the front of the train.

Even more Stanford students got on at Menlo and there were greetings back and forth from people who knew one another. Bump didn’t recognize any of the new shining faces.

Once the train started up, Walt resumed what he was saying. “About ten years ago Congress passed a law banning immigration from China. It was a very unfair law.” His voice became serious. “Chinese workers who had returned to China to visit relatives were not allowed to come back to the states. My father was told by Senator Stanford that the law was temporary and would be declared unconstitutional but that never happened and now it is about to be extended another ten years and the people of Chinatown are very, very upset.”

Sosh said, “Upset with our government or upset with the Six Companies?”

Walt answered, “Both, but the Six Companies with my father as its most out-spoken leader has always supported the United States and now the people of Chinatown no longer trust him or the Six Companies. Now they look to the Tongs, who are just a bunch of Chinese thugs, to protect their interests. We call them ‘highbinders.’ Have you have heard of that name?”

The three young men shook their heads, even Sosh,”

“My father told me the Tong’s leaders do not like that I am going to LSJrU with Senator Stanford’s support. They say that my father thinks he is too good to educate his son in Chinese ways and he wants me to get only an Anglo-Saxon education. I know that my father wants me to be educated both ways so I can understand both worlds and help bring them together.”

Milt said, “I can certainly see why it would not be good for the three of us to be traipsing around your neighborhood with all this going on.”

“My father will come to the hotel and talk to you. My mother, no, as I have already explained. You will visit Chinatown and my father has arranged for you to see the sights there and have a wonderful dinner and go to a Chinese theater. I will not go with you because of the problem it might create for my father.” Walt stopped talking. He was looking up the aisle. The young man with the top hat was on his way back to the other end of the train and behind him was a long line of Stanford students who 384

were singing, shouting and dancing. One of the students had an old army bugle and was blowing it energetically not attempting to make any tune.

The young man put both of his arms around the four huddled boys. Over the sound of the bugle, he could just barely be heard. “Come on you, Stanford fellows. Don’t be so serious. Follow us.” In a friendly manner, he pulled Walt up from his seat. Without further coaxing, the other boys joined the dancing line of students. Walt had a big smile on his face. For the moment, the cares of his father and Chinatown were forgotten. The young man with the top hat yelled, “Have fun. Finals will be here soon enough.” The bugle tooted away, its notes making no sense at all

As the line of students wound down the aisle way, they were chanting, “LSJrU LSJrU LSJrU Rah Rah Rah.” Most of the other passengers smiled at what was happening around them but a few had puzzled looks on their faces. Children of all ages enthusiastically joined the students as they marched and danced in the aisles.

Sosh, dancing and singing with all the rest, thought that this was a special kind of fun, something he had never experienced before---Stanford students, men and women, together, laughing and shouting as if all the cares of the world had nothing to do with them. As if they were different from all the rest.

^^^^^^^^^^

The train filled with celebrating LSJrU students arrived at the Third and Townsend Station at about 6pm. The four young men grabbed their light valises and made their way through the crowded station. It was a busy time. Parents were meeting some of the students and there were several families with children that were spending the holidays with their Grandparents. The noise of conductors’ voices calling out departures, names shouted back and forth in greetings, chug-chugging sounds of departing trains, shrill whistles blowing, babies and young children crying at the top of their lungs, mingled together creating a cornucopia of sound. The foursome stayed in a tight group as Walt led the way through the throng toward the entrance at the northeast side of the station.

Outside, it was more evening than dusk. A lamplighter was climbing up his ladder. Yellow haze from the lit gaslights combined with the final orange and yellow rays of a late autumn sunset to create a setting of burnished gold.

385

From where they stood the boys could see six to eight storied building to their left lining Market Street, the main street that ran diagonally, southwest, cutting the city in half. To their right, were the glistening waters of the bay with lights floating by on tall-masted sailing vessels and in the distance scattered lights of east bay villages. To their left, overlooking the city a hill dotted with windows reflected the last rays of the sun. .

While his friends were taking in all the sights, Walt hired a hansom to take them to their hotel. The boys climbed aboard with their bags.

The driver, seated above them in the back, shouted down, “Where would you like to go, young gentlemen?” .

Walt answered as if he said it every day of the week, “To the Palace Hotel.”

The driver guessed he had students from the new university to the south on board. This would be his first customers from there. “To the Palace it is.” He looked down in front of him to make certain all were seated and snapped his whip over the head of his matched gray horses while making a clucking sound deep in his throat. The hansom jerked into motion and they were on their way.

It was a busy time in the city. The day before a holiday brought out people hurriedly going home or performing last minute errands in preparation for Thanksgiving dinners. Streets were filled with horses, singles and in teams pulling carriages and drays and red and white buses. The broad dirt thoroughfares were gutted from the tracks of countless wheel rims. Dust, the smell of horse manure and fingers of early evening fog were in the air.

On the both sides of Third Street were paved sidewalks filled with people: some men who were businessmen or miners or cowboys or clerks and some women dressed in the latest style with tall hats adorned with flowers or fruit and some who were prostitutes wearing flamboyant clothes made from red, orange or yellow fabrics. In the middle of all this, lamplighters were carrying their ladders and numerous Chinamen carrying loads of fruit and vegetables or pushing carts. Everyone was moving quickly, going in all directions at the same time and even cutting across the road in front of the boy’s hansom just averting being hit.

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Their hansom went five city blocks north on Third Street and turned east on Market Street. Now there were too many people and too many sounds to differentiate one from the other. “Overwhelming” was what Milton was thinking. “Overwhelming.”

In front of them, the boys could see the red night lamps of other hansoms making their way up Market Street At the juncture where four streets came together, there was some kind of statue but the boys’ attention was diverted to an accident involving a dray and a carriage in the middle of Market Street. As their hansom swung around it, they could see that one of the huge horses pulling the dray was lying flat on its side unable to move. It must have slipped on something. A carriage had collided with the fallen horse and one of carriage’s wheels had come off and was lying next to the curb. They could see that the occupants of the carriage were forlornly waiting for some one to come from a livery stable to help pull the horse up and replace the wheel.

Milt was the first to see it. “Look over there, in the middle of the road, it’s an automobile.”

Everyone had read about this new contraption that some said would get rid of horses and the mess they made and some said was devil’s work and would soon destroy itself and the people who rode in it. All heads swiveled in the direction Milt had pointed out, including the driver’s. He didn’t want to get too close; it would unnerve his horse.

The boys got a fleeting glimpse of a shiny brass radiator and maroon- painted carriage. Four passengers with driving apparel complete with goggles and headgear were in the open, exposed to the elements. They were inching ahead because of all the horse driven vehicles surrounding them. Every eye was turned in their direction.

Sosh was the only one who spoke, “Now, that is really something.”

Bump couldn’t believe his eyes. Was this the future?

Breaking the spell, over the dim of sound, the hansom driver, with a triumphant sound in his voice, yelled down to them and pointed to the building they were passing, “There it is, boys. The Palace, finest hotel in the west.” It looked it. Seven stories high, a yellow brick structure, it stretched a full block along Market Street.

Milt had aspirations to be an architect so he carefully looked at the building from top to bottom. Looking up at the Palace Hotel’s roofline, he guessed that the decorative cornices at the roof’s edge were rococo in origin. He saw that all the windows were “bay” windows and he knew 387

that those kind of windows were part of what was considered to be “San Francisco” architecture, windows that would allow the maximum amount of light because of the city’s foggy days. Milt wondered if the “bay” came from San Francisco Bay. He would have to ask Professor Brown who was interested in architecture, too. At the corner he could see what looked like gold disks running up and down the structure. Were those ornaments or part of the structure?

The hansom turned right on New Montgomery Street and got into line with other hansoms that were waiting to drop off guests. Other than Walt, the others got up to get out. They thought they would have to walk the rest of the way.

The cab driver shouted down to them, “Hold on, young gentlemen. I’ll get you there. You just have to be a little patient while we wait our turn.”

As the waiting hansoms moved up closer to the entrance, they realized that the line of gigs and hansoms were turning directly into the hotel. Palace Hotel guests did hot have to trouble themselves to walk through the entrance to the reception area. They were driven.

After a wait of ten minutes or so, their cab turned directly into the hotel area and as they entered a grand central court, the cab driver proudly announced, “Gentlemen, Palm Court.” Walt had been there before so he knew how overwhelmed his companions would be. Sosh, Milt and Bump stood up in the hansom and took in the grand view that surrounded them.

They were now traveling in an enclosed courtyard on a driveway wide enough for two carriages. It was paved with alternating white and black blocks of marble. Surrounding the court on three sides were white colonnaded balconies that were seven stories high. Some of the guests, probably drunk, were leaning on the railing watching the arrival of new guests and shouting down illegible words of greeting to them. The horses’ hooves click, click, clicking sounds echoed on the marble surface as if in a hollow chamber. Above the entire enclosed courtyard area, a glass roof cast an orange-gray hue over the entire area and its occupants. It was a spectacular way to be welcomed.

Several Chinese dressed in liveried attire lined both sides of the road. Their principal duty was to remove horse manure, a nominal by-product of the convenience of alighting within the hotel confines.

The young men’s hansom made its way to the end which was enclosed by a jungle of potted trees, turned around and stopped to let its occupants out 388

A Chinese majordomo dressed in tails and top hat greeted them. “Welcome to the Palace Hotel,” and he helped the boys get out of their hansom. Walt reached up to the driver and paid him his fare. Once everyone and the baggage were safely out of the cab, the cabbie tipped his hat to the boys, snapped his whip and his horses began their trip out of the courtyard, back into the ongoing stream, now more a river of traffic, on New Montgomery Street. The cab turned right toward the railway station to pick up more fares.

There was no checking in. Walter mentioned his name to the majordomo and he took a list from his pocket and told Walt his room number. A band of bellhops descended on them to take their few bags to their rooms. Walter must have rewarded the majordomo handsomely because his face broke into a broad smile as he said, “The son of Wu Sing Fong (Walter’s father) and his guests are always welcome.”

Sosh thought that anywhere else than San Francisco, Walt’s reception would have been entirely different. He doubted whether Walt or even his father would have been welcomed in a New York or Boston hotel. For that matter, it was doubtful Sosh or members of his family would have been allowed. Jews were accepted as guests at only a few of Boston hotels and those were far from the best. It was the same for Chinese.

“Before we go to our rooms, there’s a lot I want to show you.” Sosh, Walt and Bump let their host lead the way. After seeing the reception area they were prepared for anything.

They passed by more greenery, pots of orange, lime and lemon trees and Palm trees planted in huge green and yellow Italian earthenware pots. Gigantic bronze braziers filled with glowing coals used to heat the area stood like sentinels posted to guard the area. “I want to show you where we will have dinner, “ Walt said turning into a wide doorway that led out of the “Palm Court.”

After a brief walk, they were in the Palace Hotel’s colossal dining room. It was another of the courtyards between segments of the hotel and another breath taking view! It was almost as wide and as long and as high as the reception area. Walls that rose to four stories were painted in a shade of pink peach blossom and covered with flowing French rococo designs. Huge glistening chandeliers hung from the glass-covered ceilings. Chairs upholstered to match the pink peach walls surrounded heavy oak tables covered with pink peach china settings and heavy silverware on pink linen tablecloths. Everything was pink! As it was with their own Stanford Quad, the entire area was regularly interspersed with ovals of greenery consisting of delicate ferns and young palm trees. 389

Exotic plantings provided a blend of French and South Sea Island atmospheres.

Because of the hour, it was going only seven o’clock; the dining room was empty. “Fashionable people eat at nine,” Walt announced. Bump wasn’t so sure about that. He was used to eating at six or so with the rest of the Encina mob. His stomach told him it was time to eat but he would just have to get used to the new dinner hour.

“Before we go up in the elevator, I want to show you one more thing.“

Milt could hardly wait for the elevator ride. They had elevators at Encina but they were still not working. He had never ridden in one. Except for Walt none of the boys had.

They followed Walt as he led them to the right down another sumptuous hallway paneled with dark oak wood upon which hung countless framed photos and paintings of gold miners and mining equipment and rivers clogged with men digging for gold and more photos of the small port of San Francisco showing a few wooden buildings facing the harbor and Angel Island. These photographs pictured life in the city and gold mining days of the late 1840’s. “Only about fifty years ago and what a change,” thought Bump. He could feel his heart beating with the pure excitement of being in such a fabulous place.

The hall ended at a secondary entrance to the hotel, which led out on to Market Street. Just before, Walt turned to his left and went through two swinging doors leading to a drinking parlor with numerous round tables surrounded by luxurious red leather-upholstered chairs. To the right as they entered was a long marble bar ornately embellished with brass female figurines at its corner and a polished footrest that ran the length of the bar. At both ends, were four-foot brass lights with large glass globes surrounded by brass gas fittings. Overhead was a curved ceiling with stained glass windows that during daylight hours let in light from the western sun.

Three bartenders with handlebar moustaches, white shirts and red garters on their sleeves stood behind the bar. Behind them hung plate glass mirrors reflecting the opulent setting of the room, the bartenders’ backs, the faces of the young men who had just entered the room and a large painting, almost ten feet tall and eight feet wide of a beautiful girl standing atop a mountain peak. Walt and his friends turned to face the painting. Milt was immediately struck with the vivid blue of the sky surrounding the girl.

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Walt Fong beamed as they looked at the painting, “This is what I wanted to show you.”

One of the bartenders asked them, “What can I get you, boys? “

Milt, Bump, Sosh ordered a draft beer and Walt a sarsaparilla. They stood at the bar but faced the picture. Bump was certain he had never seen so beautiful a woman in his life. He asked Walt, “Who is she, Walt? Is there really such a woman?”

“She is Maude Adams and yes, she is a real person, a famous Broadway actress. She visited San Francisco, two years ago, and I saw her in a play at the Golden Gate Theater, a melodrama called “The Little Minister.” The play itself was nothing but when she was on the stage, every eye, including mine watched her.” From the tone in his voice, it was obvious that Walt was also one of Miss Adam’s fans.

Bump repeated, “Maude Adams,” but he also thought how she resembled Delores’ dark haired beauty, the girl of his dreams, and he wondered if others looking at this painting did not recall their girl of their dreams. He almost asked Sosh, since he was Delores’ friend if he saw the resemblance and then thought better of it.’

Milt was interested in knowing more about the painting, he asked, “Who was the painter? I have never seen such bright colors, particularly the blues.”

Walt said, “I’m really not sure. I think he’s a local artist.” He looked over at the bartender and asked him, “Excuse me, do you know who painted the picture of Miss Adams?”

For a moment, the bartender gazed at the painting as if he had never seen it before even though he was constantly in its presence. “Maxfield Parrish. He comes in here every so often and stares at it just like you do. The painting helped pay off his bar tab. I heard say that he was in love with the lady. When she was in town, she dropped by to see her portrait and she was just as beautiful as the painting, even more so. We sell lots of drinks because of her. I’ve seen men look at her all evening.”

Parrish’s “Maude Adams” was the center of attention. His painting pictured a young woman facing a sun descending in the west. Her clear white complexioned face, neck and arms glowed in its warming rays. The background was a vivid blue sky filled with billowing white clouds. Thoughtful breezes caused her thin dress to cling to her full breasts and thighs. Where the dress ended, at her knees, the flesh of healthy calves and ankles and feet could be viewed. This was a beautiful, dark-haired, 391

robust mature woman firmly astride a mountain peak. From the look of serenity on her face, she appeared to be impervious to her precarious position.

The four young men spent a long time finishing their beers and sarsaparilla and silently gazing at Maude Adams, without sharing their thoughts. Eventually, they finished their drinks and left the bar to go to the suite of rooms they shared. Later, after dinner, they would return for another long look at Maude.

^^^^^^^^^

Next day, even though it was Thanksgiving, began as usual for Bert Hoover. His old “Big Ben” alarm clock woke him up at 5am and he washed and went to the WC and was out, riding on his repaired bicycle before anyone else had got up since it was a holiday and there were no classes. He looked over at the cot where Fred Williams was usually snoring. It was empty. Even for the brief weekend, Fred wanted to go home to Salem, Oregon. Studying was not going well for him. There was a good chance he might be “dropped off the end of the earth.”

Last night Bert had a difficult time sleeping. Everyone in the Hall was celebrating it seemed, but him. There was a lot of wine and beer drinking and someone vomited on the white tile in the middle of men’s lavatory. Bert had to walk around it in the early morning. It was disgusting. On into the night the sounds of young men shouting and laughter could be heard. Sometimes Bert would hear Mr. Fesler’s deep voice trying to subdue the crowd but after a few moments of ominous silence, the noise would begin all over again, now louder than before.

Hoover was on his way to the Mayfield Station to pick up the San Francisco Chronicle’s daily newspapers he would deliver to students and faculty living in Mayfield and on the campus. The Chronicle was the only daily source of world, national and statewide news for the area. There was an early morning train out of the city that usually passed by Mayfield at about 3am and one of its conductors would throw out Bert’s bundle of papers without the train stopping. By the time Bert got there, the bundle was waiting for him on the otherwise empty dock. Bert would lean over and sort and fold the papers right there.

He had 38 papers to deliver. Five went to subscribers living in Mayfield, Dr. Jordan got one at Escontite Cottage, and eight went to faculty members living on Alvarado Row including Dr. Elliott, and then he had to go a mile and a half on the other side of the Quad to deliver a 392

paper to Professor Jenkins, living at Cedro Cottage. The rest were easy. They went to students and faculty at Encina. He saved those for last and, of course, he always gave a paper to his ladies at Adelante Villa. Of course, he never charged them.

Usually his paper route took about an hour and a half so if he didn’t have a class he could trundle back into bed for another hour or hour and a half sleep but if he had class at 8:30am which he did on Monday, Wednesday and Fridays, after breakfast he would have to go straight to Room #10 on the Quad and when that happened he would support his head with his left hand and write notes with his right because otherwise his head might fall and hit the desktop. Dr. Miller who was his math instructor warned him twice after he heard the thud of Bert’s head. For delivering the papers seven days a week including holidays, Bert was paid one dollar and twenty-five cents a week.

Bert could see that this arrangement was not working out and at this rate he might join the others “who were being dropped over the edge of the world.” He did not want that to happen. In fact, he did want to even think about the possibility. He had promised himself that he would be a member of the graduating class of ’95. He had plans to have another boy deliver the papers as soon as the circulation built up to over fifty. He also had plans to do the same thing with his laundry service, which took most of his time in the afternoons. Then, there was always Jim, the ladies’ horse, he would probably continue to do that himself since it paid pretty well for the time it took. Even with his office job, he was just making ends meet. It was pretty certain he would have to move out of Encina Hall. Not only was it too expensive but also all the noise and insanity kept him up at night when he really needed to sleep.

That afternoon, he was looking forward to joining Lester Hinsdale and Tim Collins when they visited some friends of theirs at the camp for Thanksgiving Dinner. There was a good chance all three of them might be moving there next semester to cut down on expenses.

It was starting to get cold and he was glad he had his mittens on and his old woolen cap he had worn in Oregon. He got off his bike and climbed up the wooden stairs to the dock. There were his papers, waiting for him. Thanksgiving Day was like every other day in the week for him, he thought.

^^^^^^^^^

Hazel and Marshall Gardiner had written to George, the boy with the wooden legs, that they would pick him up at the front of Encina Hall at about 7am on Thanksgiving Day. While they were waiting outside, they 393

saw a tall blonde young man park his bicycle near the front steps and walk into the Hall carrying several newspapers in a large white canvas bag with “San Francisco Chronicle” printed on it. He must be delivering them to students, Marshall thought. How lucky to have both legs and be able to spring up the steps like he did. The young man was not friendly and did not smile or speak to them. He was preoccupied with the work at hand, looking neither right nor left.

George’s mother, Hazel Gardiner, was a portly woman with ample breasts that appeared to be even more ample because of the tightened corset she labored with each morning. Twenty years ago, she was a fetching San Diego beauty who enticed Marshall Gardiner, a promising, handsome lawyer into what was considered by many of the local gentry to be a marriage made in Heaven. Unfortunately, shortly after the honeymoon, their only child, George, was conceived and when he was born with his diabetic problems, the Gardiner’s marriage slowly went from Heaven to Hell.

When George was five year old, he had to have his right leg amputated and four years later, his left. At first Hazel and Marshall thought that George would be confined for the rest of his life, to a wheelchair. They did not consider how strong-willed their son would be. At his Doctor’s office he had seen other amputees with wooden legs and he insisted that his parents should look into getting wooden legs for him. His father, who had Diabetes on his side of the family, felt that he was personally responsible for his son’s blighted life and, at first, he would not consider his child wearing unsightly, strange wooden legs. It was George’s mother who insisted everything should be done to make her son’s life as normal as possible. If being able to walk on his own, even with the canes, was important to her son, it was important to her. Marshall reluctantly bowed to his wife’s wishes.

When George was ten years old, he was fitted with two wooden legs that were, at the time, the most advanced medical science could offer. Besides being strong-willed, George had a brilliant mind and completed his high school education in three years and then went on to successfully pass the entrance examinations for Leland Stanford Junior University.

He had no real idea why he decided to go to Stanford. All he knew was the it was some distance from San Diego and that he would have a chance to get out from under the protective wings of his parents. He knew if he were ever to make something of himself, he would have to do this.

Marshall, his father, did not want his son to go to college in Northern California. He wanted him to go to San Diego State College where he could live at home and Marshall would drive him to college every day. 394

Without his protection, he could imagine poor George being thrown to the ground and trampled to death by unruly college boys. But Hazel insisted that if George wanted to go to Sanford that was where he should go. As she would say to close friends with a slight smile on her face, “I knew George wanted to stand on his own two feet, even though they were wooden.”

With George’s departure to Stanford, whatever ties were holding Hazel and Marshall together unraveled. They hardly spoke and never touched and Hazel had a distinct feeling her husband and his young secretaries were having an affair but it did not disturb her. In fact, whatever the reason, she was pleased that Marshall no longer demanded sex like he had in the past.

When George’s parents read in one of his letter that he was considering going to Chinatown with his new friends for Thanksgiving, for the first time in many weeks, they agreed it was not the kind of place they wanted their son to visit. They immediately sent him a wire offering to take him to the Congress Springs Hotel near Los Gatos. Some of their friends had told them it was like their Del Coronado Hotel, almost as good. There was no thought that George would not want to go. Early Thanksgiving Day, they would pick him up in front of Encina Hall.

George was ambivalent about going with them. He had taken great pride is his ability to go away to college and survive those early days when even going to eat was dangerous. Thank goodness he had found friends like Walt, Bump, Sosh and Milt. They ignored his disability but still offered some degree of protection from the hooligans and ruffians who were always around.

When Walt had asked him to go with them to San Francisco and Chinatown, deep inside his heart he felt a kind of dread of strange people and new places where he might trip and fall. That was his greatest fear, to be helpless, lying on the ground surrounded by people who did not care.

Then he thought, though he managed quite well to hide it from his parents, he had that same dread about going to Stanford. At the last minute, when his father brought him to Encina and was about to leave, he was tempted to tell his father to take him home and he would go to San Diego State, but he had bit his lip and persevered. Right after his father left, he felt so lonely he had cried. Perhaps it was normal to feel that way about the unknown.

About two weeks ago when Sosh was sitting in his room and they were both studying, he asked him, “Are you worried about going to Chinatown?” 395

Sosh thought for a moment, “Sure I am. I’m always afraid of anything new and strange. I remember when I first got here and we were taking our entrance tests in one of the classrooms on the Quad. I stood outside the door afraid to go in. Then I watched someone go into the doorway and I found out it was just the entrance to a hallway.”

They both laughed. Sosh felt good he had said the right thing. He could not imagine what it would be like not to have both legs.

George didn’t tell him he still had nightmares about falling down and losing his wooden legs. He could not find them and he sat there alone, unable to move. Worst of all some unknown, dreadful thing was creeping toward him. Even though his legs were gone, he still tried to run away but his stumps could not carry him. He woke up screaming and he could see from the blankets that he must have been thrashing his stumps under the covers in his vain attempt to escape.

So when he got the wire about his parents’ trip to the north, he felt relieved that he could tell Walt he couldn’t go to Chinatown with him. Immediately, afterwards, he had second thoughts and felt bad about not being able to go with his friends and wished he wasn’t such a coward. Finally he said to himself, “Oh, well, after these months at Encina it might be nice to be pampered by my parents, again.”

Promptly at 7am, George was at the Encina’s doorway, going out into a cold, but clear morning. Walking with him was Franklin Hichborn, one of the fellows he had befriended, who was carrying his valise. As they stood on the porch, George could see his parents in their rented rig about twenty yards from the entrance. They saw him, too, and waved and his father jumped down to come to him and George thought, here he comes he wants to help me or even carry me down the stairs like he used to. I don’t want Frank to see him do that.

These were cement stairs that George had gone up and down countless times without help and without incident. At first, when George encountered them, he managed the stairs very carefully. Now it was routine and he could almost keep up with a person with normal legs. Seeing his father on his way, George hurried to show his new independence. There were ten steps. The first eight he managed beautifully but success bred carelessness and he placed one of his canes too close to the edge and it slipped. George ended up on his backsides on the ground at the bottom of the steps. His father rushed to his side and his mother, still in the rig, was ready to run to him but she could see that even though George was sprawled on the ground, he was laughing and trying to 396 calm down his father who looked like he was ready to have a conniption fit.

Franklin, his friend, was nonplused about the whole incident. He had seen George in worse predicaments. He gave the valise to Mr. Gardiner and after waving good-bye to George, went back up the stairs to his room. His Thanksgiving Dinner would be in the Encina Dining Room and he was not looking forward to it.

Mr. Gardiner took the valise but he was still beside himself, “You could have killed yourself.”

Still on the ground, George looked up at him and said, “It’s all right, Dad. I’ve done it dozen of times. I’ve fallen before,” he lied, “ so it really isn’t anything to worry about.” “Please, hand me my canes so I can get up.”

His father gave him his canes and helped him to his feet and started to support him all the way to the carriage but George gently pushed him back. His father was being overly protective. He did not want that.

Marshal drew back when he felt his son push him off. This had never happened before. He watched as he saw George was supporting himself and moving quickly toward the rig where his Mother was waiting for him and then he followed him, carrying his valise.

George greeted his mother with a big smile. For him, getting into the rig itself was no feat. He had learned how to do this when he was ten years old from another legless person, in this case the craftsman who designed and made his wooden legs. He went to the rear seat of the rig and placed his two canes on the wooden floor then he grasped the back of the front seat with his left hand and the railing of the back seat with his right and with the tremendous upper body strength he had developed, cantilevered himself up and into the back seat, for a moment he was airborne. Then George calmly reached down and got his two canes and said, “I’m all set. We can go, now.”

Marshall was still on the ground. He watched his son perform his levitation trick and then he thought about what had just happened when he tried to help him. The little boy he had protected for so many years was now a man. Marshall would have to remember to treat him like one. It would not be easy, but he did not want to lose the love of his only child, his only son.

He put his son’s bag in the luggage rack and then pulled himself up into the driver’s seat next to his wife. He got the buggy whip out and 397 cracked it over the head of the chestnut horse he had rented from a San Jose livery. The rig moved out of Encina’s grounds on to the road east toward Escontite Cottage and from there to the county road that headed south toward Saratoga and the Congress Springs Hotel.

Looking over at her husband, Hazel was surprised to see a smile on his face. She was not sure how he would react to what had just happened.

He cheerily spoke in a voice that both she and George, in the back, could hear, “Looks like the “Springs” offers all kinds of activities. Big dinner, today, and tomorrow, George maybe you and I can take a hike in the foothills and see some of the beautiful scenery. And they have horse back riding, maybe we should try that for a change.”

George was also wondering if his father would be unhappy with him. It seemed just the opposite. Hiking, riding a horse, perhaps this weekend might be fun, after all.

Hazel looked, again, at the man at her side. She had not realized how as he aged he was becoming quite a handsome man.

^^^^^^^^^

It was close to 11am when Fletcher Martin began walking from Encina Hall to Mayfield and the County Road. From there he turned north on Page Mill Road toward the San Francisco Bay. His friend, Fred Behn, had invited him to come to Thanksgiving dinner at the farm he and Widow Malgren owned about four miles north of the County Road.

Fred had married Widow Malgren in September. Fletcher and Irene had gone to their simple wedding at the Mayfield Catholic Church, where Father O’Riordan had performed the marriage vows. The attendees were a few of Fred’s many friends. His brother was best man. Widow Malgren’s six children from her marriage with Mr. Malgren, who had died from pneumonia the year before, were there in full glory.

Fletcher was not looking forward to the dinner. He would know only a few of the guests and he never felt comfortable in the presence of strangers or for that matter in any gathering of over four people. If it had not been for Fred, he probably would have begged off and insisted he had studying and researching to do but with Fred and, of course, his brother, Jorgen, there, perhaps, it might work out. Irene said it would be good for him to be on his own for the holiday. Tomorrow, early, he would be off 398 with his roommate, Dr. Whitman and some of his friends on a hike to Mt. Hamilton and the Lick Observatory. It would be a full weekend. The first in many that had not been devoted to his studies and Irene. He already missed her.

The weather was still holding. There were gray clouds in an otherwise blue sky but they did not appear to be rain bearing. With all the Stanford students who were either traveling or hiking or biking, Fletcher hoped it did not storm. He had never seen such an adventuresome lot in his life. He could imagine that after the weekend there would be plenty of broken arms and legs. With all that was happening on rutted roads and steep paths, it was bound to happen and if it stormed it would be worse.

On either side of Page Mill Road, as it made its circuitous way toward the Bay, Fletcher saw acres of rust colored farmland, and bare bone, without benefit of leaf or fruit, prune and apricot trees. He had heard, near the end of Page Mill the Nunes Family operated a dairy. It did not have a good reputation. Rumor had it that they sold watered down or soured milk. Fletcher had drunk some of their milk and didn’t notice any difference in the taste. Still, he knew that Irene regularly used Piers Dairy, located further north.

Most of the farmhouses he passed had rigs and wagons with tethered horses scattered around them. People must be inside celebrating and thanking the Lord for the bounty received during ‘91. ’90 had been very wet with record rainfall and floods throughout the Bay Area. Crops had been wiped out with the flooding brought by the storms. Thankfully, ’91’s weather had been drier. Two wet years in a row would have been disastrous for most of the local farmers.

Fletcher thought to himself that he, too, had much to be thankful for, Irene for starters, She had changed his life. Also the internal peace and academic challenges he had found at Stanford and his new friends like Fred Behn.

At the third farm on the right side of Page Mill Road, Fletcher spotted a large mailbox beside the road with “Malgren” painted in large black letters. Fletcher thought how funny it was that widows never lost their deceased husband’s surname. He guessed it was because of the children so that they wouldn’t get confused. Widow Malgren could be married to Fred Behn for the rest of her life but, but no one, even Fred, ever referred to her except as “Widow Malgren.”

As Fletcher walked up a still muddied path pocked with the footmarks of large boots and dainty shoes, he saw Fred’s broad figure on the 399

farmhouse’s piazza. He was waiting outside for Fletcher’s arrival so that he could greet him. What a friend!

Fletcher couldn’t help but marvel at the way Fred climbed down steps keeping self upright as he dragged his wooden leg from one step to the next. It was like “zip” and he was there grasping Fletcher around the shoulders and giving him a bear hug that almost crushed poor Fletcher’s ribs. Fred always greeted him like that. Fletcher winced when he saw him coming. He was the only man that Fletcher knew that showed such physical affection for another man. Fletcher returned the hug but not with quite the same ardor. It must be the Danish blood.

After the bear hug, Fred stood back and looked Fletcher over from head to foot. It had been quite a while since they had last seen each other. “Well, I swear, I think my soldier friend has put a little weight on his skinny bones. Suits you. Must be Irene’s tender love,” and he smiled knowingly. “I used to be able to look right through that thin body of yours. Sorry she can’t be with you but I bet she’s having a high time with her college chums. Come on in and I’ll introduce you to the cream of Mayfield’s society.”

With an actor’s flourish, Fred took Fletcher’s arm and led him up the stairs and flung open the front door, and said in a dramatic voice loud enough so that everyone in the room stopped whatever they were doing, “Hey you sots, stop drinkin’ m’ free booze for a second so you can meet m’ friend, Fletcher Martin. He might look long in the tooth but he’s one of those cussed Stanford Students that’re turning up everywhere in our gardens either sleepin’or drinkin’ or pissing or doin’ all three at the same time.”

Every face turned in Fletcher’s direction and shouted something, mostly blasphemous and mostly dealing with the shortcomings of Stanford University, the exact nature of which he could not make out but he could tell by the expressions on their faces, they were glad to see him.

The assemblage was totally male and every one of them had a glass in his hand with either beer or wine. Fred made sure that Fletcher’s hand was also filled with a glass frothing with beer. No teetotalers here. The ladies must have been back in the kitchen doing some last minute preparations with their children as tasters or stirrers.

Fletcher might have been wrong but it looked like Fred’s male guests were waiting for his arrival. Wordlessly, they formed a scraggly reception line and Fred started introducing Fletcher to each of them.

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By now Fletcher knew his face must be flushed for he could feel himself getting flustered with all this attention. There was no way in the world he could remember all the names and what Fred said about each of the men. Later, he thought, he would try to seek them out and refresh his memory.

The first two faces were familiar. Jorgen, Fred’s younger, even bigger brother pumped his right hand as if he were churning butter, causing the beer in Fletcher’s left hand to drip on the floor. In the process Jorgen gave him a sly wink as if they were fellow thieves. When Fletcher looked down at the coarse brown rug he could see the remnants of countless other beer stains. One more would not matter.

The next face that was shining from too much wine was his barber, Frank Farot. Fred knew that Fletcher had been to Frank’s shop several times so he didn’t bother with a formal introduction. He would save that for the next man in line.

“Now here is a man all of your Stanford ladies know like the backs of their lily-white hands, this be George La Piere, your friendly grocery man who delivers the groceries every day in his cart to the fair wives on Alvarado Row. But not today, right, George?”

Mr. La Piere was a short man who, if he looked straight a head, would see the top button of Fletcher’s coat. He was very bald and the hair over his ears was slicked back with a thick, shiny hair goop of some kind. His eyes looked like they were always wide open and he had a little smile that never left his face. It was a face that you could trust.

He answered, “Not today, Fred, made sure to tell the ladies, yesterday, I’d be eatin’ turkey just like them. Otherwise they’d be standing out there even in the rain, waiting for something they forgot. I had one chase my cart a quarter a mile for shortening she needed for a cake. She was breathing so hard, I thought she was going to pass out before she’d done her baking.” He smiled broadly, “But I’m not complaining. Enjoy every minute of it. T’was pretty dull around here until they arrived.”

Fred pulled Fletcher along as he moved on to the next man. “This is David Coulter, our elected constable. A man you only want to meet here, Fletcher, not when you’re traipsing around town, getting into no good.” When he said this, Fred was no more that three inches from Martin’s face so a fine spray of Fred’s mouth spittle enhanced with the aroma of stale liquor and cigars rained on Fletcher’s senses. It was not pleasant. “And be careful where you piss, if he catches you with your dong out, he’s liable to 401

march you , with your fly still open, into our world famous jail. Famous because during the last month four criminals escaped from there.”

The throng, who were listening intently, whooped it up with gleeful laughter at this remark. One of them accidentally slipped on the floor and stayed on his back rollicking with laughter. Fletcher thought it was the liquor being served rather than the words.

All during this introduction, Constable Coulter was shaking Fletcher’s hand. He appeared to be a man of the law, not because of the stern look on his square face, but more precisely, because of a silver badge stuck to his chest and, even in the safety of Fred’s parlor, a pearl-handled six- shooter on his hip. Otherwise, he was a pretty ordinary looking young man with thinning brown hair and eyebrows that grew in one line under a furrow less brow. And, as if his silence was further intimidation that Fletcher would pass on to his lawless student friends, not a word of greeting passed his thin-pursed lips.

The next fellow in line almost pushed Coulter out of the way in his eagerness to grab Fletcher’s hand. This prepared Fletcher for the man’s grip which was like a vice closing on his hand and even under the coat and shirt he was wearing Fletcher could see a Roman gladiator’s physique “I don’t think I have to tell you that this our village smithy, Dick Donahue. If you’ve got blacksmithing that needs doing, this is the man that can do it. Careful, Dick, don’t take poor Fletchers arm out of its socket,” Fred said.

Dick’s face turned to one of concern; the man must be a gentle giant. In a high-pitched voice that did not resemble its gargantuan bearer, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I? Fred’s been telling us about you and I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate your coming. I’ve never met a Stanford Stoodent before.”

Until Dick moved on, his large frame blocked Fletcher’s view of the next man who stood patiently waiting his turn. He was of average height, with the beginnings of a full beard on his kindly, intelligent face. Fletcher could have taken him as one of the older professors on campus.

Fred spoke to the older gentleman, “Here he is, Bernard. The man I was telling you about that I met four month’s ago after he tells me a dog just pissed on his face.” Fletcher had forgotten about his first encounter with Fred when he had slept outside his saloon and Fred made him welcome the next morning. “Fletcher, Bernard Mayer’s our druggist and postmaster and as I understand it, lender for already a few of your student friends who’ve been asking him for small advances on what their parents might be sending them.”

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This was another gentle man. Fletcher could tell by the way he shook his hand and looked him squarely in the eyes. Mr. Mayer smiled at Fred’s remark and said, “It ain’t much, Fred. The poor kids need somethin’ and I put it on the books for them. They’re a good bunch and I feel proud that some of them consider me their friend. The door to my pharmacy is always open for them. Some of them are strugglin’ so they don’t even have ends to try to make meet.”

Fletcher with his first beer in a long time beginning to take affect, got into the spirit of moment and said, “Well, if I need money for a beer, I’ll know who to come to.”

Bernard was also beginning to feel the alcohol, “Well, I do have certain standards and I’m afraid that if you’re a friend of Fred’s, you don’t meet them.” He said this without a trace of a smile on his face.

For a moment the room was silent as if someone had just farted but then Bernard smiled and his witty remark made everyone bend over with gales of laughter. As far as Fletcher could see, at this point anything remotely funny was considered to be knee-slapping, rib punching hilarious. The atmosphere of laughter and camaraderie was contagious.

The scraggly line had become a scragglier circle and everyone was moving to get closer to Fred and Fletcher and who ever he was meeting so that they could hear what was being said and add their comments, which hopefully would be equally hilarious. Even Constable Coulter had dropped his lawman demeanor and was slapping backs and making fun of what was going on but they all quieted down when the next man who stood waiting to grab Fletcher’s hand was introduced. When Fred Behn cleared his throat, they all knew, this is going to be a good one.

“Ahem, well we have a real horn tooter here, a horn tooter extraordinaire, if I may quote the French? He’s the leader of our University Band the good Senator called on to be part of the Opening Ceremonies. But this tooter is a little different; he also manages to be the principal of our school, Mr. Albert Dornberger. Where’s your brother, Al?”

Mr. Dornberger had gray hair and a thick gray mustache that covered his mouth and jaw. He reminded Fletcher of a shorter, thinner Dr. Jordan. His steely blue eyes never left Fletcher’s even when he was talking to Fred.

“Home, sick with a bad cold. He sends his best to you and the widow. Most glad to meet you, Mr. Fletcher. Fred, here, told me about 403

your experiences in the Indian Wars. We’re certainly glad to have you’re amongst us. I ‘m sure we’ll have lots to chat about after dinner.”

The tip of Fred’s nose showed that he had been dipping it into another large glass of beer. Each introduction has been getting more and more expansive. This time he lowered his eyes as if praying, “Now, dear friends, a moment of silence as we greet our very own representative of the all mighty who has graced us with his presence.” A small, dark-haired man in a black suit and a collar turned backwards stepped into view. “Our beloved chaplain who will one of these days, look down on us and utter some words only he and Fletcher understand and then throw some dirt on our faces, Father O’Riordan.”

As the priest stepped up to Fletcher and vigorously pumped his hand, Fletcher uttered words only he could hear, “Damnant quod non intelligent.” (They condemn what they do not understand.). The priest smiled as he said, “Rem acu tetigisti.” (You have hit the nail on the heard.) Then Father O’Riordan looked over at Fred and spoke for all to hear, “And I thought we Irish had all the blarney. I’m beginning to think you Danes have a special brand.” Everyone hooted at the remark and during the uproar, Father O’Riordan managed to whisper into Fletcher’s ear while gripping his hand in his and gently squeezing it, “He thinks the world of you and if you are his friend, you are ours.”

Those words warmed Fletcher’s heart. Through misting eyes, he looked around the room and saw faces filled with friendship even Constable Coulter’s.

Abruptly, Widow Malgren came out of the kitchen’s doorway. It was as if she were waiting for a cue to make her entrance. She went right up to Fletcher and gave him a welcoming hug, “Good to see you, Fletcher.” Fletcher could smell good food cooking odors in her graying hair. Then turning to the room of bleary-eyed males, she said, “Now if you men can stop jawin’ and drinkin’ you can help us set the tables. We’ve got lots of good food and it’s ready to eat.”

Wives and children poured out of the kitchen into the parlor creating a real hubbub in preparation for the feast that would now be the center of everyone’s attention.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

404

At about 1 pm on that same day, Bert Hoover and Lester Hinsdale walked over to the camp for Thanksgiving dinner. They were to meet Tim Collins who had moved there from Encina, the previous week. Tim found that living at Encina was too expensive for his resources and heard the Business Office was even thinking about increasing Encina’s cost of room and board. For him, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The day he heard that news he walked over to the camp and got a bunk to move into. Both Bert and Lester were thinking they might soon follow him.

The camp was originally built to house workmen constructing the university. It consisted of four rough single storied, whitewashed buildings. All the buildings were the same width, about fifteen feet. Three were about forty feet long and one building was almost sixty feet long. They were configured into an L shape with the bottom portion of the L consisting of two short buildings parallel to the road leading to Alvarado Row and the top of the L, one of the short plus the long building, due south of the powerhouse and its attendant looming chimney. Intentional or not, if a triangle were drawn with Encina Hall on one end and Roble Hall on the other and the camp up at the top, each side of the triangle would be about a quarter of a mile, and the Quad would be right in the middle. The camp was real handy to get to places.

If the buildings resembled stables built for horses and not workmen, there was good reason. Senator Stanford had the same firm that built the stables and outbuildings on the Stock Farm build the camp’s buildings, the same dimension, and the same-whitewashed rough timber. The thought was that after the work on the university was done, the buildings would become part of the stock farm.

Already there was talk that since the whole site was unsightly and so close to the Quad, the camp would soon be torn down but right now they were used to house Japanese janitors working in the Halls. A Chinese cook by the name of Mock Chong had been contracted by the Business Office under the aegis of Ariel Lathrop, Jane Stanford’s older brother, to provide the janitors with food at twenty cents a meal. At that price, broke Stanford students couldn’t help finding their way there and some of them were staying.

Mock Chong took over half of the longest shack and set up his kitchen and dining room. Those who ate there said the food was of questionable quality, sanitation was not one of Mock’s strong points, but it was plentiful and always hot and that was more than could be said of Encina’s bill of fare in spite of the fancy surroundings.

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Another reason the camp might not be torn down was that for visitors, parents of students or any other visitor for that matter, it was the only place to eat. That same scourge that was making it so difficult for students and the administration alike, Ariel Lathrop, had degreed visitors were not allowed to eat at the Halls, no exceptions. He figured the University was already losing money serving students food and he could see no good reason why strangers, people who had nothing to do with the university except for providing parental help and care, should be allowed to take advantage of a losing proposition. Of course, Mayfield’s eating establishments were close at hand but tales of food garnished with ants and maggots severely limited that alternative.

On that day in November when Bert and Lester arrived at the camp they found Tim Collins waiting for them and they also saw Mary Freeman a student they knew with an older man, they assumed to be her father, standing near Tim discussing whether they should go into the ramshackle building and eat. Bert heard Mary saying, “It’s the only place, Daddy. I ‘m sorry its appearance isn’t too good.”

Mr. Freeman was trying to be open minded about the whole matter but the thought of eating in such an establishment was obviously not to his liking. On the other hand, he knew he should try to be a good sport since he hadn’t seen his daughter since she had come to Stanford and he didn’t want to spoil their meeting and appear to be a snob, particularly in front of some of students his daughter knew.

Tim walked over to where Mary and her father were standing. He was thinking he would take it upon himself to defend his new domicile, “Sir, if you will excuse my interrupting, I think you’ll find the grub to be very satisfactory. I understand Mock Fong is doing something real special in honor of the holiday. Give it try, sir. Should be a real experience.”

Mary knew Tim and the other boys from classes and introduced them to her father. He said, “Well, I must say this is totally unexpected. You would think that such a fine institution would have made provision for catering to parents. After all, we are paying the bills.”

Lester replied, “Yes, sir, you’d think at such a fine institution lots of things would be different. I think you know Mary is still studying by candlelight and our lights flicker off and on and are totally out by 10:30 and I understand Roble is having more trouble with their stoves and are going to have to come over to our place for eats, again. And have you seen the water?”

Lester’s litany of student inconveniences convinced Mr. Freeman. If his daughter could put up with all that, he certainly could have one meal at 406

this disreputable restaurant. He took his daughter’s hand, breathed a deep sigh and said, “Well, if it has to be, it has to be.” They and the boys, guided by Tim, walked to the far end of the long building. A simple hand printed sign hung above the doorway, “Mariposa Blanca Dining 20cents.”

“Mariposa Blanca?” Bert asked, with wonderment.

“That’s the name they decided to call the place,” Tim explained. “Sounded better than “The Camp Dining.”

Once up the four creaking wooden steps and inside, a tall Chinese boy, probably Moch’s son, asked for twenty cents for each person. Mr. Freeman had a dollar bill in hand and paid for all of them. The boys thanked him for his generosity.

The narrow dining room was over twenty-five feet long. The interior walls were the same inside as out, that same-whitewashed rough wood. Photographs of different sorts and sizes, torn out of police gazettes showing ladies of questionable reputation and baseball and foot-ball players, were tacked to the walls. Near the ceiling, so they were hard to make out, were some paper Chinese scrolls.

Long wooden whitewashed picnic tables with benches attached could have used a new coat of paint. Where workers sat and ate, white paint had turned to different shades of gray and in some cases black where dirt and grease had joined forces. The tables were covered with oilcloth that at one time bore a bright yellow checkered pattern but now with layers of soot from coal fires and more grease the oilcloth had turned an unappetizing off-gray. As Mr. Freeman surveyed his surroundings, the word, “unsavory” quickly came to his mind.

Reluctantly he followed his daughter and the three young men heading toward the far end of the room where food was being dished up. Two of the four tables were already filled with young Japanese men, eating heartily and enjoying one another’s company. Mr. Freeman noticed a large clear bottle containing brownish colored liquid being passed around from hand to hand and lip to lip. Each recipient took a hardy swig of the bottle’s contents. Mr. Freeman thought the liquid had to be alcoholic from the drinkers’ loud, animated conversations and the glow on their faces.

A few Stanford men were eating at a third table. Their manner brightened when they saw Mary Freeman going by. Everyone shouted greetings to both Mary and to the other boys. Mr. Freeman was impressed that all the students knew each other by name. It appeared that his daughter had certainly chosen a friendly university. 407

The group stopped at a table where boxes of tin eating utensils, tin plates, bowls and cups were placed. Tim, setting the example, showed them how to take a bowl in one hand with their utensils and a plate in the other, and then come back for the cup. They followed him as he moved toward where Moch and three other Chinamen were serving soup and meat and vegetables out of giant iron vats. Next to the vats was another small table filled with fruit pies and finally there were pails of fresh milk and a container of boiled coffee. Rusty dippers hung at the side of pails and containers.

Tim went first. He held out his bowl toward the first Chinaman and was rewarded with a full ladle of what appeared to be thin noodle soup that had a yellow-brown cast to it. Then he placed his tin plate before Moch who was serving the main course. Mock ladled carrots on to his plate and then dipped his bare hand into the steaming vat and pulled out a generous chicken leg, which he placed, with a big smile, on Tim’s plate. Tim moved on to let Lester and the rest get their food.

Luckily or unluckily, as the case might be, Mr. Freeman just happened to be saying something to his daughter causing him to look at her and not witness Mock’s “personal touch” when he served Tim. So when Mr. Freeman’s turn came, the hand dipping into the vat, twice, in his case, for two hefty thighs and the toothy smile that went with it, took him completely by surprise. As he followed his companions to the empty table at the other end of the dining room, he was still in a state of mild shock.

When they got to the table, they found Tim trying to wipe the oilcloth on the table with some newspapers he had found nearby. Bert noticed it was the “San Francisco Chronicle.” He delivered three copies to the camp. Tim had been forced to wipe off the oilcloth. Otherwise, the tin plates slipped around due to the greasy surface.

All of them stood patiently and watched Tim wiping. He looked up at them with a smile on his face. Yellow bits of oilcloth started shining through so they could securely sat down their plates and they started to eat.

By now, even Bert was not too happy with what he had seen and he was hardened from eating Encina food. When Bert found himself in a difficult position, he had a hard time expressing himself and since there were strangers there, Mary and her father, he hardly said a word. He did think to himself that he might to reconsider moving to the camp. There had to be other alternatives.

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Mary and Mr. Freeman had decided it was best to be quiet and just make the best of a bad situation. Tim had to be constrained from eating right away by Lester giving him a nudge in his ribs as Mr. Freeman quickly and quietly said a brief prayer of thanksgiving.

Between mouthfuls, Tim who was sitting next to Mr. Freeman said, “I told you the grub was all right here. Tastes mighty good to me.”

Mr. Freeman smiled weakly and responded, “Yes, not bad. And you were right, it is an experience.” Both he and Mary picked at their food. They carefully nudged the bits of chicken to the side of the plate. They noticed that soon only bare bones remained on the boy’s plates including Bert’s. Next time, Mr. Freeman decided, he would bring a box lunch for them from home.

The dining room was filling up. More Japanese janitors, Stanford students and a few parents were waiting in line to be served. They, too, would soon become aware of Mock Chong’s “personal touch.”

^^^^^^^^^

Four hour’s later they finished eating. Fletcher had never seen so much food in his life. The huge dining table, extended and extended again, was piled with plates of turkey and ham, bowls of mixed vegetables, yams, mashed and broiled potatoes, coleslaw in mint jello and all kinds of bean and green salads.

The children had their hands slapped when they started to serve themselves but everyone shushed up so that Father O’Riordan could deliver the shortest Thanksgiving Prayer, Fletcher had ever heard in his life, “Thank you, dear Lord for all this and for each other.” Everyone said a quick “Amen” and started in eating.

Fletcher thought he was a good eater but he saw some like Donahue, the blacksmith, and Coulter, the constable, take five, even six helpings. When a plate or bowl even started to look empty, one of the wives would get up and take it into the kitchen and come back with a bowl, hot and filled to the brim.

During the meal, members of both sexes would disappear for a few minutes and go out through the side doors into the back yard where two outhouses were available about fifty feet from the doorway.

The only lull was before deserts and coffee were served. Bowls, dirty plates and cutlery were whisked away by female hands into the kitchen for washing. Only white linen table stained with drippings from 409

mouths and bottles remained on the table. By then, Fletcher felt he absolutely could eat no more but more plates and bowls appeared, this time filled with fruit, strawberries, peaches and apricots; chocolate and white frosted cakes; apple and apricot pies. Everything looked so good, he thought he should try just a sliver of this and that and when he looked at his plate, it was crammed with goodies, all of which would have to be eaten. Fletcher felt like he had doubled in size.

During all of this, miraculously, the children disappeared. They were eating in the kitchen while their mother’s washed myriad of pots, pans and dishes and gossiped. The men were left alone. Their tongues loosened in the friendly surroundings, helped by Fred returning to his liquor cabinet and bringing out bottles of old brandy and whiskey he had saved over the years some of it dating back to Civil War days. Fletcher who usually “didn’t touch the stuff,” couldn’t constrain himself. “Just a taste,” he thought.

The conversation at the table commenced with a series of jokes, stories about dumb cowboys or miners that had been told and heard over and over again but were still funny with enough alcohol imbibed. Fletcher thought the most hilarious was the one told by Father O’Riardon, in his broadest most Irish brogue, about the Irishman with three daughters each one having a beau with a different faith, Protestant, Hebrew and of course, Catholic. After the punch line, the discussion turned to more local issues and Fletcher found himself the center of a storm brewing related to the relationships between Senator Stanford and Mayfield and that scalawag, Tim Hopkins.

Bernard Mayer, the druggist, began the diatribe, “He had no right, no right at all to ask us to close our saloons.”

Fred Behn who was to Fletcher’s right acted as his interpreter for the proceedings whispered, “He is talking about your Senator Stanford.”

Bernard heard what Fred said, “Yes, I am talking about the Senator, the pride of California who thinks he is King over all he sees. Most of the time I see that man as a nemesis, not a savior.”

He was quickly interrupted by, “Now, go easy, Bernie, he and his wife have done much for the community, the elementary school, uniforms for the band,” said Albert Dornberger, principal of the school and leader of the band who got the uniforms.

Mayer was not finished, “Yes, Albert, like any King if he or his Queen see something they like, they will throw some money at it, but it all comes at a cost. And when the King and Queen want their subjects to do 410

something, like give up our drink, they expect the whole lot of us to jump at their bidding.”

Father O’Riordan could not contain himself and he looked directly at Fletcher who apparently had become the University’s spokesman, as he said, “Fletcher, you must understand what really sticks in our craw is that the Senator is producing and making money from the beverages he wants us to outlaw in our community.”

As if to confirm what had just been said, Fletcher could hear everyone at the table grunt or say or shout, “Yes.” “You’re right.” “Tell it to him, Father.” Or other words to that effect.

The Priest continued, “The Senator forget that most of us who live in Mayfield work hard. We’re the ones who built that university of his from the ground up,” and he pointed in the direction of LSJrU. “We ploughed the hayfields, dug the hard ground for foundations and cellars, cut the stone, hung the doors and got the dust from the stones or lumber in our throats or fell from scaffolding and roofs and died like Widow O’Grady’s poor husband with every bone in his body broken. And none of us can see the harm, after a man has worked hard all week, of going to a place where his friends are, and lifting a pint or two to his lips. No harm at all.”

Men in the crowd repeated what the priest just said, “No harm at all.”

“We work hard all week, what’s wrong with a drink or two.”

“So what gives him the right to tell us what to do?”

Fred stood at the side, smiling. He knew his friend would have to respond and he wondered what he would say.

Fletcher didn’t have a choice in the matter. Every face turned in his direction including a four-year old boy that just happened to be carrying a dirty plate back into the kitchen. Fletcher wasn’t used to all this attention and when he started talking his voice sounded wobbly with all the wine and food.

“You will never hear me deny that right,” he said.

Everyone cheered including the little boy.

But Fletcher had more to say, “But I think you know Mayfield offers nearby young men more than just drink.”

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Fred Behn spoke up, “And we all know who is behind the pleasure houses offering women, dope and cards. On the outside it looks like the Chinaman, Quong Wo, but really it’s the Senator’s young friend, Tim Hopkins.”

Fletcher looked at his friend, “Do you have proof of that?”

“No, just lots of rumors from people who have seen Hopkins and Quong Wo with their heads together. They are thick as thieves. I guess you know Wo used to work for Hopkins and Hopkins considers Wo’s mother more mother than his own. Remember how Hopkins nearly ran you over last time you visited me. I found out he was on his way to Wo’s laundry and not to have his shirts done, either.”

Constable Coulter thought he might have to report this to Quong so he might be more careful in the future. The information might be worth even five dollars in his pants. Enough for the pleasures of one of those San Francisco belles and then some.

Everyone guffawed at this. In the small town of Mayfield, everyone knew what was going on. Fred decided they had enough serious talk. He started to tell the group a story he had just heard about a farmer who had a daughter and a traveling salesman stopped by one evening and asked if he could……

Fletcher sipped on the old brandy that tasted so smooth as it went down his throat and laughed heartily as the jokes unfolded. He could only listen since he had never told a joke, dirty or otherwise, to anyone in his life.

^^^^^^^^^

It was already dark by the time, Fred packed Fletcher in the back of his wagon and made his way to Encina Hall. Luckily, he knew which room was Fletcher’s. He helped his friend get up the stairs and then with the assistance of his roommate, Dr. Whitman, laid him out on his bed and covered him, fully clothed, with a blanket. He was fast asleep before Fred was back out the door to the hallway.

^^^^^^^^^^

Dr. Whitman shook Fletcher to awake him. 412

“Fletcher, Fletcher, you have to wake up. It’s 7am and we have to catch the 830 train from Mayfield to San Jose if we are going to make it to Lick during daylight.”

Fletcher woke up with the first shake and looked at Whitman with glazed eyes. “What, yes, train. Where is Fred? How did I get home?”

Dr. Whitman smiled. “He brought you and tucked you into bed. You were out like a light.”

Fletcher, fully clothed, threw one leg over the cot’s edge and then the other and sat for a moment trying to focus on where he was and what he had to do. He stood up and he could feel a wave of nausea run through his body. His gangly frame teetered for a moment and wavered like a tall tree about to blow over but he regained his balance and composure. “Yes, I have to get washed and dressed.” And without saying another word he rushed out into the hall toward the lavatories down the hall. He had to go to bathroom very, very bad.

Whitman watched Fletcher’s quick exit with a smile on his face. He had never seen Fletcher in this condition. His other friends would meet them outside the hall at 7:30 and it would take at least 30 minutes to get to the Mayfield station so that didn’t give them much time. When Fletcher came back into the room, Whitman told him to dress rough and tumble. No telling where they would sleep tonight. There were no sleeping accommodations at the observatory.

Within thirty minutes, Fletcher managed to wash hastily and put on some old soldiering duds he still had and pack a few articles of clothing and toiletry items in his kit bag that he could throw over his shoulder. He walked gingerly down the stairwell with Professor Whitman out into the early sunlit day. There was a dull drumming in his brain. He still did not feel well. He understood that what he felt was called a “hangover.”

It was surprising how many other students were up and getting ready to go out into the surrounding areas. Whitman told him that a gathering of over thirty bicyclists would be following them up Mt. Hamilton on Sunday.

Outside, Whitman’s friends were waiting and he quickly introduced them to Fletcher. Gregory Peters and Stuart Wilhelm were renting rooms in Menlo, and were graduate students like Fletcher but in the Math and Physics departments and another friend, William Lucent was a graduate student at Berkeley and was visiting them. Fletcher had seen the young gentlemen around the Quad and several times with Professor Whitman but 413 had never met them before. All of them were dressed in slouch hats and baggy hiking shirts and pants with colorful string ties tied in the latest fashion. Fletcher thought they all looked like brothers with their even masculine features and thin mustaches. Stuart had a thin goatee along with the mustache.

He could tell that the three young men were not used to the outdoors because of their pallid complexion and they were wearing boots that were shiny and not cuffed and worn like Fletcher’s. He began to have some misgivings about the whole enterprise but also considered that some of this was based on his own physical state. After all, he was suffering from drinking the day before. He made sure to bring plenty of water in his canteen.

Everyone else was apparently in a good mood as they strode toward Mayfield Station.

“Wonderful day,” said Stuart giving Fletcher a broad smile. He had bright shiny teeth and even his fingernails were clean.

It took them longer than the usual thirty minutes to get to Mayfield. William Lucent had a difficult time keeping up. He looked like he was more into sauntering than briskly walking. Fletcher found that if he did not watch himself he could be several yards ahead of the pack. Since he walked so much with Irene and had not had this problem before it was difficult for him to understand how these gentlemen, Whitman included could not keep up with him.

Seeing Fletcher striding ahead of himself and his friends, Henry Whitman began to wonder if it had been wise to have his roommate join them. Whitman had a strong desire to be completely honest with this older man whom he considered to be a friend. He had thought this outing would be the right moment. Perhaps, he was wrong.

The train to San Jose “Garden City” was late, five minutes. On board were other students either going to visit relatives or continuing on to Salinas or to Los Gatos and transferring to the narrow gage railway that traveled over the Black Mountains to Santa Cruz and the Pacific Ocean.

At 10am, Fletcher and his companions disembarked at the San Jose station and started their trek toward the distant mountaintop east of San Jose where the Lick Observatory was located. Fletcher had heard and read about the Observatory. A great telescope was housed there that showed any object on the Moon larger than a barn and also revealed glittering moon craters and superb glimpses of Saturn and its rings. For the first 414

time in his life, Fletcher would see the sights of the universe. He was looking forward to it.

^^^^^^^

It was Friday, November 27, 1891, the day after Thanksgiving and when Bump woke up he looked up at the tall, pink painted, frescoed ceilings and around the room at the paintings of California scenery on the wall. Strewn everywhere were men’s clothing. On the other side of the room in a huge double bed, Sosh and Milt were still sleeping. Walt, his bunkmate, must be the bathroom. It was time for him to get up. He slung his legs over the side of the bed. They were tired from all the walking running they had done yesterday.

At first, when he realized he would have to sleep in the same bed as Walt, Bump had some misgivings. Of course he had slept with some of his high school chums when they “slept over”, either at his home or theirs, but that was different. They had grown up together. His new college friends, Walt, Sosh and Milt were strangers, in a way.

Bump knew the meaning of “homo” and “nancy boy” but he had never met one or even seen one. To be honest, he had never really figured out what they got up to but he knew from his elders and church services that it was not good, evil in fact. He also knew that the bed was where “sex” happened. He didn’t even want to think about how his Dad and Mom had sex but he knew it had to happen in bed. So that’s why he was nervous about getting into bed with Walt.

As it turned out, Walt made every effort to stay on his side of the bed. During the night, Bump looked over and could see that Walt was right at the edge, almost tumbling out. Bump remembered that John Reichold, his high school chum, had not been so considerate. Several times, during the night he would feel John’s arm slung over him, which would awaken Bump, and he gently remove the offending arm. The second time, he wasn’t so gentle and the third time, he hit John in the ribs and said, “Quit it.”

He walked over to the closed door leading to the bathroom and whispered, “Walt, Walt, when are you going to be finished in there?”

He heard Walt’s muffled response, “I’m just about finished. Let me dry off and I‘ll be out in a second..”

“OK, but hurry. I have to go to the bathroom, quick.” 415

The door opened. It was Walt with a towel around his middle. “I can use the towel out here. Go ahead. I know the feeling.”

Bump rushed in and pulled his piss proud penis out of the underwear he wore for sleeping. He pointed it into the urinal. What a relief he felt as the rush of urine hit its target!

From the other side of the door, he heard Walt say, “Go ahead, Bump. Enjoy a hot bath. I can do the rest out here.”

It was true. It had been months since Bump had a hot bath. The water at Encina was tepid, at its best, and if it was raining, as it usually was this time of year, its color and smell were terrible. He turned the enamel spigots on full blast. It was wonderful to have clear, non-smelling water to bathe in and a white washrag and a white bar of soap. What a great way to live!

For a moment, he lay back in the enamel tub and luxuriated in the hot water. He closed his eyes and thought back on the prior day and their Thanksgiving Dinner at the Palace Hotel. It had been fantastic. The four boys had spent the whole day in the hotel eating, drinking and having fun. Bump had never seen a place like it.

They had spent hours just going up and down in the four elevators which were really like moving rooms, almost fifteen feet square, with mirrors on all four walls and leather padded seats along three sides for guests to sit on during the ride. A Chinese man in a red uniform stood by the door and closed and opened a folding iron inner door and pushed a button to start or stop the elevator. The only way Bump knew the room was moving was a whirling sound like an engine and cables and over the entrance was a dial with a moving hand that showed which floor they were on and, of course, there was a slight queasy feeling he got in his stomach. Other passengers must have felt the same because some women, and even men, went , “Whoa,” when it started going up and down. Bump thought he could have stayed on the elevator all day but the Chinaman after a while gave them a funny look as if he thought they had ridden enough. Then they ran to find another elevator.

And there were other exciting conveniences like an electric call button in each room that could be used to get food or drink or another pillow. Walt used their button and unlike the system at Encina, it worked. Within minutes they heard a knock on their door and a Chinaman was saying, “Room Service.” Walt asked for two more blankets and the man brought them right away.

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Walt told them that each floor had a telegraphic instrument that communicated with the other floors. And all over the hotel were large, handsome time dials that ran in perfect unison. In the halls, Bump saw hydraulic tubes whistling overhead that carried guest’s mail to a central mailbox located downstairs. Bump, as he washed himself, started thinking about all the modern devices he had seen for the first time and even used. But the best was automobile driving along side of them on the way to the hotel….

“All right, Bump, get out of the tub. It’s my turn.” It was Milt shouting from the bedroom. Bump jumped out of the tub and started toweling himself with one hand and opening the door with the other. He hardly had the door open when Milt rushed in and immediately had to relieve himself in the wc.

“It’s all yours,” said Bump as he let himself out into the bedroom where Walt was finishing up dressing and Sosh was just rousing himself.

Walt said, “You guys don’t have that much time. My father will be here at ten and we still have to get breakfast downstairs.”

Bump thought how wonderful it was to be able enjoy the amenities of the Dining Room one more time. The surroundings were fabulous and he enjoyed watching the people that were eating there with them. He could imagine the rich families and poets and writers who frequented the hotel. He understood that Robert Louis Stevenson had just been there and was now in Monterey. Yesterday, Walt pointed out the young writer, Jack London among those who were eating Thanksgiving Dinner. Bump had already read several of his books and was fascinated by the Artic world he described. One of these days, Bump wanted to visit that part of the world. One of these days, he would like to visit all parts of the world.

As planned, Walt would not accompany them, today. Nothing was said, but Bump assumed that Walt’s mother would come to the Palace Hotel and they’d spend the day together. She must be painfully shy, Bump thought.

Somehow or other everyone managed to bathe, dress and eat breakfast before the arrival of Walt’s father. Promptly at ten, Mr. Fong knocked and his son called out, “Come in.” Sosh, Bump and Milt were totally surprised by his appearance.

Walt said his father was western in his ways as well as Chinese but no one expected Mr. Fong would be sporting a closely clipped beard and hair and would be attired in the latest men’s fashions direct from London 417

complete with top hat and red velvet vest. He looked like he had just stepped out of the latest edition of London’s Menswear.

He must have detected the look on his guests’ faces because his first words were, “You are surprised I am not wearing a queue.” But the words that followed set them all at ease, “Welcome to San Francisco and soon welcome to Chinatown.” His son introduced his friends and everyone shook hands. Mr. Fong shook each hand firmly and repeated each name spoken to him as he looked at its bearer straight in his eyes. He did chuckle for a moment over Bump’s name, which was fully expected. And he asked Sosh about his.

His voice was deep and sonorous, similar to his son’s, when he said, “Now, gentlemen, for just a moment, please gather around me. I have arranged my schedule so that I will be with you most of the day. I understand that Walter has already told you there is a great deal of unrest in the city so please follow my instructions. There will be places where you can speak and others where you cannot. I will let you know which is which. Now, let’s get started. We have a great deal of ground to cover.”

He was a man that did not have time for small talk. He turned to his son and embraced him before walking out the door and said in Cantonese, “I am sorry, Walt, you’ll not be able to go with us. Trust me that it is best you stay here with your mother. There will be other more peaceful times.”

Walt nodded his understanding and waved to them as they walked out of the hotel suite.

Sosh hesitated in the doorway for a moment. If it was so unsafe for his son that he could not go with them, how could it be safe for them, strangers?

As if he could read Sosh’s thoughts, Mr. Fong said, “Please do not be concerned for your safety. Several of my bodyguards will join us. I promise you will be safe and you will see sights you will remember all your life.” They continued to the elevator, which took them down to the lobby.

Mr. Fong’s carriage was waiting for them in the Palace Hotel’s driveway. Up front was a liveried driver and next to him sat two large Chinamen in dark kimonos, Mr. Fong’s bodyguards. The three boys sat with Mr. Fong in the carriage, itself, and behind them on the back seat were two more large kimonoed Chinese men, more bodyguards. All four Chinamen had queues down to their waists.

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They had not been out of the hotel since their arrival in San Francisco, two days’ before and it surprised them how cold the weather had turned. Heavy morning fog remained hanging over the city. Looking up at the surrounding hills, fingers of fog could be seen inching toward the city. All of the men were wearing heavy jackets to keep warm.

Their carriage became part of the busy traffic making its way back up New Montgomery to Market Street and then waiting to weave across the busy intersection to the other side and Montgomery Street, then four blocks north to California Street. The carriage with matching white horses made a quick left turn on California Street. At the intersection of California and DuPont, the carriage stopped at the corner. Mr. Fong motioned that they should get out. From here on, they would walk.

The group of three students and five Chinamen now stood, looking north down Dupont. They could see they were entering a different world. There were immediate architectural differences. Most of the buildings surrounding Chinatown were two to four storied, gothic-styled buildings. The Wells Fargo Bank standing on the corner of California and Dupont was a typical example.

Before walking across California Street, Mr. Fong asked the young men, one more time, to gather around him.

“From now on, we must stay close together. There are thirty thousand people living in these twelve city blocks,” and he pointed across the street. “So it will be easy for you to get lost. I do not want that to happen. My two bodyguards will lead the way. I will follow them and you three follow me. The other two guards will be last and I have told them to insist that you stay with us and not tarry. I will give you signals where to turn and when we can stop. Some people may come up and try to speak to you. Do not speak to them or to one another until I say it is all right. Ready gentlemen, let’s go.” The procession crossed the street and started walking up Dupont Street.

Bump, for one, was starting to think that it might have been wiser to stay with Walt and his mother in the safety of the hotel. Milt was already beginning to crane his neck so that he could see the architectural differences that were coming up. Sosh was excited about the prospect of seeing a new world, a world he had only read about.

Mr. Fong was also looking at what was going on above their heads. To an untrained eye, it would appear to be almost imperceptible flickers of light. Fong knew the light came from small mirrors guided by unknown eyes looking down at them as they traversed up Dupont. He did not want 419

to alarm his young friends but from the reflections he could see from windows three, four stories above, the Tongs knew of their arrival. In Cantonese, Mr. Fong spoke loudly to his bodyguards, “Be alert. They know we are here.”

Even though he could not understand what was said, Sosh could tell by the tone in Mr. Fong’s voice that something was amiss. For Sosh, this made the trip even more exciting. From the looks on their faces, Bump and Milt had no idea what was going on. They were so innocent. At times, he wished he were as naïve as they were. Just as well, he thought as he continued keeping pace with the others, think of all the fun they are missing.

Fong’s wife had counseled him to tell the Tongs of his intentions to bring the students on a tour of Chinatown. He could not bring himself, the highest authority of the Six Companies, to seek out the protection from these outlaw groups. Out of deference to his son and his guarantee of safety for his friends, perhaps he should have followed his wife’s advice. Now, he was putting these poor innocents into the mouth of jeopardy. They were only a half a block up Dupont, he could still have the group turn around and then tell them their tour was cancelled. Not a bone in his body would allow him to do this.

The procession moved ahead on Dupont Street, deeper into Chinatown. Above, like fireflies in daylight, bright reflections of small mirrors followed them.

^^^^^^^^^^

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Chapter Eleven

Trek to Lick

Leland Stanford Junior University for all its isolation from east coast intellectual centers was blessed with geographical challenges on all sides. To the west was the Pacific Ocean and to the east the Coast Range, barren and treeless, stretching north and south---its two most prominent landmarks, Mt. Diablo at the northern end and Mt. Hamilton at the southern acting as portals to the greater San Francisco Bay Area. On an exceptionally clear day sighting Mt. Diablo was the best way to know which direction was north from the university, since every road and building seemed to be built without knowledge of a compass. But it was Mt. Hamilton, at 4440 feet above the city of San Jose that could be seen most clearly. On a clear winter day, beyond Mt. Hamilton, even the great snow capped peaks of the Sierra Mountains, some of which rose to over 13,000 feet, could be discerned.

For young, healthy eyes, if it could be seen, it should be visited, climbed, conquered.

What made Mt. Hamilton particularly inviting was the world-famous observatory founded by James Lick on its uppermost reaches. Lick, another of the multitudinous Californian millionaires who had made his money from gold in the Sierras and a booming real estate market, at first wanted to immortalize him self by erecting a monstrous statue in Golden Gate Park. George Davidson who was at the time director of the United States Coast Survey urged him to finance an enduring scientific undertaking. Fortunately, Lick took Davidson’s advice. Completed in 1884, Lick Observatory was turned over to the University of California in 1888 for operation.

Visitors to the observatory would find that once beyond the San Jose environs, the going got rough. The slopes of the mountain were rocky and covered with thickets of chemisal. Sparse chaparral and dwarf Spanish oaks were the only vegetation softening its hillsides. One dirt road, principally one-way and treacherous with numerous hairpin turns, ascended the peak. Carts and carriages going up this road had to be prepared to back down if they met traffic going the other way. The increasing numbers of safety bicycles being pushed half way up and then ridden back down added even more hazards. If a cart going up met a bicycle going down, broken bones usually resulted, usually the bicyclist.

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For the experienced hiker, the trip up the mountain was relatively easy and safe. There was only one way to go and that was along the side of the fairly well defined roadway. Unfortunately, that road within 24 miles rose from 400 ft above sea level to 4000 ft and for the inexperience hiker this rate of incline was arduous. Three of Fletcher Martin’s companions found this to be the case. Only Dr. Whitman appeared to be fit for the journey.

It had taken the five men two hours to get to the base of Mt. Hamilton. It was noon when they arrived at a fork in the road where left led to Alum Rock Park and right began the ascent to Lick Observatory. Fletcher calculated that at the rate they were hiking, it would be almost 5 pm before they arrived, well beyond the 3:30 appointment Dr. Whitman had made with Professor Sawyer, the Berkeley man in charge of the observatory. Martin hoped their tardiness did not mean they would be unable to see the giant telescope in action.

For Martin, if not a vigorous hike, it was certainly an interesting one. He had, early on, given up any hope of setting some kind of pace for his companions. For the first two hours, from noon to about 2:pm, he learned that they were more interested in fauna or geological or botanical delights and discoveries than arriving on time at their destination.

All five men (Fletched decided it was best to join them.) would stop at the least provocation and discuss at length a bird in flight or a plant that resembled a weed, to Fletcher’s eyes, or a small snake’s flattened remains in the middle of the roadway. Fletcher could never be certain whether it was the peculiarities of the object they looked at and discussed so seriously or, in actuality, they were catching their collective breathes and resting for a moment. Whatever the purpose, he did not mind. Life was too beautiful to mind anything.

Besides the fact that his companions could not be described as “rogues of the great outdoors”, Fletcher discerned that they, along with Dr. Whitman, were homosexuals. As his roommate, Fletcher had quickly surmised that Dr. Whitman was not interested in women. It was never discussed; in fact except for discussions about labor unrest in the United States, Fletcher and he only talked about academic matters related to the Greek or Latin language or Greek or Roman historical happenings.

It would be impossible for Fletcher to recount a specific time or incident that caused him to have these thoughts about his mentor and roommate. It was more based on Fletcher’s insights gained by being around men almost continually for a decade, in extremely close quarters, under all kinds of emotional situations at West Point and in the army. Not 422

that Whitman’s sexual orientation mattered to Fletcher in the least one- way or the other.

Being secure in his sexuality did not cause this indifference. This was far from the case. If the truth were known, he had been a virgin until the last few months and it was only with Irene’s guidance that he had learned the joys of sex. Many a times during his army days, he had wondered why he had not followed the same path as his perennially boasting fellow officers. Then he would think of his handicapped sister and the leering faces of his so-called school chums when he had caught them in the act of attempting to rape her and, additionally, his deep respect for ladies like his mother and others like her. He knew he could not face himself if he in any way forced his sexual appetites on any women, regardless of her status. If it was to be a life of masturbation, so be it. He would not deny to anyone that the thought remained that if he had met a gentle, caring man, perhaps his sexual preference might have been different. Professor Whitman might have been a prospect, at one time, but Fletcher’s love for Irene had eliminated that possibility.

So trudging up the road, the intrigue between the two male couples was both fascinating and diverting for Fletcher. It was obvious that he was not supposed to know what was going on. Whitman would probably tell him, later. If fact, now that he thought of it that was probably the reason he was invited to come along in the first place. Fletcher had felt, recently, that Professor Whitman had something on his mind, something he wanted to tell him. He would soon find out if he had guessed right.

Fletcher immediately noticed that Gregory Peters and Stuart Wilhelm had a hard time keeping their hands off one another, particularly as the going got rougher. As Fletcher would feel for Irene, the two men wanted to protect each other from potential falls or any kind of hardship. If Gregory stumbled on an errant rock, Stuart would rush over and steady him. If roles were reversed and Stuart fell to the ground, Gregory would kneel over and gently pull his friend to his feet and help him regain his footing. In passing there might be a supportive hug and pat and a fleeting look of concern between the two.

When this happened, Fletcher deeply felt the concern and love the two felt for one another. In his own heart, remained tinges of the loneliness he once felt when he had witnessed such tender exchanges between two people, irrespective of their sexes. No more the case, thank God, with the existence of Irene in his life.

William Lucent, Dr. Whitman’s apparent chum, was the poorest prepared of the lot and was experiencing both exhaustion and physical pain. The closer they got to the peak, the worst he became. 423

Convenient signs had been placed along the roadside marking the distance to the observatory. At long last, a sign came into view, “2 miles to Lick Observatory,” it read.

Lucent strode to the sign, turned his back to it and using it as support slowly slumped to the ground, ending with his face held in both hands staring at the rocky earth. “I can go no further,” he murmured in a voice just barely audible. It was obvious to his companions that the words truly described his circumstances.

Whitman rushed to his side. “William, it’s only two more miles. Thirty to forty more minutes and we will be there.” He glanced over at Fletcher. “Fletcher, can William have some of your water? We’ve run out.”

“Certainly, here. Take what you need. I can replenish later.”

They were all standing around Lucent, looking down at him. After he had satisfied his thirst, he resumed his face to the earth, head in hands position. Whitman knelt beside him on one knee with a protective arm around his shoulder. He said something that Fletcher could not hear. Whatever it was, William’s reaction was to say rather testily, “No, Henry, I simply can’t keep going. You, fellows go on and I will catch up. If you wait for me, there’s a good chance the observatory may close and the journey will be for naught.

Another whispered admonishment from Dr. Whitman that Fletcher could only guess were words to the effect that he would not consider leaving his beloved. Lucent’s reaction was to raise his head from the ground with, surprisingly, a wide grin on his face. It was then that Fletcher could understand why Whitman loved him. He looked around at his friends and said, “Well, gentlemen, I am afraid I have given out. Let me regain my wind and I will soon be with you.” His positive demeanor made everyone feel better.

Dr. Whitman slowly rose to his feet. He seemed reconciled to the fact that they would have to go on without William. “Shall we proceed,” he said to the other three men in a voice tinged with regret.

The water canteen was left with William. They told him that they would make the peak and then arrange to see the observatory in thirty minutes. If William did not arrive by that time, Fletcher, Gregory and Stuart would tour the observatory and Dr. Whitman would come back for William. Everyone agreed this was the best arrangement that could be 424

made William assured them he just needed some time to catch his breath and he would be following shortly behind them

^^^^^^^^

As calculated, the, now, four men arrived at the mountain’s crest at close to 5 pm. The sun was beginning to lower in the west---another hour and darkness.

A child’s high-pitched voice rang out from near by, “You are it. You can’t catch me. You can’t catch me.” It was the group’s first sign that the observatory must close by.

Coming around a curve in the road, they encountered five two storied homes constructed of yellowed brick. Fletcher reasoned they were homes for scientific personnel and their families. The 26-mile, one-way trip would be too difficult for a daily commute. The terraced homes were clustered together forming a windbreak of sort for a shared, interior court from which high-shrilled sounds could be heard of children at play.

Outside the compound, some laundry blew in the breeze. Red men’s underwear and white sheets were hanging on lines drawn between two posts. A six-foot ladder leaned against the side of one of the homes. Other than that, there were no visible signs of human habitation. Fletcher got the feeling of an isolated Army outpost similar to ones he and his family had occupied. As the group passed the houses, he felt unseen eyes watching them from behind lace curtained windows.

From the almost level roadway next to the homes, the road began a steep climb to the top of the mountain and the site of the observatory. Here the rate of ascent sharpened to a 30-degree slope. This final stretch was most formidable. Half way up, everyone needed to take a breather. All of them stopped and faced north to take in the full breadth of the valley’s terrain stretching below them.

From their 4,000 ft. perch, they could see the Bay Area before them as if they were eagles. A magnificent sunset was taking place before their very eyes. They were forced to shade their eyes from the rays of a still intensive sun. As for the peninsula they called their home, fingers of low fog covered only the most prominent landmarks. Several spires atop buildings particularly in downtown San Jose, some towers, church steeples, several lonely water towers and windmills occupied this strange land where billowing clouds of dense fog substituted for grass and fields and orchards. As their eyes moved west, clusters of these landmarks poking out of the fog bank marked townships such as Santa Clara, Campbell, and Los Gatos. To the north, up the peninsula, stood the 425

premier city of the west and south of that city a single chimney stood above the clouds. It was LSJrU’s chimney. For Fletcher, it was like seeing a friendly face in a room full of strangers.

The group turned their back on the panoramic view before them and resumed their hike another twenty yards up the steep road. Now they could look up and see the observatory administration buildings and the giant observatory. From an opening in its dome, a canon-like protrusion, the telescope, jutted out. Professor Sawyer had prepared it for their arrival. The buildings and observatory were constructed from the same yellow bricks as the homes. Fletcher reasoned there must be a quarry of yellow adobe, near by.

A sign directed visitors to the front door of the administration building. Above its roof, the stars and stripes flew and “James Lick Observatory” had been cut in the cornice over the portico. Next to this building was the object of their journey, the round observatory building with its immerse convex roof. It was huge. Fletcher guessed the housing for the telescope was about eighty feet high and eighty feet in circumference. It had only been in operation for the past three years, and when Fletcher observed isolated wheelbarrows and signs of workmen still completing projects, he saw many similarities to the still unfinished university he was attending.

Professor Whitman was about to knock on the front door when a familiar voice rang out from about twenty-five yards back. .

“Hold up, wait for me.” It was William’s tired but pleased voice. He had just managed the challenge of the last incline and was making his way to where they stood. As promised, he recovered his breath and caught up with the group. Professor Whitman smiled. He was visibly relieved. Everyone was. Now as a group they were ready to meet Professor Sawyer and look upon the universe’s wonders.

After Professor Sawyer had opened the door for them and they were walking into the main building, Professor Whitman passed near Fletcher, and said quietly, so that only Fletcher could hear, “You know.”

Fletcher responded with a nod of his head, a silent, “Yes.”

Seeing this, the Professor mouthed a single word for Fletcher’s eyes only, “Good.”

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Milt Grosh was overwhelmed by the panorama of Chinese architecture that was unfolding before his eyes. Prior to their trip to Chinatown, he had managed to read in a World of Architecture textbook about characteristics of Chinese buildings. He knew that the preponderance of curved roofs was due to the Chinese belief that these curves made it impossible for evil spirits to sit atop roofs. The curves would catapult them into space where they would seek out less fortunate victims who were most probably not Chinese.

Latticework and fretwork were everywhere, in the doorways, over and covering windows, up the stairways. Three, four-storied buildings were painted in vivid, brilliant colors, reds, greens, oranges, yellows; mandarin reds and golds prevailed. Doorways and windows were cut in the shapes of moons. Milton had no idea why that was the case. He would have to return to his textbook to find out the reason.

Looking up at the buildings lining Dupont Street, he could see that many of the residents had decorative overhanging balconies filled with potted yellow and orange flowers. Filling voids of space were Chinese lanterns decorated in red or black symbols or colorful stripes of every color imaginable.

Bump kept his incredulous eyes on the sights that were passing before him. By crossing California Street to Dupont, it was like entering a different world. It was an experience he had never felt before. He realized how he was truly a country bumpkin. He deserved his nickname of “Bump.” Raised in a small California town, there was so much for him to see and learn.

Chinese people of all shapes, ages, and sexes were standing still, walking, talking or looking at the strange procession passing them by. With bodyguards moving ahead making way for them and bodyguards behind them making sure they did not tarry, the boys had fleeting glances at the waves of humanity surrounding them.

Bump tried to concentrate on particular people so that he might describe them to his family later in his Sunday letters. Coolie caped Chinese men with their long queues dressed in glazed black robes passed by. On one of the corners a woman stood holding the hand of her two or three old daughter. Both were dressed in colorful short jackets revealing pants underneath and white stockinged legs wearing black slippers. Men with slender hands and fingers wore kimonos; women wore pants; Bump found it very confusing.

A swiftly moving man carrying two enormous baskets of vegetable caught up and passed them. A stout bamboo pole slung across his 427

drooping shoulders supported heavy baskets. He wore blue denim trousers and jackets and a coolie straw hat. Bump looked again at the throng and could see that most of the other men wore the same blue denim. Their bare feet tucked into straw topped slippers.

A cobbler sat on the sidewalk by his store, before him was a simple wooden box used as his workbench. In his hands were his tools and a leather boot he was repairing. He looked at Bump with inquisitive eyes. His face was like a wrinkled crab apple and when he smiled at Bump he revealed a single lower row of yellowed teeth. His smile did not betray his thoughts. Who were these round-eyed foreigners intruding on our street guarded by such formidable men?

Sosh viewed the surrounding with different eyes. As they went past alleyways leading off the main street, he looked down them and glimpsed tangles of sheds, doorways to what, opium dens, brothels, gambling dens? He saw tall, heavyset men dressed in black jackets and trousers with pork pie hats. Were these men the Highbinders, the “Hatchet Men”, Walt had spoken about? Was this where the “yellow peril” thrived? Surprisingly, in some ways, it reminded him of the back streets of Cleveland.

One alleyway was identified by a simple wooden sign, for some reason in English, as “Fish Alley.” The procession slowed and stopped for a moment so Sosh looked down it and saw counters filled with live shrimp squirming on wicker trays and strange exotic fish piled precariously on top of one another. Seller and buyers were shouting in their language, haggling over prices. The street’s stench was a horror to Sosh’s nose. He wondered how anyone could buy fish in such a place with such an aroma in the air.

The group began to move again but at a much slower pace due to denser human traffic.

Sosh determined that much of the exchange of money and services was performed outside the shops, on the sidewalks. He saw two Chinamen seated in close proximity. The one man was peering into the other’s ear and using some kind of slim instrument to adroitly dig wax out of it. The man to whom the ear belonged had shut his eyes and had a sublime look on his face of pure delight.

Milton saw a banker or accountant who was working out sums on his counting machine while his customer waited for the results. A chemist was grinding up a concoction of what appeared to be tiny dried sea horses for a waiting client. Milton had read somewhere that the Chinese considered this to be an aphrodisiac.

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As they moved along, each of the boys wanted to point out something new to his companions but realized looking back at the group’s guards striding in their wake and saw their stern looks that it might be better to wait until they got back to the hotel to discuss what they saw.

A sight came into view that caught all of their eyes. Coming toward them was the wife of what must have been a wealthy man. She was tottering on hideously tiny feet supported on either side by companions, probably her maids. It was impossible to support her self. In her right hand, she held a half-opened sandalwood fan; in her left, a white silk embroidered kerchief. She was dressed in a pale blue silk jacket embroidered with brilliant yellow chrysanthemum.

Sosh realized, to his western eyes, she was too gaudily dressed and he shuttered at the sight of her deformed feet. But to Chinese eyes that beheld her, she was an object of beauty, her miniature feet the sign of her husband’s wealth. Who needed normal feet when servants were there for support? He thought how this trip was an extraordinary occasion. Here was an insight he could have gained only in Chinatown or a foreign land. It was a thought he would have to share with the others, later.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

Night had fallen on the heights of Mt. Hamilton and with darkness came cold breezes that penetrated even heavy clothing to the skin. A half moon gave some semblance of light and a campfire painstakingly built by five men under the duress of darkness was a source of warmth. All five men were now in a reclining position in a circle around its crackling flames. Each was careful to protect themselves from red-hot embers that might light on clothing or exposed skin.

Professor Powell had been a gracious host. He not only showed them incredible sights through the giant apparatus such as one of Jupiter’s satellites passing before the distant planet. He also accompanied them back to his residence among the cluster of homes they had passed. There, his wife and children served the group a simple repast of beef stew served in large tin tureens and cups of black coffee to fortify them for their out- of-doors slumber. Afterwards, he directed them to a nearby barn where they could spend the night and suggested they make use of a campsite and well near the barn for building a fire and water for their canteens. From his and his family’s demeanor, Fletcher felt this was not the first or last time they would give succor to late arrivals.

Fed, and relatively warm, the five men now gazed into the flames of the campfire. At first no one spoke. Fletcher could tell that Professor 429

Whitman had told the others of his knowledge. It made life much simpler for all. Now, Gregory Peters held Stuart Wilhelm in his arms and although Fletcher did not see them kiss on the lips, kisses were being freely exchanged. Professor Whitman was somewhat more circumspect in his relationship with William Lucent who sat in front of the professor using his lap to support his back. His and Whitman’s hands were entwined. Fletcher could tell by their looks and freedom of manner that he was considered to be a friend to all. Perhaps, now he would learn why he had been invited to accompany them.

“You know I am leaving at the end of this school year,” Whitman began the conversation. He was looking at Fletcher.

“Yes, you already told me.”

“And now you know why I am leaving. Someone told Jordan of my predilection.” There was no rancor associated with his words. They were matter of fact.

Fletcher did not know quite what to say. He was truly surprised that Dr. Jordan would make such a judgment. “I didn’t know that sexual preference was part of academic qualifications,” were the words he used. The other three men intently followed what was being said.

Gregory Peters joined in, “Stuart and I will be joining Henry at the University of California. We think the atmosphere for intellectual growth will be far better, there.”

Professor Whitman freed his hand from William’s and held it up as if to quell Gregory from speaking further. “Gregory, let me speak first to Fletcher. I prefer that he hears of my plans from my lips.”

Gregory slumped back without a further word, accepting Whitman’s approach.

“What Gregory said is true. I have accepted a professorship at California beginning the next academic year. I will be an associate professor and will be next in line to be a full professor and potentially head of their Classical Literature Department. The current head, Professor Teeters has already told me he plans on retiring in the next five years.”

“Congratulations, Henry. You must be very pleased.” Fletcher leaned forward and shook the professor’s free hand.

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“I am. I am,” said a smiling Whitman, “And I am particularly pleased that everyone at the Berkeley university know both my qualifications and my inclinations.”

“So why the difference between California and Stanford?” Fletcher was sincerely baffled.

Whitman was slow in responding. He had to consider his older but less-worldly-wise friend’s position in the matter. He would remain at LSJrU when Whitman moved on. “Stanford is a new university while California has already established its academic status. Two people fund Stanford while the people of the state fund California. Dr. Jordan is newly appointed to be Stanford’s president while Dr. Spaulding has been president for over ten years.” Whitman leaned back and let Fletcher absorb the meaning of his words.

Fletcher understood. “So you are saying that Dr. Jordan dismissed you because of Senator and Mrs. Stanford’s influence.”

“In so many words, yes. When William and I met in Menlo, someone must have seen us having an innocent glass of wine together. Unfortunately that someone put two and two together and it came up a homosexual relationship, which, as it turned out, was absolutely correct. Shortly afterwards, Dr. Jordan met with me, very discreetly, and asked if I was homosexual and when I answered in the affirmative, he graciously asked me to look for another position after this academic year.”

“Was this before or after you told me that you were moving on and that I might be a candidate for your vacant position,” asked Fletcher.

“Before.”

“And why didn’t you tell me this at the time?”

“I did not really know you. I thought that under the circumstances, with your relationship with Irene, that you would be overjoyed with the prospect without needing to know the details.”

“And why do you tell me now?”

“I know you. And now I will be at a nearby university where I might be able to help your career.”

“Are you suggesting that I should follow you like the others?” and here Fletcher made a gesture with his hands including the other three men.

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Gregory moved his body so he was in an upright position and like a student in class raised his hand, “May, I speak, Henry?”

“Certainly, Gregory. I am sorry to have put you off.”

Gregory looked directly at Fletcher. “Collectively we have come to the view that the environment at Stanford will not be conducive to academic freedom principally because of Dr. Jordan’s inability to stand up to the founders’ conservative opinions. These thoughts are not merely based on Henry being asked to resign.”

“Have there been other incidents like this?” Fletcher couldn’t help himself his voice was becoming emotional. This was the second time in a few days he had to defend his university and his loyalty to Dr. Jordan. He was looking at Gregory for an answer but it was Dr. Whitman who responded.

“Yes, unfortunately.” Whitman knew Fletcher would want details. “You know I did my graduate work at Johns Hopkins.

“Yes, I remember you told me and your framed diploma reminds me of it daily.” Fletcher was trying to relieve himself of some tension.

Dr. Whitman smiled and said, “I am very proud to have been associated with that institution.” The smile disappeared as he asked, “Have you heard of Charles Pierce?”

“No, I am sorry, I haven’t.”

“Brilliant man. Brilliant. Some say he is the most intelligent man in the United States. He may turn out to be America’s greatest philosopher. For ten years he taught philosophy at Hopkins including a yearlong course in logic. All this ended seven years ago, in 1884, when he was dismissed. So you see he was at Hopkins before my time. Still, faculty members who were lucky enough to have heard him lecture have told me that he possesses the most original and powerful intellect they had ever witnessed. I have read some of his papers and even though philosophy is not my field, I would tend to agree with them.”

“Was he released because of his inclinations?” asked Fletcher.

“Yes,” and the smile returned to Whitman’s face, “but in a totally different manner, he is a ferocious womanizer. And was married to a woman that had absolutely no sympathy for adulterers. I believe Zina is her name and I heard that she believes punishment for adultery should be either life imprisonment or death or if it were possible, both.” 432

The group laughed at the thought and Gregory said, “Poor old Charlie certainly picked the wrong one if he was going to be promiscuous.”

“I am afraid that poor old Charlie suffered from other calamities, as well. He and Zina divorced and shortly afterwards he married a woman he had met years before who was twenty years younger than he. Her name is Juliette. Their marriage has not been without misadventures. Word has it that Pierce can be violent and erratic at times. The cocaine he regularly uses to relieve a severe case of neuralgia may cause this. Cocaine is a common remedy as you know but addiction is one of its drawbacks. So you can see his personal behavior does leave much to be desired.”

Fletcher felt that Whitman was getting caught up in the intrigues of his story and forgetting the reason for bringing up Pierce in the first place. He gently tried to nudge him back on track. “So what did Pierce do after ’84?” he asked.

“His father, Benjamin Pierce, also a brilliant man, was Superintendent of the United States Coast Survey for many years and employed Charles. At one time he held positions at both Hopkins and the Coast Survey but since he left Hopkins depended on the government job for sustenance. Then his father died and I understand he now believes his job is in jeopardy enough so that he has begun searching for another position.”

Now Fletcher could see where this was leading. “Did he apply at Stanford?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“We understand Dr. Jordan turned him away.”

“With some justification I would say considering his erratic disposition.”

“Here we may part company, Fletcher. Look around at the cadre Jordan has assembled, mostly young and unproven academics like myself. None are from Ivy League’s vaunted halls. He made offers to many but none accepted. I was tantalized by thoughts of the west rather than his promises of unparalleled resources. None of us have Pierce’s brilliance, not even approaching it. In spite of Pierce’s misdeeds, his presence at LSJrU would have been like a meteor. Everyone would have gained from its brightness—students and faculty alike”.

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“LSJrU’s status in the academic community is in its early stages of enhancement and developing a reputation for conservatism and concern for marital fidelity rather than creativity and scholarship will certainly not improve its prospects for future outstanding faculty or students, for that matter.”

“So word of your release and its cause is already common knowledge,” said Fletcher.

“The world of academia is like a small pond. One ripple becomes a wave,” said Gregory with a knowing look on his face.

Fletcher decided it was time to express his feelings. “I am not so sure as all of you. What you say is certainly logical. My thoughts are based on feeling, my feelings. What I have seen of Dr. Jordan causes me to admire him greatly. He seems ideally suited for a young university. He, himself, is young and enthusiastic and it is understandable that he wants to satisfy the founders particularly at these early stages. If he judges this is not the right moment to absorb the talents of a rather unstable genius then I would trust his judgment.”

“As for the Senator and his wife, I am certain they are extremely conservative and want no bad word to be uttered regarding their institution since it represents their son. I can forgive them for much of this in lieu of their not requiring tuition. Their generosity has given many of us an opportunity we would not otherwise have.”

“As for my place in all of this, please do not forget that I consider myself to be a yeoman among the intelligentsia, a soldier in the trenches. All of Mr. Pierce’s brilliance you mentioned would probably be straight over my head.” At this, he swiped his hand over his head like a diving blackbird. “Unlike you, I grave only to do my research and with the opportunity you might present me, teach others of my love for the classics. With my future in the hands of my beloved Irene and her close ties to the university, I doubt very much that I would venture to the other side of the bay.”

William Lucent spoke. “You may not have a choice, Fletcher. To get ahead in your beloved field, you must have a doctorate and no such degree is offered at Stanford. You will probably have to attend classes at Berkeley for instruction at that level and Dr. Whitman will probably be your adviser.” And here he smiled slyly. “So be careful what you say to him.”

434

Fletcher knew William was absolutely correct. The thought that he would always remain an instructor with his present degrees had already crossed his mind.

Professor Whitman leaned toward Fletcher and manly clapped him on his back, a sign of true feelings. “I don’t think Fletcher has a worry in the world. I will be always be there if he needs me.”

Stuart Wilhelm had enough of this serious talk. He was falling asleep in his partner’s arms. In fact he had just dozed off and awakened with a jolt. “Enough, enough of this academic gossip. I am falling asleep and I assume we will have to get up in the very early hours to make our way back to Mayfield. I suggest we douse the fire and get ourselves to our lavish accommodations.

Everyone arose, chuckling at his description of the barn they would soon inhabit.

Using moonlight for illumination, they put out the fire with pails of water from the well and then made their way to the barn. Inside, there was some degree of warmth plus two horses that gave notice of their presence by snorting their reluctance at being disturbed. The place reeked of their smells and manure.

After entering, the five men parted company. Fletcher climbed a narrow wooden ladder to the loft. He was used to such surroundings and soon made a comfortable nest in the hay for sleeping. William Lucent and Professor Whitman went to one end of the barn, Gregory Peters and Stuart Wilhelm to the other. The hay affected William’s hay fever adversely. As Fletcher fell asleep, he could hear the poor man’s intermittent sneezing and coughing.

Fletcher slept soundly. He dreamed of soft, green hills and fields and Irene’s warm presence.

^^^^^^^^^

The group of Stanford students and their guardians stopped at Chinatown’s Fish Street because a young Chinese boy, no more than six years old, had rushed up to Wu Sing Fong, handed him a note and then turned around and disappeared into the crowd. The boy’s appearance took Wu Sing’s bodyguards by surprise and they looked at him to see if they should give chase. “For what purpose,” he said to them, “there is no one to chase.” He silently shook his head from side to side, “No”. Then he unfolded the note and read its contents: 435

Honorable Wu Sing Fong, We grant your western friends safe passage today. It is suggested in the future you seek our permission beforehand.

Wang Fat Tong

Wu Sing put the note and its hideous contents into the pocket of his western style pants. What an affront, he thought. He, President of one of the Six Companies, ask for their permission? Never! Still, he was relieved that the veil of apprehension had been lifted from his shoulders. He would take care of this matter, later, when the welfare of his son’s colleagues was no longer in jeopardy.

He motioned with his hand for everyone to resume making their way up Dupont Street toward the Man Far Lo Restaurant where they would eat before attending a nearby Chinese Theater.

Bump noticed they were now passing several four-storied houses that were elaborately decorated with fretwork and festooned with lanterns. They turned into the second house, and walked directly through two swinging doors held open by their bodyguards into a central lobby. From his nose and eyes, he realized it was a restaurant.

At the end of the lobby, Bump could see a staircase leading up to other floors. Most of the doors to adjoining rooms were closed but some were partially opened so as they passed by Bump could see that the first floor was used for storage and offices and since the smell of cooking was particularly intense and pungent, the kitchen’s location. The smell was not unpleasant; it was familiar, like when his mother overcooked and sometimes burnt vegetables.

Down the hall and up the stairs they tramped. The bodyguard’s heavy footsteps sounded like they might go through the timbers of the staircase. Now as they passed doorways on the second floor Milton looked in and saw blue denim dressed coolies, with their dark pork pie hats, sitting on benches at simple wooden tables with large tin dishes filled with copious portions of rice and odd looking concoctions. The dining hall had bare walls with no ornamentations. Only men were in attendance and in their broad fingers were thin sticks of wood, which they were using as eating utensils. Milton could not imagine eating amidst such surroundings. He felt relieved when they moved passed the open doors to the next stairwell.

More stairs to climb to the second floor again with the resounding sounds of their fat attendants’ footsteps. Here the accommodations were 436

more commodious and their bodyguards disappeared into one of the doorways leaving Wu Sing alone with the three young men to continue down the hallway. Through the open doors, Bump noticed that, again, there were only men patrons and they were dressed like merchants he had seen on the streets below wearing dark silk pants and jackets. They sat on carved square stools made of black teak wood at tables of the same wood and decoration. On the walls, Bump saw suspended painted lanterns and carved wooden hangings. Pictured, scrollwork screens divided the room. He could hear loud guttural sounds as the diners spoke to one another in Cantonese. The noise of their conversations was extremely unpleasant to his ears.

As the group approached the fourth and final floor, Sosh, who had also viewed the scenes below, realized that the social hierarchy of Chinatown was unfolding before their eyes. First eating floor for coolies, second for merchants of moderate means, and he was certain that the floor they were ascending would be for the haughty aristocracy where they and their host, Wu Sing Chang, would eat. Even his bodyguards were not allowed entry. He was right.

Sosh saw a man waiting for them at the head of the stairs, probably the owner of the establishment. Dressed in an elaborate kimono made of blue and yellow silk with red fire belching dragons embroidered on its fabric, he was an impressive sight. He and Mr. Fong spoke in subdued tones as he led them through the entranceway into a rectangular-shaped dining area to a table situated against the far wall. Waiters dressed in red and white kimonos bowed almost to the floor as they seated the four men in high back chairs facing the room and the other diners.

This dining room was completely unlike the ones below. Milton looked around and could see the room measured thirty by sixty feet and took in the full width and length of the building. Its walls were adorned with full-length scrolls and gold-colored tapestries and beautiful paintings of Chinese landscapes, forests and trees and valleys, peopled with finely detailed residents. Suspended from the ceiling at regular intervals were elaborate, cut glass chandeliers, each with six gas lights supported from a central four sided metal frame painted in Mandarin red and decorated with gold Chinese characters. The gaslights were dimmed so that the room was brightest at its far end where sunlight streamed in from a large windows opening upon balconies, which looked down on Dupont Street. Except for this sunlight at the far end of room, the diners ate in the semi- darkness of the dimmed gaslights.

In the background, Sosh could hear young women singing songs in high-pitched, singsong voices. The notes they sang were to a key that was unfamiliar to Sosh’s western ears. 437

After he sat down, and his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Sosh saw that the other diners occupied square teak stools, not high back chairs, another subtle indication of the high position their host, Mr. Fong, must hold in the Chinese community. White linen tablecloths covered all the tables and Sosh saw that a white linen napkin and silver eating utensils, knife, fork, and spoon were placed before him and the others along with delicately carved ivory chopsticks.

The other patrons were old and middle-aged men, all rather stout and placid looking, deeply engrossed in either eating or talking. No one looked at the new arrivals except from time to time, one of the diners would catch Mr. Fong’s eye and would silently nod in greeting.

Mr. Fong was seated in the middle of the four students. So far, he had not spoken to them since they crossed California Street and Sosh reasoned this might be a Chinese custom but then Mr. Fong said, “I hope you enjoy your luncheon. It may consist of dishes you are not accustomed to so if you do not like what you see, please do not bother to eat. We will understand.”

Everyone assured him that they would try all of the dishes and would enjoy them.

Mr. Fong asked each of them about where they lived, what their parents did for a living, what they were studying at school, and what occupation they might follow? It was quite an interrogation. Everyone listened to the others being questioned because it was interesting to hear about their classmates. They were not the kind of questions they asked of one another. Sosh, at first was absorbed as the others in what was being said, but then he realized that much of what was going on at the other tables was too unique not to be observed.

He was finally able to trace the source of the female voices. At another table toward the dimmer end of the room was a table surrounded by young Chinese girls. Sosh could just barely make out their faces but he could see they were unlike any woman’s face he had ever seen before. Over their eyes instead of eyebrows were arches that looked like they had been drawn in charcoal. Their faces were snow-white, dusted with heavy powder and this accentuated their lips, painted a bright vermilion. They sang without pause in monotonous lilting voices. Their faces were equally expressionless. Sosh had read about young girls being torn from their families in China and sold into slavery. He wondered if he was listening to those young girl’s voices.

438

Small portions of food were being served to them upon minute china dishes. Sosh could only vaguely make out whether it was fish or fowl or of some other unknown derivation. He tried all the dishes and found the fish dishes to be quite tasty. The rest were rather bland. As soon as he put down his fork, the dish was whisked away and another put in its place. At first, he tried the chopsticks but found he could not get the hang of it and gave up. He looked over and saw Bump and Milt were also using forks.

Between courses, he began to see something at the very end of the room in the dimmest part of the room that caught his eye. It was a man. He was laying on a couch…..

“Now, Sosh, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

It was Mr. Fong. It was Sosh’s turn.

“Mr. Fong, thank you for this wonderful meal. My family lives in Omaha, Nebraska.”

Benjamin’s father was interested in all parts of the United States. He wanted to find out more about each of them. One of these days he might take his family on a train trip across the country so that they might realize what a great country they lived in. “Omaha, that it is a big city in the middle of the United States. As I remember many railroads go through it. Is that right?”

“Yes, because it is in the middle, Omaha has become the meat processing capital of the country. One whole area of the city is devoted to slaughterhouses.”

Mr. Fong was thoughtful. Animals were slaughtered on the premises of eating establishments in Chinatown or the butchers did the job for their patrons. There were no slaughterhouses, as such, in the area. “Sosh, have you ever been to a slaughterhouse?”

“Yes, unfortunately. One of my friend’s father worked at one and he invited me to come and look around.”

“And what did you think?”

“I didn’t like it. I wished I had never seen the place because it was difficult for me to accept what happened there.”

“To the animals?”

439

“To the animals, partially, but mostly to the men. The men who worked there?”

Mr. Fong remembered his son explaining to him how Sosh had got his nickname because of his socialistic tendencies. Thinking of some of the work places around Chinatown, he decided to change the subject. “And what does your father do?”

“My father died three years ago. He was an artist.”

“That’s interesting, an artist. Is he well-known?”

“Not at the moment but my Mother wrote me that several art dealers are interested in his works now that he is dead and want to buy some of them. At our house, his paintings are everywhere, under the beds, in the barns. If they want to buy, we have plenty to sell.”

Everyone was listening to what Sosh had to say. He didn’t normally discuss his family, particularly his father.

“And what are you planning to do, Sosh. What will be your field of interest and what profession do you plan to follow?

“I wish I was like Bump, here, who wants to be a doctor and Milt, wanting to be an architect. I really don’t know what I want to do. I have always been interested in the laboring man and woman, improving their work conditions, so perhaps I may become a union organizer.” When Sosh said that he could see a quick look of apprehension in his host’s eyes.

Mr. Fong had to laugh to himself at the thought of his son befriending a potential union organizer. “Well, Sosh, as you probably know you would not be too popular around here. There are no unions in Chinatown.”

Sosh looked Mr. Fong straight in the eyes and said, “I know, Mr. Fong. I know.”

Mr. Fong decided it would be a good idea to move on to Bump and question him about his background and future.

As he pretended to be listening to the others and at the same time, trying out new dishes , Sosh’s eyes returned to the spectacle of the man lying on the couch in the darkest part of the room. The man was blissfully smoking what must have been a bamboo opium pipe. Beside him were a small open lamp and a jar of thick black paste that looked like tar but, Sosh assumed, had to be opium. Occasionally, the man refilled 440

his pipe. How he did it entranced Sosh. He would dip the wire into the opium paste and twirl it in the flame of the lamp and then transfer it bubbling and sizzling into the bowl of his pipe. If he had dropped any of the opium, he would have severely burned himself. After this ritual was accomplished, he sank back on his wooden pillow in complete bliss and drew the gray-white smoke into his lungs He appeared to be in a dream world, but where, Sosh thought-- in some kind of Chinese heaven?

Out of the corner of his eye Mr. Fong could see Sosh looking at Wang Fu smoking opium smoking. By now, Mr. Fong, in his own mind, had decided this excursion had not been a good idea. As far as his guests were concerned, they were taking in all the new sights but …….

When Mr. Fong entered the dining room, as he had done on numerous occasions, he began to see what was happening there in the light of his western guests’ eyes. At first he was proud of the dining room’s beautiful surrounding, which could be compared favorably with any in the city, including the palatial Palace Hotel. Then when he saw and heard the singing girls, whom he had previously thought, were so entertaining; he realized that his young companions might take a dim view of the lives these girls were forced to lead as slaves. His guests did not realize that by now, if they still were in China, they would be dead, either killed by disease or famine or by their parents at birth. Lower level, female infants were prized only for one thing--eventual sale as slaves. Here, in Chinatown, these girls were well fed, dressed and still alive.

Wang Fu’s taste for opium was also difficult to explain to outsiders. Fong had never succumbed to the exquisite happiness offered by the opium pipe, still he could understand how others might be enticed to its use. If Wang Fu wanted to smoke opium then that was his concern. Under the influence of opium, he lived a life of blissful serenity and hurt no one. On the other side, Fong could understand how Sosh could be repulsed by what he was seeing..

The thought kept running through Mr. Fong’s mind that he, too, was ambivalent about life in Chinatown. Some of this was caused by his son’s presence at Stanford. His son also asked him questions about slavery and the use of opium and Fong answered them as well as he could. His ambivalence caused him to think perhaps he was no longer suited to be one of the leaders of the community but who else could act as a bridge to their western neighbors. If he gave up, who else would help save the Chinese traditional life? They were surrounded on all sides by round eyes that would have them live as they do.

Deep in his own thoughts, he forgot about his duties as a host. He looked around the table and saw that his guests had completed their meals 441

and were now drinking weak green tea. He motioned with his hand for the attention of the owner and signaled with his hands for him to bring the check.

He smiled warily at the boys, got up from his chair and said, “I hope you have enjoyed your meals. Now, we should be on our way to the theater. I know you will enjoy the performance.” What he thought was, if you think the surroundings at the dinner were different; wait until you see what happens at the theater.

As Sosh followed the group out of the dining room, he looked one more last time at the opium-smoking fellow. By now, his pipe had fallen to the table at his side and he appeared to be in the nethermost depths of what must be “opium paradise”. Sosh noticed that neither Bump nor Milton glanced in the direction of the opium user. He wondered if they were even aware of his presence.

^^^^^^^^^

The Chinese theater was on Jackson Street. Leaving their bodyguards outside, Mr. Fong and the three boys walked into a simple doorway and then up a flight of stairs to a u-shaped hallway. A distinguished gentleman was there to greet them, again, probably the owner. He led them by doors, some of which were partially open so the boys knew that on the other side was the theater and the distant singsong voices of actors. They continued walking down the right side of the u and the owner opened a door with the numeral “16” painted on it. The four men filed into a small box with four seats facing the right side of the stage. Mr. Fong was careful to allow Milt and Bump the two seats in front and he and Sosh sat behind them.

A play was in process. Two actors were on the stage. Milton soon realized that the “woman” laying full length on the stage’s floor, obviously in some sort of pain since she was moaning and groaning, was actually a man. All the actors were men.

Sosh was interested in the theater and had seen numerous plays in Omaha. This theater was totally different. The stage had no flies or shifting scenery or curtain. It consisted of an elevated platform with a door on the left and right side of the stage through which actors would enter and exit. In the center were odd chairs and tables apparently piled on top of one another when not in use. There was obviously no attempt to create any sense of reality. Chinamen must accept that a play was really “a play,” thought Sosh. 442

On the stage, another “woman” holding a cup of tea stood beside the writhing actor on the floor. A third actor, apparently a doctor, was prancing around the reclining woman, bending down and looking at her anxiously and grasping her hand while his patient appeared to be in death throes. If he was a doctor, then the “lady” with the tea must be a nurse. Suddenly the patient gave a violent shudder. Her whole body heaved and she shuddered, again.

In the background, Sosh could hear music similar to what they had heard in the restaurant. Musicians located in a small balcony directly over the center of the stage were playing instruments unlike any he had seen. Guitars with long handles and strange bodies, wind instruments that were held in a vertical position but sounded like flutes and hollow sounding drums and of course, gongs that were beat when there was a need for dramatic effect which seemed to be constantly.

The action on the stage called for a crescendo of Gongs and drums beats. The doctor darted forward, dropped to his knees, put his hands under the skirts of his patient and without ceremony pulled out a baby doll.

Everyone in the box except for Mr. Fong was completely surprised by this turn of events. Sosh found himself letting out a high pitch yelp of surprise. He hoped the others didn’t hear him.

Then to add to the hysterical event, the doctor somehow pressed a magic button, which caused the doll to squawk like a seagull. It was another surprise for the boys. They all found themselves hunching over in laughter. While the doctor triumphantly waved the doll in the air for all to see, the nurse leaned over and administered tea to the lips of the now recovering mother.

Unlike the boy’s laughter, the birthing only elicited a subdued chuckle from the audience seated on bare benches in the auditorium. They had seen it dozens of times, before. Some of them were more interested in looking up to their right toward the box where their western guests’ reactions and sounds were more humorous than what was happening on the stage.

As Sosh expected, the audience was all men and they were dressed in the same blue denim and soft pork pie hats—hats they never seem to part from their heads. From their vantage point of being extreme stage right, Sosh could see the audience’s faces as well as the actors. He had to assume they were enjoying themselves because except for the sounds of 443 slightly perceptible chuckles, their faces were immobile and expressionless.

With great bravado, the doctor exited stage left still wielding the doll in mid-air as if it were the national flag of China and for one last effect, as he exited, he created one last squawk which caused another murmured chuckle and more laughter from the boys. Now completely recovered, the new mother got up and sauntered off stage, without any attempt at femininity, through the right door followed by her nurse who was now very businesslike and totally lacked any sympathy for her once, near death, patient. The music from above the stage came to a crescendo with rapid beats of the drum and a crashing sound of the gong. Members of the audience abruptly got up and started to mill around. The din of loud Chinese voices rose immediately. It was intermission.

“The performances go on all day and all night,” Mr. Fong leaned over and explained to them. “The audiences changes every two hours or so. As you saw, all the performers are men. The plots of the play are fairly simple. This play was luckily a comedy so I am sure they appreciated your laughter. The wife complains of not feeling well and her husband brings in a doctor who claims she has all kinds of maladies. We saw the final scene where it turns out she was pregnant. In a few minutes, they will start a new play with the same actors playing different parts.”

At that moment a vender stuck his head into the box. He was selling two feet long sticks of sugar cane. “Would you like to have some to munch on? It is a pleasing taste.”

Everyone nodded their heads, “Yes.” What else could they do? None of them had ever eaten cane in such a state. Each piece was wrapped in waxy paper. Sosh took his and inserted the formidable object into his mouth and started to nibble away. The cane was hard but with perseverance he was able to bite off some of its sticky mass and found that it had a saccharine-like sweet taste.

Milton, Sosh, Bump did not speak. They were too busy taking in all the sights that surrounded them.

On the other side of the theater, in boxes similar to theirs, were seated rich Chinese men with long, silk tunics of neutral hue. Behind each man sat a woman dressed in a colorful gown, her hands were constantly attending to the wants of the man who sat before her. She would light his cigarette or feed him something from a small dish or give him tea to drink. He did not speak to her. It was as if she read his mind for his needs.

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Sosh saw that above those boxes were galleries filled with women, probably prostitutes in all their splendor and glory. They wore costly brocades and dangling jewels. Their coal black, greased hair was like towers above their white powdered faces with arched eyebrows, painted eyes and lips. They wielded large painted paper fans and on occasion would whisper to one another or make a laughing face without uttering a sound.

Sosh watched as Bump and Milton looked over at the ladies. He could only assume they had no idea how these ladies made their living. He would have to explain that later when they returned to their hotel room. In many ways Sosh was happy that he had been raised in a city like Omaha. Even though it was not like Chicago or New York City, it had certainly given him a background of a big city that he would not have had if he were raised in a small California town like Bump and Milton. There were many things these two would learn in their years at Stanford some good, some bad, most of which he already was familiar with.

Bump was thinking that the women who were in the galleries across the way made him feel very strange. He could swear that one of them was looking at him with an intensity he had never experienced before. In fact, the whole trip to Chinatown had made him feel queasy and uneasy. It had certainly been interesting, there would be plenty to write home about, and it had opened his eyes to an entirely different way of life. Still, he would be very happy and relieved when they left this theater and retraced their path down Dupont Street and crossed California Street. He wondered how Milton felt about all this. He was certain by the expression on his face that Sosh had enjoyed every minute.

He also wondered about Mr. Fong. For no particular reason, as time passed, he felt Mr. Fong would also be happy when they left Chinatown.

^^^^^^^^^

Immediately behind the barn was a hen house and the crowing of a rooster announcing his dominance and availability awoke Fletcher from a sound slumber. He heard his companions stirring and eventually Professor Whitman called out from below to him, “Are you awake up there, Fletcher. We’re going outside to use the outhouse.”

“Join you in a second, Henry. I also have a need but it is not urgent and I can wait.” Fletcher thought it was wise to let the other four men have some time to get themselves straight. 445

After five or ten minutes, he got up from his nest and descended the stairs to the barn below and opened the large door to the outside world. It was still very early in the morning. He could just barely make out the time on his vest watch. 6:am, another hour before winter’s sun’s dim rays lit the day. Forty or so yards in the distance he could see the shapes of three men standing near a solitary outhouse probably built for overnight guests like themselves.

When he got to where the three men were waiting their turn, he could see they were a dismal lot. All of them were disheveled looking with clothes covered with hay and dust and grimy faces. Looking down at his own apparel, Fletcher saw that his appearance was no better. Even itinerant hobos would have steered clear of them. All of them would have to wait until they got back to Stanford before they got a good wash. Gregory was picking straw off Stuart’s jacket. Fletcher thought how similar they appeared to monkeys grooming each other.

Professor Whitman was doing his toilet while his partner, William, was still recovering from the siege of hay fever he had endured all night. He looked like he still needed eight hours of sleep instead of eight hours of trekking, fortunately down hill.

A young girl, probably ten or eleven, shouted to the group from a hill in the direction of the staff residences. “My Mom wondered if you would like hot coffee and porridge.” In a chorus the four men responded with, “Yes, please.” Fletcher thought he heard Professor Whitman join in the response from his solitary position within the outhouse.

When it was Fletcher’s turn to relieve him self, he was not surprised at the accommodations. A single hole had been dug into the rocky soil. It was about four feet deep. Over the hole a crude stool had been built, just solid enough to support the weight of a man. Beside the stool was a sheath of newspapers for wiping purposes. Fletcher had at one time preferred squatting, Indian style, but once he got back to WC’s had drifted back into sitting while he waited for nature to take its natural course.

When he rejoined his comrades, two young ladies accompanied by their mother had just arrived with trays of tin cups filled with boiling hot coffee and tin dishes filled with porridge, also boiling hot. The four men had completed their daily ablutions including washing, as clean as they could, their faces and hands with cold well water. If they were not awake before, after dashing cold water on themselves, they were certainly awake, after. Fletcher had to admit that at least they, now, appeared to be presentable.

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Fortification from drink and porridge was just what they needed to get off to a rousing start for their journey back to Stanford. They thanked the ladies with all their hearts. Professor Whitman offered them a dollar coin as payment for their efforts but they would not think of accepting it. He did manage to slip the coin into one of the girl’s pockets where he assumed she would find it after they had departed. If not, he would not worry about it.

Their sojourn completed, they began their trip back down the peak. Fletcher immediately noticed the mood among the hikers descending to ascending was as different from night from day. Everyone was in high spirits and cracking jokes and even he was the butte of some humor about a new vice he was unaware of. Professor Whitman began it all.

“So, dear Fletcher, we heard some rumbling sounds like canons booming from the upper reaches of our domain last night.”

Fletcher at first had no idea what he was talking about and in a serious vein responded, “No, I did not hear a thing. I must say I slept soundly.”

William picked up the joke, “Well, then, Fletcher if you did not hear those canons booming, could it be that you might have been the source of those raucous sounds?”

Now he understood, others including Irene had told him of his nighttime shortcoming. “You mean you heard me snoring.”

It was Gregory’s turn. “Snoring, no, blasting, yes.”

“You mean I also farted.” This was new information for Fletcher. Under the circumstances, any or all of this might have happened. He decided to join the merriment. As they talked, they were almost running down the peak. Certainly the pace had quickened. “Are you sure it was not the horses?”

Stuart sarcastically added, “Yes it was the horses. They made their way up the stairs to the loft and there they decided to serenade us with a series of explosions that almost knocked the barn over. I thought we were being attacked by the locals for trespassing. It is strange that you heard none of this.”

By now they were all smiling and waiting for their turn to add to the fun. Giving up on Fletcher they turned to their next victim, William Lucent and his problem with the hay fever.

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Before they knew it, they passed a sign indicating “Smith’s Creek” which was almost half way down the peak. It was just 9:am. Time and distance were going by at an incredible pace. At this rate they would arrive home in the early afternoon.

Just beyond Smith’s Creek they met a group of about twenty Stanford wheelers pushing their bikes before them. Fletcher knew them only by sight since most of them lived in another wing of Encina Hall. The wheelers were gasping for breath so they used the encounter as a brief respite for resting.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Fancy meeting you, here,” William said to them in perhaps too cheery a manner considering their fatigued condition.

The leader of the pack, between deep breaths, said, “I think we may have bit off too much to chew. Without the wheels, it could have been easier. But we will make up for it on the coast down.”

Gregory was incredulous; “You plan to coast down this mountain, on your wheels.”

One of the other wheelers looked at Gregory and brusquely said, “How else? On our bellies.” All the wheelers laughed at his remark and he continued. “ Why do you think we bothered to push our wheels all the way up here if we didn’t plan on a fun ride down?”

Professor Whitman decided it was time to introduce people. “My name is Professor Whitman and these are my friends Fletcher Martin, William Lucent, Gregory Peters and Stuart Wilhelm. We’re also from Stanford.”

The leader spoke up. “Sorry, Professor, Frank was so rude with your friend. He’s just a little bushed right now from the climb. My name is Harold Kessler, class of ’92. There are twenty-two of us so I am sure you won’t mind if I don’t introduce everyone. I did want to advise you that we’ve only about another 200 yards to go and then we will be turning about and begin our coast. It might be a good idea to get to the side of the road when you hear us shouting on our way down. ”

Fletcher could not contain himself. Even though they were halfway down the hill, there still remained many hairpin turns that would be dangerous for horse and cart and even more so for a free-wheeling man and bicycle. “Harold, I hope you and your companions know what you are doing? There’re many dangerous curves on this road such as the one you just passed and the one just ahead.” He looked forward twenty yards 448

and could see that the road took a serious turn with mountainside on the one side and steep embankment on the other.

“We appreciate your concern, Professor.” Because of Fletcher’s age, Kessler assumed that he, too, was a professor. “We are all experienced wheelmen and have coasted on worst terrain that this in the Black Mountains behind Stanford. We’ll be cheering all the way down so if there is any traffic they should hear us.” As if he wanted to hear no more of Fletcher’s misgivings, he turned to his companions and shouted, “Come on, Gang, let’s get going.” With that he motioned with his hand for his colleagues to continue the push up the hill.

Kessler did not want to hear any further words of caution from these old men, irregardless of whether they were professors or not.

The wheelmen moved by. Some of them were friendly and waved and grinned at their Stanford colleagues but a majority was so fatigued that they kept their eyes on their wheels and the roadway. Fletcher could see some element of fear in the way they looked at him as they passed. He would not like to be in their shoes depending on a flimsy mechanical brake and friction between oversized wheels and a rocky road for their safety. He preferred his own feet as he looked down at his scuffed boots as they solidly hit the ground creating puffs of dust. .

After the wheelmen were out of sight, Professor Whitman hesitated for a moment and then stopped in his tracks. The others followed suit. He spoke to them. “I think we were lucky to have met that group going up the road, rather than down.” Everyone nodded their heads in agreement. Fletcher couldn’t help but think about the impetuousness of youth.

“In any case, I can only predict some sort of doom for their endeavor and I don’t want any of us to be part of their self-destruction.”

William, the Professor’s lover, put a protective hand on Whitman’s shoulder and said, “Now, dear Henry, don’t get all lathered up about this.. They’re all big boys and I’m certain they can take care of themselves.”

“So it is very obvious what we will do when hear them coming, said Henry.

“Get the hell off the road. That’s what. And wait until every last one of them has passed by, “ was William’s reply at which everyone concurred.

“All right William, let’s continue, but with great caution.” Professor Whitman had a worried look on his face. 449

“With great caution, it is.” William said trying to humor his partner into better spirits.

The five men continued their descent but Fletcher noticed no longer with the carefree, holiday conviviality. All of them were constantly diverting their glances from where they were going to looking at what was coming from behind.

Finally after just rounding another hairpin turning with an equally deep embankment yawning beside it, they heard distant voices shouting, “Stanford. Yeah. Stanford. Yeah.”

Fletcher had never seen five men, including himself; move so fast in his life. All of them scrambled to the safety of the side of the road, luckily a straightaway, some distance from the hairpin turning. If a wheelman went out of control and ran into them it would be a matter of bad luck, not bad judgment on their part.

The shouting Stanford wheelmen were getting closer. Fletcher reasoned that it was not the first ones in the pack he was concerned with. Those daredevils would probably make it through unscathed. It was the ones at the end of the line, because of fatigue or timidity, who might go sailing off the road. He was not a religious man but he found himself praying for their safety.

By now the first onslaught had made the turn and were on the straightaway. The leader of the group, Kessler was among them. He saw the old men hiding in the bushes, off the road, and tipped his hat to them as he passed with a loud, “Yeah, Stanford.” Poor, old geezers, no more fun for them, he thought as he whizzed by them and prepared himself to break for the next turning.

More wheelmen followed and continued to shout, “Stanford, Stanford, Yeah, Stanford,” but Fletcher noticed that some of their exuberance was missing and the riders who were dashing by, now, were shouting more out of rote than brashness. Fletcher reasoned around half of the riders had passed. They were still coming but singly, no longer in packs.

One of the riders narrowly missed going off the road and Fletcher could see the look of fear in his eyes as his wheels slipped toward the edge but he gained control and righted himself and assumed the jaunty look of one who has won a victory over the elements.

450

There were now long pauses between bikes and Fletcher could just barely hear another wheelmen approaching shouting out his Stanford cheers. This should be the last one. Fletcher saw Gregory and Stuart getting up from their positions of safety. They obviously thought all the wheelmen had gone by. Fletcher and Professor Whitman simultaneously shouted at them, “Get back, there’s one more.”

For a moment the two men froze. Finally the shouted words and their meaning dawned on them but it was too late. The late arriving wheelman had just begun making his turn and for a second took his eyes off the road to see what the two men before him were up to. It was a catastrophic choice because he badly misapplied his breaks. His wheels slid out from under him, out of control and he and his bicycle disappeared over the mountain’s edge, down the embankment.

All five men immediately ran to the where the wheelman was last seen. Fletcher was first. He could feel his heart pounding and he knew he was already assuming the physical state of being in battle.

“Are you all right?” he was shouting to nothing but bushes and undergrowth. To his right he could see a bicycle dangling by a low lying branch, its wheels still spinning, but no rider. “Where are you? Where are you?” He shouted again.

All of his companions started shouting with him and together they made quite a clamor but when their shouting ceased, the only response was silence broken by some birds singing and the wind whistling.

“I have to go down there and get him,” said Fletcher.

Professor Whitman looked at him in disbelief, “No, Fletcher, I won’t let you. We’ll go get help and then attempt to rescue him.”

“If we wait he may die. I can’t let that happen.”

Whitman could see from the look in Fletcher’s eyes that there was no way he could argue him out of it. “What should we do?” he asked. Whitman remembered that Fletcher was battle seasoned. He was much more accustomed to the stress of an emergency

“Someone has to go back up the hill and get some help from the people at Lick. Whatever happens we are going to need a cart to get this poor boy to a hospital. Also, we are going to need rope to haul him up and if possible, a stretcher.

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Whitman said, “I’ll go,” and without another word he began retracing their tracks back up the hill to the Lick Observatory.

William asked, “What can we do?”

“I don’t know yet. If I can get him fairly close we may have to make a human chain to get him the rest of the way. I’ll let you know.”

With that Fletcher dropped to the ground and maneuvered himself over the edge and started to work his way slowly down the mountainside, from bush to bush and tree to tree.

It was precarious going. At times, he could feel his body loosing control on the rocky ground and it was pure good fortune that a scraggly tree or prickly bush allowed him some foothold or something to grab on to. By now, even though the weather was cool, he was sweating profusely and he could feel salt in his eyes temporarily blinding him. At this rate, he wasn’t too sure how long he could continue. His clothes were tattered and torn and he could see his hands were bleeding from numerous abrasions. Lord knows what the rest of his body looked like under the heavy clothing he was wearing.

As he got further down the hill, he continued shouting out, “Where are you? I’m coming. It will be all right. Where are you? “Stanford Wheelman, where are you?”

Perhaps it was saying wheelman or the Stanford but something caused a weak voice to call out, “I’m here, over here. I’m here, to your right, by the tree.”

Fletcher looked to his right and there was the forlorn figure of the Stanford wheelman in a crumbled, horizontal position but saved from further tumbling by the protective stump of a withered tree.

Somehow Fletcher got to the fallen man by a circuitous route, using whatever plant life he could, to hold on to. He fell to the ground beside the fallen wheelman.

The poor young man looked at him and smiled feebly, “Thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure if I would ever get out of here. Never prayed before but I did now. And then I heard you hollering for me. Thanks.” He took Fletcher’s hand in his and shook it weakly. “My name is Michael Newberg. I can’t get up on my own. It’s the right foot, hurts bad. Where are my wheels?”

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“Back up the hill. Shouldn’t be too difficult to get back on the road but first we have to see to you. What do you think? Can you stand? Here let me get a footing here and see if I can help you get to your feet.”

Fletcher stood up and tried to gain a footing on the incline where he could give Michael some support. Once he did, he reached down and put his arm under Michael’s arm and together they got him back on his feet. When Michael was standing, he winced as he attempted to put weight on his right foot. “I’m not sure but I think it’s sprained. I don’t think it’s broken. I broke my arm two years ago and the pain was excruciating. This hurts but not too bad.”

Fletcher said, “Thank God for that. We couldn’t walk back up that mountain if you had a broken leg. Put your arm around me and we’ll see how far we can get.”

The two men slowly and painstakingly ascended the mountainside. Several times Michael fell to the ground and Fletcher had to literally pull him to his feet. Nearby branches allowed him the leverage to accomplish this. Fletcher could feel more cold sweat coming off his brow. He could see that so far they had gone only twenty feet from where he had found Michael. It looked like they had another one hundred feet to go. He really didn’t know whether he had the stamina necessary to get them both back to the road. He would need help. Between breaths, he said, “Just a second, Michael. Let me call to my friends. Maybe they can help us. William, Gregory, Stuart, I’ve got him. I’ve got Michael. We need help. We need help.” He tried to shout but the sound was muted by his fatigue.

This became their routine, for five or ten feet they would struggle up the hill, then for a few minutes they would rest and Fletcher would call out to his friends. Finally after doing this several times, Fletcher could hear, in the distance, his friends shouting back.

“Fletcher, Fletcher, we can hear you. You are off track. Start to move to your left and you will see us.

Fletcher in his desperation had gone in the wrong direction. It would take him another four or five attempts to get within sight of his friends. Looking almost straight above him, he saw William’s face leaning over the side of the ledge. How he had ever got down that slope he would never know.

“We see you, Fletcher. Henry’s back with some rope and a cart. We have more help from the observatory. You, two will be all right, now.” William’s reassuring words were music to poor Fletcher’s ears.

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He could see that two men he did not recognize, bound with ropes to one another, were making their way toward them. How long had it been? One or two hours? Under the circumstances, time had no meaning. Fletcher had no stamina left. He could not move. He had an almost death grip on Michael’s waist so that he would not fall again. “Michael, I can go no further. They are coming down to get us. We will be all right.”

Michael said nothing in return and Fletcher could only assume he was unconscious. How long had he been like that? Just as well he must have suffered unbearable pain from his ankle.

Their rescuers were now only ten feet away and then they were there, prying Fletcher’s protective arms and hands and fingers from around Michael. The two men held Michael between them and started back up the hill with him. A third man was there. It was Henry, Henry his roommate and friend. “It’s all right, Fletcher we’ll get back up the hill together.” Henry put out his hand toward Fletcher and Fletcher attempted to grab it. In that moment, he put too much strain on the branch he was still holding on to and it gave way.

Henry futilely grabbed for him but could only watch, as his friend slid away from him and disappeared over the mountain slope.

Fletcher could feel his body almost airborne. Automatically he put his hands up to protect his face and assumed a fetal position as he bounced on hard rocky earth. An excruciating pain ran through his left arm. No longer moving, blackness appeared. For a moment, Fletcher opened his eyes and through his protective fingers saw an eagle in flight. He wondered if that was his last vision of earthly sights. It was a strange feeling. Then his eyes must have closed and he was in deep darkness.

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Chapter Twelve

1891 Exit

Students returning on Sunday from their holiday visits noticed something different in the air. Occasional showers and a certain crispness at nightfall had been the custom in September and October. Now the sunset came darker and sooner and a sudden strength leaped into southerly winds. During the night, heavy rain fell for extensive periods of time. With daylight a whole different world had been created for the new residents made up of adobe mud, slimy mud that stuck to young ladies shoes and skirts and young men’s boots and pants like glue. And when the need for clean water for washing was greatest, tap water from Searsville Lake for bathing and washing ran murkier and ranker.

A cement paved walk ran from Roble Hall past the Quad on to Encina Hall. From there arterial sidewalks branched off to each of the halls and the Quad, itself. The inner Quad was asphalt-covered but in such an enlarged area there were bound to be areas where water refused to drain creating shallow moats to be sloshed through. Woe be to those who preferred or chose a short cut or used any roundabout way to get from a class on the Quad to one of the outlying buildings. He or she would find themselves sinking into a quagmire of dense adobe ---after all it was used to build houses and elevator shafts. Where their owners had seen fit, abandoned, solitary shoes from both sexes protruded from this sea of sticky, gooey stuff. How that person got back to their hall or proceeded to their class can only be imagined.

Walkers from Mayfield and Menlo faced new obstacles and wheelers were particularly affected and had to leave their bicycles at home or push them like a baby carriage. Faculty residents along Alvarado Row found their boardwalks washed into the muddy roads. For their evening excursions to the water tank for drinking and cooking water, professors made sure to wear second-hand or rough attire. A casual observer would think they were a company of circus hands rather than distinguished academicians.

For the time being, children living on Alvarado Row would have to entertain themselves within cottages’ confines. Red fire engines and scooters were temporarily stored until better weather returned.

^^^^^^^^

455

Monday was always a busy time for Leslie Elliott. First, there was the mail to be picked up from Menlo and then sorted by Frank (Batchelder). Because of the long weekend, there were four leather bags of it. Frank groaned when Leslie asked him to help him bring the bags in from the cart he parked at the west end of the Quad near the chapel. The bags were heavy and besides that, both Frank and Leslie got their boots soaking wet walking over the wet asphalt. For the last month, Leslie had used Jordan’s cart and horse for the “picking up the mail” chore. It had become too much to carry the load two miles particularly with the bad weather settling in. New applications and inquiries for the fall ’92 term already were being sent from high school graduates located mostly in the western and Midwestern states.

Then, there was the long holiday weekend, itself, that had to be dealt with. The minute he walked into his office next to Dr. Jordan’s he heard his name called out:

“Leslie, Leslie, come in please.”

Leslie could tell by the tone in Dr. Jordan’s voice that this morning would be more intense than usual.

“I think there is a war going on and it’s between our students and the Gods of Misfortune,” said Dr. Jordan, seated at his desk with his head in his hands staring down at piece of paper that appeared to have a hastily drawn list on it. “Here, look at this.” And he simultaneously raised his head and took the piece of paper and held it out to Leslie for him to read.

The dark bold script, in Dr. Jordan’s flamboyant but readable handwriting, read as follows:

“Thanksgiving Casualties

1. Fletcher Martin, Grad, multiple abrasions, broken left arm-- -at Villa. 2. Michael Newburg, PA Wheelman, broken right leg---at San Jose Hospital 3. Chauncey Phillips, PA Wheelman, broken left leg---at San Jose Hospital 4. Frank Cushman, badly sprained ankle, at Santa Cruz Hospital 5. Edwin Rice, poison oak, Encina 6. Miss Francis Shranck, poison oak, Roble 7. Miss Edwina Keiser, poison oak, Roble 8. Joe Cook, poison oak, Encina 456

9. Herbert Davenport, Encina

Leslie looked up at Dr. Jordan with a surprised look on his face. “The wheelmen’s broken bones were to be expected knowing what that mad lot gets up to and the poison oak is unfortunately part of our landscape but broken bones particularly when Mr. Martin is involved surprises me. He seems quite a reserved person to get himself in such a predicament. Was he wheeling along with the rest?”

Jordan got up from his seat and strode around the office. Leslie was still surprised how imposing a figure he made, in spite of his girth, with his height and thick, broad shoulders. “Whitman, his roomie, came by the cottage last night and told me what happened and apparently we have a hero in our midst. Poor Fletcher was accompanying Dr. Whitman and his friends,” and here he made a leering face, which Leslie thought was uncalled for, “in a foray up to Mt. Hamilton and on the way down got in the way of our thrill-seeking wheelmen who decided it would be fun to coast half way down the mountain.”

“Coast, you must be pulling my chain, on those contraptions they have so apply misnamed, ‘safety bicycles.’”

“Yes, coasting and on the safety bicycles which are proliferating around our campus like minnows. They are everywhere and I would guess that you and I would soon be riding one to get back and forth from our domiciles. Anyway, I was distracted. One of the wheelmen, Michael Newburg, misjudged a turning and went over the edge. Luckily Whitman and his group were in the area and Fletcher, voluntarily, went to his rescue.”

A bell struck in Leslie’s head, “Fletcher is also Irene’s good friend.”

“The very one, Leslie. I think we will find it is more than a mere friendship. Interesting chap, combination of Indian fighter and classical scholar. Whitman has already mentioned him as his replacement and with acts like this, he is of the very caliber I’m sure we would like to have as a member of my faculty.”

“Unlike Dr. Whitman.” Leslie would never agree with the reasoning behind Whitman being asked to move on.

“Unlike Dr. Whitman.” Dr. Jordan knew how Leslie felt. There was no reason for the matter to be discussed further. “Newburg paid for his act with a broken leg and another of his compatriots went out of control further down the hill and also suffered a break. Mr. Martin, a bystander involved himself by going to Newburg’s rescue and nearly killed himself 457

in the process. I would say we have a full-fledged hero and Stanford’s first.”

Elliott held out the causality list and asked Dr. Jordan, “ So what would you have me do with this?” He already knew what the answer would be. They knew each other so well it was as if conversations were for verification not revelation.

”Check on the status of each of our poor fledglings with their broken or itchy wings and tell me if I should personally visit them to help in the recuperation process.”

Leslie started to back out the door. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon. It would seem that you might already start to make plans to visit Mr. Martin this afternoon. Since I am sure the students will also think of him as a hero and I am also sure some of them may hear why Whitman will no longer be with us, it might be well if you made known your plans for hiring him as Whitman’s replacement as soon as possible. Knowing Irene’s feeling for him, it would make them both happy.”

Jordan made a pretense of being miffed. “Confound you, Leslie, always beating me to my own thoughts. I’ll leave early this afternoon and stop by the Villa to see them both. It will give me a chance to see how those two young ladies’ plans are proceeding for a new school. I still would like to get Edith out from underfoot. She is getting to be a surrogate mother for our two young ones.”

Leslie was outside the doorway. “I’ll make a point of getting back to you before 3 pm.” He rushed down the hallway toward Frank’s desk. He would need his help in this matter.

^^^^^^^

Now when asked about what he remembered of his fall and eventual rescue, Fletcher responded tersely, “Very little,” which was the truth of it.

It had been over twenty-four hours since the accident happened and slowly, as he laid supine on the bed in the Villa’s extra bedchamber, he was only able to dredge up bits of memories from one of his brain’s isolated repositories. It was not a pleasant task. Interspersed with glimpses of treetops, branches, bushes, gray skies, brown dirt and rocks and excruciating pain was a reoccurring dream of being with his mother but now his mother had a dual personality embodying her own and Irene’s.

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She was dressed in a white frilly dress with an elegant blue and white hat sitting primly on her reddish brown hair and she held out her arms to him and he tried to run to her but his feet were mired in a clinging mud- like substance. He fought his way free and he could feel the softness of her body as he clung to her but the softness vanished and instead his left arm felt pain, intensely. This must have been when his body careened into a boulder, which ended his journey down the hill and also broke his arm.

He opened his eyes and dimly through the brush he could see the sky. Was that the same white eagle in flight he had glimpsed when his catastrophe began? Why did the eagle’s image make him recall the long- ago sight of the Indian Chief’s departure carrying the body of his dead son? At the time, all of it made sense to him.

He was alive. He ran his tongue over his lips and he could taste dust and dirt. He could smell the pungent scent of his own body and the accumulation of smells from dead leaves and matter he had traveled through and over. His left arm was at an odd angle and he could see crimson blood seeping though his coat sleeve where the radius bone must have partially broken through skin. Mercifully, this sight and the continuing pain caused him to loose consciousness.

He was walking through the doorway of his home and his mother and Donna, his sister, were there to greet him.

Donna said, “Fletcher, you’re safe now. Mother and I’ll take care of you,” and they both embraced him.

Fletcher was so happy, he was crying. “Donna, you can talk. I’ve waited so long to hear you speak.”

Donna said, “It’s all right dear brother. It’s all right.” And she looked beautiful and there were no signs of the malignancies that tainted her life.

Fletcher spoke, again, “Donna, it’s so wonderful to hear your voice.”

But Donna’s image blurred and another voice responded and it was not her’s but somehow he knew, it was Henry Whitman’s. “Fletcher, it’s not Donna. I’m sorry. I know how much you loved her. But you’re going to be all right. We have you, now. And we have a doctor here who’ll take care of you.”

Fletcher did not want his long awaited conversation with his sister to end. With his only arm he flailed at his rescuers. “Go away. Go away,” until he had no strength left and he looked up into a face that must have 459

been the doctor’s telling him, “This will make you feel better,” and then a sharp pain in his exposed shoulder and afterwards the soft sounds and sensations of an oblivion that made absolutely no sense at all.

^^^^^^^^

It was now the next day, Monday, and Irene had been into his room several times to feed and bathe him. It made Fletcher feel ridiculous to be so helpless and dependent. Yet, he knew if the roles were reversed he would do the same.

He was on his right side looking directly at a mirror that sat on the bureau at the other end of the room. He could hardly move so the mirror gave him a view of what was going on behind him but it also gave him a frontal view of what he looked like to others. It was not a pleasant sight.

His left arm was flung up into the air in a semi-cocked position, held firm by thick coatings of plaster of paris. The break had occurred in the lower part of the arm so the cast included most of his hand and part of his shoulder. He could see the tips of his fingers but he felt spasms of pain when he tried to move them. The doctor had said it would be weeks before the pain would be relieved and two or three months before they would cut off the cast. Breaking a bone was a serious affair. If the radius grew back malformed, Fletcher might be partially disabled or permanently unable to use his left arm.

In the mirror he could see his gaunt features enveloped with three days’ growth of dark stubble. Irene had already sent Bert to Encina to gather clothing and his books and his razor, brush and strop. She had never shaved a man before but soon she would have to.

She had certainly done a good job of cleaning him up. His entire body was covered with dirt and lacerations and bruises. She had stripped his clothes off and gently washed every inch of it with warm soap and water including his dark hair that had become a mass of briars and twigs. When she washed his pubic hairs, her gentleness even managed to arouse him and his penis becoming erect, in spite of his maladies, embarrassed him.

Irene smiled knowingly and said, “Well we know of one organ that was not affected by your fall.”

He drifted in an out of a healing sleep. A soft knock on the door and the sound of a man’s scuffing his boots while he waited. It was Irene and someone was with her. “Fletcher,” he could see the door slowly opening 460 in the mirror, “you have a visitor.” It was Dr. Jordan. He had his soft sombrero in his hand and since he had ridden Winter from Escontite Cottage, he was still breathing heavily. His lower pants and boots were mud smattered and his eyes and moustache appeared to droop even more when he saw Fletcher’s circumstances. He went to Fletcher’s bedside and took his right hand in his.

Fletcher spoke first through swollen lips, “Dr. Jordan, good to see you,” and somehow managed a grim smile but a smile it was.

Not only the scene before him but also the actions of the man who had acted so bravely overwhelmed Dr. Jordan. As they made their way up the stairs, Irene had told him that the San Jose doctor had to use over sixty sutures to stitch up Fletcher’s wounds. Coming down that hill his body was knocked about like a rag doll. The doctors told Irene, Fletcher was lucky he was not killed or permanently handicapped. Jordan could not help himself; what he saw brought tears to his eyes.

“Fletcher, Fletcher,” it was like there was a turnip in his throat. For one of the few times in his life, he could not speak.

“How is Michael?” Fletcher asked. His speech was slurred but understandable.

“Michael?” Jordan looked askance and glanced at Irene for assistance.

“Michael was the wheeler Fletcher rescued,” Irene answered, intensely unsympathetic

Now comprehending, Jordan responded, “Fine, fine. A bone was cracked in his right leg not broken as it had been reported, but he won’t be doing any coasting for at least six months. But back to you, Fletcher, I wanted you to know that you’re Stanford’s first hero. Everyone on the campus is talking about your bravery. If we had a medal I’d pin it on you, right now.”

For almost twenty-four hours Irene had somehow managed to contain her feelings. Even when she was having tea with Lucy and her friends from Harvard Annex on Sunday afternoon, she felt a pinge in her heart signifying something was wrong. She could not say it was at the exact same time; Fletcher was tumbling down the hill but it was close.

The doctors said Fletcher was almost killed. When she heard their words, her stomach felt like it dropped to her toes. If something had happened to him, it would be the second time she had lost the man she loved. It was too much to bear. She knew of Fletcher’s attempt to save 461

the Indian boy and the harm he had caused to himself and his family at Wounded Creek. She knew how altruistic he was when another was in danger. It was his greatest strength and the greatest menace to his own well-being.

Hearing Jordan extolling Fletcher’s act, Irene’s hands went to her face and her whole body was suddenly racked with sobs as she cried out, “Hero, he almost killed himself for that stupid boy. His arm’s broken. There’s not an inch of his body that isn’t sutured, scabbed, black and blue. ‘Hero’ is not a word I want to hear.”

Jordan, not knowing Fletcher’s history, could not understand how his praise warranted Irene’s outburst but gentleman that he was, he dropped Fletcher’s hand and turned to Irene and put his long arms around her and gently embraced her. She fell into his arms, sobbing. It was as if a tall, gallant tree had finally succumbed to an axe’s final blows. .

“It’s all right, Irene. He’ll be fine,” he murmured even while she was describing the extent of Fletcher’s injuries. He continued to hold her in this fatherly embrace while she gained control of herself. Eventually, she gave him a little nudge indicating it was time to free her and she pulled out an embroidered kerchief from a pocket in her frock and blew her nose, vigorously, twice. She would have to take care of her man. She had to be strong for both of them. She had the strength to do it. The tree stood tall, again.

Jordan stood back surveying the scene of Fletcher with his left arm slung above him silently watching his beloved blowing her nose and he thought if there were ever a time for good news, this would be it. He placed himself equal distance between the two lovers and dramatically announced, “In spite of the unfortunate circumstances, I have good news for both of you.”

Both Irene and Fletcher held their breaths, was the good doctor about to say what both of them had prayed for. Jordan moved closer to Fletcher. He could feel the drama of anticipation in the air and he relished it. “Fletcher, I have the honor of offering you the position in our Classical Department as an instructor in Latin and Greek at the stipend of $2,000 per annum.”

As Dr. Jordan spoke, Irene’s face transformed itself into one radiant with happiness. Perhaps, as they said, misery does begat happiness.

Fletcher through bandages and puffed lips said, “I accept with honor.”

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Jordan again grasped his right hand and was about to vigorously shake it when he thought better of it. “Good, you are instantly part of the staff. I am certain that Dr. Whitman will have duties for you to perform when you are able.”

Fletcher was not to be dissuaded. “Doctor, I have more to say.”

Both Irene and Jordan stopped as if their movements were caught in a photo. Irene’s eyes were glistening with anticipation. Jordan’s face appeared as if he had a good idea of what was going to happen next.

“Irene, come around where I can see you,” Fletcher asked and Irene obeyed.

“Yes, Fletcher,” could this be the moment?

“Dearest, Irene, would you be my bride?” This was the way it should be. Over and over he had learned that life was too precious not to take advantage of every minute and share it with the woman he loved.

One lost and one almost had cured her of any pretense of being a reluctant bride. “Yes, yes,” and she leaned over and kissed Fletcher on the lips and for a moment it appeared as if they would not be separated.

Eventually, Irene stood upright, straightened herself and she and Fletcher looked over at Dr. Jordan as if his presence lent an air of officialdom. “You’re the witness, Dr. Jordan, we’re engaged.” Fletcher said and they waited for him to say something, profound. .

Jordan stood there enjoying every moment, realizing he was witnessing another chapter of the ongoing saga of college life---strangers, friends, and partners in marriage. Now, reluctantly, he was forced to become part of the scene and he said, “I am very proud to be present at such a momentous occasion. Later, when we are back to normal, Jessie and I will have you over to share some of the Senator’s fine champagne that he gave me and we have saved for such an occasion.”

Irene was glowing, “We shall never forget your kindness in coming here and bringing us this wonderful news.”

“You, two have created your own good news for all of us,” was Jordan’s response.

Dr. Jordan had a second sense of when it was best to exit and this was that moment. From now on, whatever was said or done would only be a let down---one last touching of Fletcher’s hand and a gentle hug for Irene 463

and as he made his way through the doorway, he said, “Enjoy the moment. I can see myself out.”

Fletcher and Irene said their farewells and nodded their heads almost in unison acknowledging Jordan’s departure. She was holding Fletcher’s hand. They were lost in each other’s gazes, wordlessly relishing their engagement.

Almost tripping on one of the steps Jordan thought, “Drat, I forgot to ask Irene about her plans for the their school. Oh, well, next time. I am sure I will be seeing them soon enough. Jessie will be pleased with the news. It will be Stanford’s first marriage. We will have to make a do of it.”

Outside the villa, he mounted his horse and continued his contemplation, ” Pesky business being President of a university. It is impossible not to intertwine one’s life with those around you. Yes, a marriage, children and perhaps a child eventually attending Stanford, like a never-ending wheel and I serve as the linchpin holding it all together.

With all the excitement, he had almost forgotten that today he had a letter from Joaquin Miller written from The Hites (sic) in Berkeley accepting his invitation to visit Stanford next Friday on December 11th, only a week before the last day of the semester. It was just like the old poseur to make an appearance at the busiest time of the year and all this rain didn’t help matters. There was much to do. It was not his custom to apply heels to Winter’s barrel but he felt like a good gallop over the muddy roads was in order.

^^^^^^^^

It started with George Gardiner wanting to know more about his missed visit to Chinatown. He originally invited his contemplated companions--- Walt, Milt, Sosh and Bump---and then the meeting grew like Topsy ---others wanted to come. Everyone was busy studying for finals or doing last minute research for their term papers so they decided to meet at 10 pm on Monday evening. With luck they might have a half an hour with the lights on and even with candlelight, food could be eaten and stories told.

Automatically, the meeting became a “feed” with everyone bringing garnered fruits and drinks or sweet cakes from home. Bump and Milton volunteered to get milk from large milk pails supposedly stored safely behind heavy iron gratings in the downstairs kitchen. Sneaky students using basic tenets of physics were able to siphon quantities of milk 464

through the gratings. Bump and Milton had mastered the technique. They arrived early at George’s room bringing two tin pitchers filled with delicious fresh, cold milk. Since it was pilfered, it would taste even better.

George was seated at his study desk. His wooden legs were still attached to his legs. Several open books surrounded him, as he was hard at work on a paper he was writing about Shakespeare’s comedies for Professor Grigg’s 10:30 English class.

“So how was ‘The Springs’”? Milton asked after they had stashed the pitchers in a cool corner of the room and sat on George’s bed directly across from him.

“Crowded, it seemed like everyone from San Jose was there. It’s quite a place you know---strictly rural with mineral springs and walks and horses. All the things I don’t really care to do or enjoy. I managed to get around but it wasn’t easy. I understand that at one time, Senator Stanford owned the vineyard there, so his hand seems to be everywhere.”

“I think the old man had his hand on anything that made money,” added Bump. “How did your parents take to your ability to get around?” George had confided in Bump about his worries that they would continue their overprotective ways.

“Not bad. My mother was best. But it took me falling down Encina’s front steps to convince my father.”

“Oh my gosh,” exclaimed Milt, “you’ve done that with your eyes closed.”

George gestured with his hands to indicate what is done is done. “Anyway, I fell. Flat out, lost my canes in the process. For a moment I thought let them pick me up. Why should I bother, but something made me sit up and calmly ask for my canes and once I had them, I pulled myself up.” George smiled in spite of himself. “I really surprised myself and my father couldn’t get over how independent I had become. He kept saying how Stanford had changed me.”

Milt was skeptical; “Stanford did that in just a few months?”

George looked across at Milt and said, “You have no idea how difficult this was for me. At first, when I got here, I used to come up here, take off my wooden legs and curl up on that bed,” and he pointed to the bed they were sitting on, “and cry my eyes out.”

465

Bump had no idea George had felt that way. “You should have told us,” he said.

George, with a smile on his face, emphatically replied, “You, you were the one who kept stepping on my wooden toes and then saying, ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’” and he mimicked Bump expressing concern. The sound of his own words caused George to start laughing and his good humor infected his companions and they joined him so loudly that they did not hear the knocking on the door until it was repeated---this time louder and harder.

“All right. All right. You don’t have to break the door down. Whoever it is, ” George thought, just for fun why not try out his first year French? “Entrez-vous.” With his friends around him, he was feeling first rate. He was pleased with himself that he was able to explain his feelings to them, particularly the crying bit.

Through all this, Bump thought, “Yes, George, your father is right. Stanford has changeded you. Even though he had cried when John broke his leg, Bump never told anyone about it. He didn’t want to be known as a ‘crybaby’.”

It was Sosh at the door and he had brought along Will Greer. Sosh explained Will’s presence as he came through the door. “ What’s going on here? I could hear you fellows laughing through the door. I told Will about our Chinatown adventures and he wanted to hear more. He thinks it might be worth writing up in The Sequoia, the new newspaper he’s helping to put out.

Will had brought along a fruitcake in a tin box his mother had sent him. Bump and Milt looked at it enviously and George had to caution everyone to wait until the others arrived before eating it. The cake was dripping with brandy and looked delicious filled with fruit and nuts.

After the new arrivals had settled on the floor, Will told them about The Sequoia.

“Have any of you read the monthly magazine Palo Alto that started publishing when we first got here?”

Everyone shook their heads, “No.”

“I didn’t think so. The editor, Holbrook Blinn, had some grand ideas about making it a sophisticated, highbrow journal. I think most of the copies were sent to the faculty and upper classmen. Anyway, we still needed a newspaper reporting Stanford’s general news so at the first student-body meeting in October, you were there, Sosh, the Student 466

Council appointed Wat Nicholson and Clarke Whittier to draw up articles for a new campus newspaper. Since I had some reporting experience back at MIT, I volunteered to help out. At first we wanted to call it the Palo Alto Adz but we changed it to The Sequoia.

“Adz?” questioned Milt.

“Yes, adz. It seems a stretch now but at the time it all made sense. An adz is used to cut and form wood, like an axe, and since “Palo Alto” is a tree so….”

Milt said, “Oh, sure, tree, axe, it is a bit of a stretch but I’m still glad you changed it to Sequoia. Maybe adz. or axe can be used for something else, one of these days.”

All of this discussion about an adz made absolutely no sense to Sosh. He could no longer contain himself, “Will is trying to get them to write something about how the Business Office unfairly fired the student janitors and hired Japs.”

Will looked apologetic, “I doubt if we can do much more than side with Sosh on this. Since we’re just starting out, we don’t want to have a big palaver with the Business Office.

“No one wants to get on the bad side of them, particularly Ariel Lathrop. We’re still going to have a mass meeting in the Encina Lobby, tomorrow night and I think Dr. Swain will be there to back us up. All of you have to come.” Sosh said with his usual enthusiasm.

Almost in unison, George, Milt and Bump said, “We’ll be there.”

“What a good man Dr. Swain is to stick his neck out like that,” George said from his sitting position on his bed.

More knocking at the door and George shouted, “Come on in and join the gang.” He really enjoyed being at the center of all this action. He knew he could never again go back to the solitary life he had led in San Diego.

Walt Fong and Bert Hoover trooped into the room. Bert couldn’t help it but his shoes and pants were mud-smattered from going back and forth across campus. Just before dinner he had to slosh his way back almost two miles from Adelante Villa to Encina. Chores had to be done even in the worst weather.

467

Walt and Bert didn’t know one another. Walt had introduced himself when they were waiting outside the door. Bert felt badly that he was too shy to do introductions and that sort of thing. Back in Salem, no one worried about etiquette like they did here. He’d been invited to the feed by Milt and Bump because they knew how much he wanted to travel one of these days.

Bert immediately went over to Milt and Bump and told them, “Mr. Martin got hurt real bad falling down the side of Mt. Hamilton. He broke his arm and he’s at the Villa recuperating. He was trying to save a wheelman who was doing some fool thing like coasting down a mountain road.”

Sosh remembered that Martin had come to his rescue when Sam and his horde invaded his room.

Will looked over at Sosh and said, “Wasn’t he the older fellow who floored Sam Cutter.”

“He was the one. Good man. They don’t make them any better,” Sosh replied.

Everyone who knew Fletcher nodded their heads and said words like “Good man” and “Too bad.” Will was thinking Fletcher’s heroics would make another good story. He’d have to follow up on that. But George, who didn’t know Fletcher, was getting anxious to eat. He pulled himself to his feet and got his canes. “Now that you two are here we can start eating.”

Fletcher was forgotten and as if lightening had struck them, Bump, Milt, Will and Sosh jumped to their feet and joined Bert and Walt as they began crowding toward the food and drink. Sosh was the first to realize that George was still standing there, unable to move as quickly as the others. Sosh paused for a moment and as if on cue, the rest pulled back and Sosh motioned for George to go ahead of the pack and pick out what he wanted. Once George was sitting back at his desk with his goodies including soda crackers, spreads, cheeses, grapes and nuts and a large piece of Will’s fruit cake along with a glass of cold milk before him, the group again moved as if fish in a feeding frenzy.

In a few minutes everyone had grabbed the tin plates, George had provided and filled them with delectable morsels. For perhaps ten minutes, silence prevailed broken only by the sound of smacking lips and whispered acknowledgments of how good everything tasted. Afterwards, as they lounged around with their bellies nicely filled, George said, “Walt, I hear you had a great time in San Francisco.” 468

With obvious circumspection since he was now a spokesman for his people, Walt said, “Yes, my father was quite a host. I had never seen him that role, before. He is very anxious that my new friends understand the Chinese people.”

Will was curious; “I understand that he wouldn’t allow you to go with the rest when they toured Chinatown. Wasn’t that strange? You live in Chinatown. Chinatown is your home, isn’t it?” Walt got the feeling that Will was acting like a real reporter. Some of his questions, he perhaps could not answer.

Walt chose his words carefully, “As my father explained to me, at the moment there is a great deal of tension between the Six Companies and the Tongs. My appearance as the son of the President of the Six Companies surrounded by western friends on a tour of Chinatown could have been viewed by Chinatown residents as being disloyal to my heritage and that could have given the Tongs an advantage. At this point, my father does not want to give anything to the Tongs.”

“I’ve heard they are a bad lot. Something about the hatchets they use on their enemy,” Will said.

Walt agreed, “I have seen them roaming the streets. They act like they own Chinatown and in a way, right now, they do.”

Bert’s curiosity got the better of him. “What’s this about girl slaves and prostitutes and that fellow with his opium craze.” Bert was surprised that he could say the word, ‘prostitutes’. He had never said it before.

If Sosh had a bat, he would have hit Bert on the noggin with it. All the wonderful things they had seen in Chinatown and Bert had to bring up everything that was a sore point for poor Walt.

Walt spoke even more slowly. “That side of our culture I also have difficulty understanding. I know that I have no desire to have a female slave or use a prostitute’s services or partake of opium’s delights, but I also know that like my father I will do what I can to protect my fellow Chinese from loosing those rights.

“As I told Sosh, Milt and Bump afterwards, we, Chinese, are very open about vices that you in the western world don’t even want to talk about and act like they don’t exist. You might say we are more realistic. Can you imagine how I felt walking through Mayfield on the way to the Methodist Church on a Sunday morning and seeing all those drunks lunging at me? In Chinatown, their families would not have allowed that 469

to happen. If they drank that much, they would drink at home surrounded by family. As for the prostitutes, it is a way of life. If they were in China, death or extreme poverty would be their alternative. I know they dress strangely and have weird make-up on their faces but from what I have seen, it is no different than the prostitutes in Mayfield.”

Sosh interrupted. He felt that Walt shouldn’t have to defend his home. “George, Will, Bert, you will simply have to go there to appreciate how different it is from any other American city.”

Bert sitting in the corner, munching on a piece of Will’s fruitcake shook his head, “Not likely, sounds too dangerous to me.“ Even as he spoke, he thought that if the Iowa and Oregon relatives heard he was cavorting with Chinese prostitutes, they would know for sure he was attending a Devil’s college.

Walt looked around at him and said, “You are right. At the moment there is too much turmoil. It will be a while before I return with more friends.”

Milt added, also addressing Bert, “You would be safe if you had the three giants we had as bodyguards. I only wish they would play foot-ball for Stanford, we’d have no problem beating the State University.”

Walt smiled when he said, “You should have asked them, Milt. By the way with all this rain, are you going to keep practicing each afternoon?”

Bump looked downcast, “We may have to hold off for a few days. Before the holiday, we tried mixing the adobe with sand and right now the field feels like you are running on a bowl of mush.”

Milt added, “It’s not too bad, once the sand mixes in it won’t be like cement when we fall. Hey, you all should come out. Only a few of us have any real experience. We’re just working out right now. Doing calisthenics and some running and getting used to falling but next term we are suppose to get a real coach, a Professor Sampson will be here and we heard he has real coaching experience.”

Sosh said, “Banging bodies is not what I want to do with my life but foot-ball games coming up could be real interesting especially a game with our big rival from across the bay, Cal. Now, that could be really exciting. I bet everyone would want to go to that one.”

Milt looked at the nickel alarm clock, George had sitting on his study desk. “Oh my gosh, it’s almost 10:30. I have more research to do on my 470

paper. If the lights go out, Bump and I will get ambushed by some of those frat guys and get into a fight so we better get going.” He and Bump got up to leave and all the others followed them out after thanking George for the use of his room and clapping him soundly on the back, which served to prove, again, he was one of them.

George was left alone. He continued writing his paper but for a moment, he lifted his head from his work and his mind drifted back to the feed he had just been part of. There was no doubt about it he was surrounded by a bully bunch of friends.

^^^^^^^^^^

On the other side of Encina Hall, in room 202, Sam Cutter sat in his gent’s easy chair in the now darkened room he shared with Mitch. The only light in the room was from the burning end of a cigarillo he was smoking. It was after 10:30 and outside he could still hear the occasional scuffling and shouting signaling more encounters between friends, enemies or both---more chaps being pantsed, pushed or punched.

Mitch was already sound asleep. He slept like a baby with his mouth slightly ajar. From it whistled a whinnying, high-pitched snore like a young heifer. At first the sound bothered Sam but after a time he had grown used to it. He wished he could sleep like Mitch but it was not to be. He had far too many things on his mind.

First and foremost, he had decided to marry Sally. Over the holidays, the trip to Capitola had convinced him that the only way his passion for her could be soothed was marriage.

He had arrived early in the morning at the seaside village and found her walking alone on the beach, deep in a mumbled conversation with her deceased father. He had crept up behind her, surprised her and then enfolded her in his arms. He tried to kiss her and at first she resisted but then he felt her relent and it was all he could do to stop himself from having an orgasm there on the spot. When he attempted to pull her down to the sand so he could subdue her, she had soothed him by whispering in his ear she was virtuous and would only share her womanhood with the one she married.

Sam surprised himself by being relieved when he heard these words. Their conversation turned to how Sam would help her poison the Senator. They parted with a kiss and her promise that soon they would meet again for further kisses and plotting. He returned that same day to Stanford with love in his heart and his agile brain planning for the future. 471

Before now, plans for the future had not been an issue with Sam. Growing up on the streets of Chicago, he had fully expected to die young in a pool of his own blood with a knife in his back or a bullet through his head. Planning involved putting off this day of reckoning as long as possible. Now with the potential of a life married to Sally living in Stanford’s serene environment, there was a necessity for a change to take place in his thinking.

Even prior to Sally’s kiss, two inspirations caused shifts to take place in Sam’s nefarious thoughts. First, he watched Timothy Hopkins riding on Mayfield’s streets and, second, he read a book for an English class paper.

Actually, he saw Timothy Hopkins several times. Riding on his huge black horse, the man stood out from the crowds of downtrodden cowboys and derelicts that frequented Mayfield’s dirt thoroughfares. He was always dressed in an elegant black riding attire with tooled men’s opera cowboy boots and the tallest black Stetson tower hat Sam had ever seen. Its’ crown must have stood eight inches above the brim giving the man even more stature as he sat rigid straight in his saddle with eyes glancing neither right nor left. At his neck was always a different colored four-in- hand silk scarf, sometimes red, sometimes yellow or green. Sam was keenly aware of Hopkins’ tonsorial splendor. He began to notice how one’s dress determined one’s status.

At first Sam had no idea who this pompous rider was so one day on Main Street, he asked one of the residents who happened to sport a wooden leg, “Who might that be?” And he pointed at the rider’s back as the black horse broad haunches retreated into the distance.

The damaged fellow responded, “That’s Lord Timothy Hopkins good friend of King Leland. Be sure to bow to him next time you see him, young fellow.” And the crusty, old man hopped on his peg with uncommon speed up the steps of a nearby saloon.

His words were probably intended to put Sam off but instead they created an intense curiosity as to who this Timothy Hopkins was and why did he hold such a lofty position in the townspeople’s and more importantly the Senator’s eyes?

As it turned out, Sam’s best sources of additional information were the Professors who taught him classes. One was Dr. Griffin who taught German I, as if he really needed instruction in what was really his mother tongue, and Dr. Griggs who taught The Art of Writing an English class which as it turned out was giving Sam a bit of trouble. 472

Sam began his inquiry by saying, “In Mayfield, I saw this tall young mustached fellow riding a huge, black horse.” That was all the description needed to start five to ten minute discourses on the life and times of one Timothy Hopkins.

Since both Griffin’s and Griggs’ recounts was based on combinations of gossip, hearsay and folklore there were, at times, vast differences in some of the details but the crux of the stories was the same.

“Timothy Hopkins was the bastard or adopted son of the multi- millionaire Mark Hopkins and his wife, Mary. As a wedding gift, he was given a sumptuous mansion furnished with priceless antique furnishings in Menlo that far surpassed the Stanford’s humble abode. He has as much or more wealth than the Stanford’s. His estate holding were vast and included the new township of Palo Alto.

Even though only a few homes have been built there, as yet, speculation was already rampant and some of the properties have changed hands five or ten times already and increased in value over 100%. Several professors were considering building homes there including Dr. Marx and Dr. Anderson. It is said that the Southern Pacific would make its stop in Palo Alto instead of Mayfield. All of this was due to Hopkins’ influences with the Senator and his wife. They considered him to be their surrogate son.

The man was shrewd and heartless and woe be to those who crossed him. He was surrounded with Chinese hatchet men who did whatever he bid them. There were rumors he was behind much of the skullduggery that goes on in Mayfield.”

When this last sentence was uttered both Professors nodded their head as to say, “It was strictly a rumor and do not ever repeat that I ever said it.”

It was an easy decision for Sam---Timothy Hopkins was the perfect model for him to follow. The man had the wealth, power and the reputation Sam would need to give him and his new bride the life they so richly deserved. But unlike Hopkins, Sam did not have Mark Hopkins as a benefactor to grant him vast inheritances of property and money. If Sam were to be wealthy he would have to do it on his own and reading a book for his term paper furnished him a map charting an exacting course on how he might do just that. It was hard to believe that a man called Machiavelli could know Sam’s needs way back in 1513.

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Dr. Grigg suggested Sam read The Prince as part of his research for his paper on 16th Century Italian history. The first few pages almost put him to sleep, he could barely make out what the writer was saying in his antiquated jargon. Then the words’ meanings started to jump off the pages and seep into his brain. This fellow, Machiavelli, was giving his Prince detailed knowledge of the actions of a great man, a great man like Timothy Hopkins. All Sam had to do was read and take his message to heart.

Copying from The Prince, on his tablet, he wrote in pencil the following with certain sentences and phrases heavily underlined:

“No moral rules prevail. Rules are made by man and they must be obeyed.

A Prince should rise from unprivileged status. Should not have an inheritance. Should owe nothing to anybody or anyone. Make his own opportunity.

Learn to be able, not to be good and to use this and not use this according to necessity.

Well-used cruelties are done once for self-defense. It would be best to be both loved and feared but when necessity forces a choice, it is better to be feared. Friends may forsake you but the dread of punishment will never forsake you.

If a Prince wins and maintains a state the means will always be justified.

Must learn the art of war. Must be armed. It is unreasonable for one who is armed to obey one who is not.

Men with fixed natures and habits do not vary as the time changes. Fortune is a woman who lets herself be won more by the impetuous than by those who proceed coldly.”

Sitting in his easy chair with the cigarillo still lit, Sam made mental notes of all the activities he would have to undertake to put Machiavelli’s schemes into play. In his mind, he visualized the scenes as they enfolded.

He must get rid of “Wonk” his fraternity’s president as soon as possible. Sam was still only a pledge but next semester he would be initiated and then he could start to use the fraternity members to implement moneymaking plans but it had to done without Wonk’s involvement. 474

There had to be countless ways to make money from Stanford students. Tickets had to be sold to events. He would retain the profits. Everyone at Stanford was so innocent and gullible. It should be like taking candy from a baby.

He needed to remove himself from any possibility of being prosecuted as a common criminal. He certainly would no longer pick pockets and he would no longer involve himself with the O’Grady family. They would have to fend for themselves possibly under Quong Wo’s domain. “Use this and not use this according to necessity,” was how Machiavelli had put it.

Some how he would have to meet and impress Timothy Hopkins. He imagined that Mr. Hopkins might need someone like himself who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty or even bloodied. Quong Wo would help him.

He must win Sally’s love and confidence even if it meant going along with her murderous ways. Sly means could delay any of her unseemly actions that might jeopardize his own plans. Who knows if he delayed long enough the old couple might die naturally without a need for outside assistance.

All of this was to be accomplished in the coming year. He would be a busy bee in ‘92. .

^^^^^^^^^

With electric lights on at Roble Hall, some of the fun of making pie of a room had diminished. Before the advent of bright light bulbs, in darkened halls, tittering in the shadows would be the “piemakers” waiting patiently for their luckless victim, carrying a single candle, to open her door to find all but the walls of her supposed sanctum violated and inverted. There in dim candlelight she could dimly make out that her beds, tables, chairs were piled upside down creating an irregular pyramid topped off with books and personal items and crowned with a still filled, teetering inkstand. Repayment for hours of arduous work and waiting would be the look of shock and pain when the room’s occupant viewed the mess that would need to be put right before beds could be slept in.

Sometimes if the victim was well liked, “piemakers” would even help with the job of putting things upright and straight. Woe to her, who was disliked and might have acted too persnickety for her own good, she 475

would look around to find, if she were lucky, a roommate, otherwise the titterers were gone leaving a void--- nothing and no one.

Now that lights had finally reached not only Roble, but also the Alvarado Row cottages and the Quad as well, the fun of being veiled in darkness was no more. Halls were deserted and only the wail of discovery would bring forth viewers waiting in adjoining rooms to offer their shammed condolences.

“Is she there, yet?” Delores whispered.

“No,” Sally said peeping through the thin opening made by a barely opened door, “I think I can hear her coming.”

In the distance, Mary Freeman’s high-spirited voice could be heard chattering away to her roommate. “What a cute boy, he is. He kept making gestures to me but I had no understanding what they meant. What’s this? Did you leave the door unlocked?”

Held breathes and then the awaited howls and shrieks caused by sighting the pile. Sally flung her door open so that she, Delores and Betsy could fully enjoy every satisfying second.

Sally soon realized that being the victim was really part of being initiated into an exclusive club and those who were not, felt deprived like an outcast. All the hoopla created was really pangs of relief that they too, were now members of the club.

Mary was visibly upset but for another reason. “We came back early so that we could join all of you,” by now there were ten or fifteen young maidens flocking around, “in calling on Mrs. Jordan and wishing her happy birthday.”

Sally could see the timing for the “piemaking” was completely awry. “Oh, come with us, Mary, we’ll help you set things straight when we get back. You can use my room to freshen up.”

Within ten minutes, female voices were heard in the halls announcing an assemblage for the purpose of proceeding to Escondite Cottage. With their kitchen stove out of order, Roble ladies were, again, having their meals at Encina. One more parade down the cement path, only this time passing Encina, was taken in stride. It would be the forth time in one day their young legs had made the half mile jaunt to Encina and, in this case, another half mile to Escontite.

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The lateness of the night did make a difference. It was dark, cold and wet. Even though it was not raining at the moment, the cement path ended in front of Encina and from there only a muddy trail could be traversed the remaining distance to the steps of Escondite Cottage.

Mrs. Richardson, Professor Richardson’s mother, now lead the pack. She had taken the place of Miss Leach, Roble’s first Mistress. Actually, she strode behind Winifred Montgomery, a plucky girl who had borrowed a lantern from the watchman to provide illumination for the trip.

The procession could not help but create a stir as it passed Encina. Particularly 3rd floor occupants were taken with the view of what appeared to be huge snake-like creature, made of over thirty body parts with a single luminous eye making its way toward Mayfield. They called out to the creature.

“If you are looking for an honest man, don’t come this way.”

“Girl, girls, turn right if you want to have a dance.”

“We have plenty of dancing partners.”

“Whatever you are looking for, you will need a brighter light.”

“Look, chaps, at that huge one-eyed monster slithering by.”

“Oh, no, that’s not a one-eyed monsters it’s our Roble angels.”

Several girls thought of witty retorts like, “If we were looking for a man we would not be here.” but thought better of shouting back. It would not have been considered to be lady-like. They suffered in silence.

Once past the hall and earshot from 3rd floor catcalls, the group found themselves slogging through mud. Winifred tried to keep her followers informed of particularly wet areas. With eyes intent on the ground before her, she would call out, “Here’s a bad puddle. Keep left.” Her command would then be passed down the line but by the time it got to the middle of the group, it had become unintelligible.

The only way a young lady could be alerted to potential hazards was to watch the person before her. If they staggered or worse fell, danger lurked. While the girls up front, close to Mrs. Richardson maintained some degree of decorum, the ones in the back including Sally, Betsy and Delores had given up any pretense of trying to stay mud less.

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Delores cried out, “What is this muck. I think it is the stickiest stuff I have ever seen.”

Betsy managed to respond, “I think they call it “dobey”. They use it to make houses.”

Sally said, “They could use it to build battleships. All I know is that the hem of my dress is stuck with the stuff. I can hardly walk straight.”

Delores suddenly gasped as she slipped into a puddle that had gathered at the side of the path. She couldn’t help but lose her footing and ended up flat on her bottom. The line was forced to stop as the girls helped her regain her feet. She felt her backside. “My bottom is completely wet,” she said. “I can’t believe this is happening to us.”

Her remark made all the girls that could hear what she was saying at the end of the line laugh. Up front ladies did not know what had happened and could not hear what was being said. All they knew was that the line was not moving, the girls at the end were laughing and giggling and it was getting colder.

Mrs. Richardson called out, “What’s all that giggling about. We must get going. We are almost there, girls.”

Sally shouted back, “It’s Delores, Mrs. Richardson, she fell in a puddle.”

“Is she all right?”

Delores managed to speak, “I’m wet but all right, now. We can keep going.”

The one-eyed monster continued on its way.

As Mrs. Richardson had promised, Escontite Cottage’s welcoming lights soon appeared in the distance. She had given Dr. Jordan a note warning him that the girls would be visiting his wife tonight to wish her good wishes on her birthday.

In readiness for the Roble Hall visitors, Dr, Jordan had lit every lantern he could lay his hands on and placed them around the edge of the cottage’s porch. Jessie was busy with the children so he and Edith warmed up gallons of apple cider on their black stove and begged or borrowed enough tin cups from faculty members so that every lady would have a cup to warm her. Bert Hoover’s services were put to use to gather 478

the cups and Bert was there to help with the pouring of the cider. For this he would be paid a total of twenty-five cents.

It was obvious that the cottage was too small to hold over seventy visitors. They would have to remain outside, in front of the porch. Mrs. Richardson knew of Dr. Jordan’s intentions so she moved her charges three or four deep directly by the porch.

Swathed in lantern light, Dr.Jordan and Edith were like actors on a stage. Both of them were glowing with pleasure and waving to the upturned faces. Jordan grasped the hands raised to him as a sign of welcome. He looked down upon them—every single face smiling and happy. He knew how difficult it had been for them to get there. He was very proud.

At that moment, the cottage’s front door opened and Jessie Jordan appeared with Knight at her side like a Broadway star making her first stage appearance. In her arms was the month old Barbara wrapped in thick blankets to protect her from the chill. Behind her, stood Lucy Fletcher who had offered to come over from the Villa and help with Barbara during the student’s visit. Jessie was dressed in a black sateen wrapper. Her dark hair and olive skin made Delores think Mrs. Jordan might be Spanish. Knight had a starched white shirt on and blue pants and his blonde hair was cut short with bangs across his forehead and he, too, was beaming from ear to ear.

The girls cheered lustily and then sang with great gusto, “Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday, Mrs. Jordan. Happy Birthday to you.” Followed by more cheers.

Jessie spoke in a voice that all could hear, “Thank you, dear ladies for your good wishes. Your presence has made this day even more eventful. My husband and I appreciate the difficulties you may have had getting here,” at this point some in the crowd, chuckled, “ and I’m only sorry that we can’t invite you all in,” some thought of moaning but ruled against it, “to partake of some refreshments. But we do have some hot cider,” some ventured subdued ‘hurrahs’, “that will warm you a bit on such a cold evening along with my warmest thanks for being here.”

Jessie made a little curtsy to the group and the girls responded with a rousing, “For she’ a jolly nice lady, for she’s a jolly nice lady, for she’s a jolly nice lady,” this last word was held for an indeterminable time, “which no on can deny.”

Then Jessie exited with Barbara and Knight through the cottage’s front door and the job of filling over seventy tin cups with hot cider began. 479

Later, Jessie returned and stood in the background while Knight rushed about pretending to be a locomotive. Lucy remained in the parlor holding Barbara. Mrs. Richardson at one end of the porch and Dr. Jordan at the other ladled out the cider from pots taken off the stove by Edith and Bert. As the pots were emptied, the two young people would rush back into the kitchen and get another one. The pouring and ladling took about twenty to thirty minutes to complete.

The girls milled about talking and warming their hands while they drank. After all were served, Mrs. Richardson and Dr. Jordan were the last, it was apparent that the Jordan family wished to say adieu to the throng before them. Dr. Jordan made sure that more lanterns were provided to make the return trip a little less precarious. Tin cups were returned to Bert and Edith who would have the job of washing them that night and Bert would return the cups to their rightful owners the following day.

On the porch, Dr. Jordan hugged his wife and Edith and they all waved their arms and hands in farewell gestures. Dr. Jordan attempted to grab Knight as he rushed by but it was impossible. He was like a toy that was overly wound.

The Roble Hall ladies formed up again in couples and started trooping back toward the Quad and home. Several times some of them looked back and waved again. The Jordan family sans Knight was still there, waving their arms like a windmill particularly Dr. Jordan. This farewell scene continued until darkness fell like a curtain and impeded any further goodbyes.

Dr. Jordan’s lanterns helped to illuminate their way making the return trip safer and quicker. Luckily, there were no more incidents like the one that occurred to Delores. As they passed Encina, only a few stalwart third floorers called out to them but their shouts fell on deaf ears of tired and cold ladies.

When the group sighted Roble Hall’s outline against the gray, moonlit sky, Sally let loose of Delores’ hand and whispered, “I have something to do. I will see you tomorrow morning, usual time.” Without further fuss, She disappeared into a thick clump of bushes and trees that grew along side the path. Delores thought nothing of her friend’s early departure. She had grown used to Sally’s requirement for privacy at varying and odd moments. At times, she felt similar needs but unlike Sally she did not have the temperament to impose them upon others.

The wandering ladies’ footsteps quickened as unseen hands in anticipation of their return opened Roble’s front doors. 480

^^^^^^^^

Sally had made sure that Sam was not following her. She took a roundabout route, doubling back several times, stopped, listened and looked. He was not there.

She did not want him to know of this special place where she had found some degree of solitude. The natural enclosure made by vines and foliage was about fifty yards off the road leading to Roble Bridge. In its midst was a solitary tree stump whose dimensions imitated those of a wooden stool.

Even in the darkness, she knew her way. She did not want the light of a candle to reveal her presence to any passerby. Sally in her traipsing had come across the site and now used it to discuss recent happenings with her father. Much had happened over the Thanksgiving Holiday at Camp Capitola. She wanted to consider with her father’s help whether she was taking the right course of action.

Her father had warned her that Sam would probably follow her to the beach last Sunday morning. That was the reason she had decided to take her solitary walk to confront him. He was such a clumsy sot and so predictable. Treading behind her in his heavy boots and then supposedly taking her unawares.

She almost laughed in his face when he attempted to kiss her. She could smell his breathe--what was it beer, garlic, or just more of the feculent odors men created. It reminded her of the chicken sheds, she and her brother had to clean out when they were young. At first, she purposely resisted. Men liked to churn up emotion in the first throes of seduction. It must excite them so their little worm can become firmer, quicker.

When she relented and, she had to admit to herself that this part of the escapade was amusing, heating up poor Sam up with her lips and tongue and hands so that he was in a perfect lather. She could feel his body pressing on her almost doubling her over so that she should fall to the sand and he could pull up her petticoats and pull down her knickers. But with the strength she had developed over the years, she remained solidly upright which surprised him and to soothe his hurt feelings, she whispered magic words into his ear, “I am saving myself for my husband.” Only rarely had those words not worked to forestall rape. When they had not, a quick kick to the groin had done the job. With Sam, a kick was not necessary, He became like putty in her hands. 481

If he had know the truth that she already known half a dozen men including her Mother’s husband, he might not have been so compliant. But he did not know and the conversation was diverted to a subject Sally had wished to pursue from the first, how could he help her poison Leland and Jane Stanford?

Her father was completely understanding that Sally’s revenge would take time and planning to accomplish. Because of this, Sally felt it was only fitting to enlarge the number of victims to both members of the Stanford family. Before, when she first arrived at Stanford University, she thought that Mrs. Stanford was innocently unaware of her husband’s unscrupulous undertakings. Now, that she had seen Mrs. Stanford several times and had heard more about her strong personality, there was no doubt in her mind that Mrs. Stanford not only knew, she may also have even promoted her husband’s deviousness.

Sally’s father agreed with this conclusion so in the mind of Sally as tribunal, Jane Stanford was sentenced along with her husband, Leland, to die of unnatural causes.

Mr. Brewer also agreed that poisoning would be the best method to accomplish the deed and Sam Cutter could prove to be invaluable as the person to provide needed assistance.

To help bring this crime to fruition, Sally had decided not to become a lawyer but, instead, a nurse. She realized from knowledge obtained at Stanford that her best access to the Stanford’s household would be as a member of the nursing profession. Next semester she would begin her studies in those courses required for entry into the one year advanced nursing schools of which there were several in San Francisco. Who knows with proper contacts she might even gain access into the household without the required credentials, perhaps as a nurses aide.

Sam had told her that he knew of a man named Timothy Hopkins who was almost like Stanford’s surrogate son. Sam was attempting to befriend this man and if he did introduce Mr. Hopkins to Sally and mention her abiding interest in obtaining nursing experience. Once access was gained, it would be an easy matter to add arsenic or strychnine; they were not sure which, to whatever was being imbibed by the old man and woman. .

In a deep voice emanating from Sally’s throat, Mr. Brewer made an observation, “And what will Mr. Cutter want for providing these services?”

“I think he will want to marry me, “ she said. 482

“You hate the fellow. You would take this man as your husband to undertake my revenge? This is too much of a sacrifice.”

“I would do this and more, Father.”

“And what of your love for Delores?”

“I am not sure that love will ever be consummated. Not being too worldly in affairs like this, I will not jeopardize my relationship with Delores to find out if she would be amenable. For the time being, I am content with our close friendship.”

“And the Jew?”

Sally had entrusted her father with knowledge that she had special feelings for Rubin, “Sosh.”

“Sosh is too busy with his crusades to be concerned with my feelings. I’ve never met a man before that I envied. He is so gentle and considerate. At the moment, his friendship is all I want. Yes, if they truly love me, both of them will understand. I do not expect to be married to Sam for long.”

“Why is that?”

Sally smiled at the secret she was about to reveal. For the first time, she would speak the words of an intrigue she had been planning, “Soon after my promise to you is fulfilled, I will undertake one more criminal act. Sam will be my final victim.”

^^^^^^^^^

“The Sequoia,” the publication William Greer had referred to during the meeting in George Gardiner’s room made it first appearance on December 9, 1891. Towards the back of the edition, was a simple sentence supporting the petition to put the Student Janitors back to work.

The evening before, Sosh was in charge of a mass meeting in the Encina Lobby. He stood on a raised platform created by the ground landing of Encina’s central stairways, surrounded by over two hundred cheering students.

He shouted out to the assembled Stanford men, “Do you know what I’ve got here.” 483

As if on cue, the students roared back, “What have you got there, Sosh?”

Sosh responded , “I’ve got the signatures of 244 students and faculty members including our sponsor, Dr. Swain, asking the Business Office to take back the Student Janitors, they fired.”

The assemblage cheered, Rah Rah Rah. Sosh Sosh Sosh Rah

Dr. Swain, a large figure of a man, strode to Sosh’s side. Sosh quickly quieted the group so they could hear Swain’s remarks.

“Gentlemen.”

More cheers.

“I want you all to know that I completely endorse this petition.” And for a moment, he stood with Sosh and he held the papers with the signatures high above his head.

More cheers.

Swain gave the petitions back to Sosh and returned to where he had been standing at the side of the improvised podium. Sosh had one parting remark to make, “Tomorrow, I will present this petition to Mr. Fesler to be given to Mr. Ariel Lathrop.”

“Boo.” “Boo.” A barrage of boos came from the assembly when Lathrop’s name was mentioned.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, hold your feeling until we find out what Mr. Lathrop has to say for himself.”

“Go, get ‘em. Sosh.”

“You’re the man.”

“Ariel doesn’t know his derriel from a parallel.”

The group was not reluctant to show how little they thought of Mr. Lathrop.

Sosh knew he better end this meeting before matters got out of hand. “Tomorrow, gentlemen, Mr. Lathrop will hear from all of us.” 484

Cheers and hurrahs.

The meeting broke up without incident. In one of the far corners of the lobby, Bert Hoover stood and watched. When others cheered, he remained silent.

^^^^^^^^^

It was Friday, December 11, 1891 at about 4 pm. Later in the evening, Joaquin Miller, the worldly poet of the Sierras, was scheduled to speak at the Chapel. He would be the first artist, in this case, poet, to be invited by Dr. Jordan to speak to a combined gathering of faculty, students and their guests. Mr. Miller would stay at Escontite Cottage that evening so Dr. Jordan had asked him to drop by beforehand, later in the afternoon, which could be considered to be any time from 430 to 530 pm.

In preparation, the cottage needed dusting and particularly the spare bedchamber where the honored guest would stay over night. Jessie Jordan asked her husband to have several students drop by to help clean. She had learned from bitter experience, with the exception of Bert Hoover, student help was a haphazard solution to any extra-help problem. That day’s activities would prove not to be the exception. A male student worked for about an hour and said he had to study for some undefined test and left with a quarter in hand as pay. There was no mention of his returning. Another was tardy by an hour and then worked sluggishly and without accomplishment, enough so that Jessie merely said it wasn’t working out and the student left wordlessly and quarter less. By using five students, almost three full hours of work was completed and that was somewhat of a stretch but Jessie knew better than to complain to her husband about his student’s lack of work ethnic. All he would do was throw up his hands in a gesture of helpless bafflement. She had seen this gesture enough to know it also meant he would do nothing to improve the situation.

By 4 pm, Escontite Cottage was reasonably presentable. Edith and Knight wore their church going attire including Baby Barbara wearing her sweet little christening dress. Jessie had on the new dark brown taffeta dress with an orange, organdy bow she had bought in San Francisco the prior weekend.

Dr. Jordan was late arriving home. Just as he was walking out of his office, Frank called to him, “Mr. Lathrop from the San Francisco Business Office is telephoning. He says it’s urgent.”

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It was not urgent, Jordan thought. Just a bill from someone and Lathrop was checking to see if the Senator had approved payment. “Of course, he has,” Jordan shouted over the telephone, when, of course he had not bothered the Senator with such trivial matters. Both Lathrop brothers were a perennial pain in his side.

Even Batchelder, in the office down the corridor, could hear Dr. Jordan’s one-sided conversation. He couldn’t help but think, “Why was it that older people like Jordan always raised their voices when they used the newfangled telephone? It was like they thought that shouting was required to be heard for such a distance.”

When Dr. Jordan finally walked through the cottage’s back door it was almost 4:30 and Mr. Miller might arrive at any moment. Dr. Jordan acted as if there was no reason for him to change his attire, but Jessie shooed him into their bedchambers and admonished him to put on the suit he had worn at the Opening Ceremonies. “If you’re the President of a University, you should dress like one,” she insisted. He even wiped off his boots with rag used for that purpose. Now, Escontite Cottage and the Jordan family were ready for the poet’s arrival.

For almost an hour, they waited for the sound of the front door knocker. Within fifteen minutes, Knight was discovering new ways to amuse himself, to his half-sister’s consternation since her stepmother would soon ask her, “Edith, please see what Knight is up to, now.”

Finally the “thump, thump” of the knocker and Dr. Jordan rushed to open the front door. Even though he had previously met the man at a meeting at the State University, he was taken aback. There Miller stood, the self-pronounced, “Byron of the Sierras.” For a few seconds the two men eyed one another. Miller did cast a unique figure.

He was as tall as Jordan, ramrod straight in his bearing with broad shoulders thrown back and, unlike Jordan, a waistline that refrained from hanging over his belt. His yellow, graying hair was long and fell in curls to the leather collar of his fringed frontiersman jacket. Unlike Jordan’s, his hair was vainly parted and tufted to fill in for a receding forehead. What particularly caught Jordan’s gaze were his intense eyes, light blue like the sky, deeply set under a protruding brow that looked like the top of T with his aquiline nose as its base. Under a full, well-kept beard, he sported a white silk shirt with a bright yellow four in hand. A soft sombrero he held in his large, workmanlike hands further enhanced his pseudo-mountaineering demeanor. His high top boots were caked with dry yellow mud.

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Dr. Jordan felt quite somber and formal in his attire but he was not envious of the poseur impression the man cast. Joaquin Miller was obviously a poet from the West. No one seeing him would deny that.

“Dr. Jordan, good to see you, again,” and a large right hand came forth and engulfed Jordan’s slender fingers.

“Good to see you, Mr. Miller. Please come in and meet my family. They’re looking forward to meeting such a well-know literary figure.”

Both men walked into the parlor where Jessie Jordan held Baby Barbara in one arm and with the other had momentarily trapped her young son by the neck. His feet were off the ground for a mere second but when they touched down again he was able to break her hold and he was off again, his little legs churning as he ran through the dining room into the kitchen. They could hear the back door open and slam shut as he gained freedom into the outdoors. His family and the newly arrived guest silently watched his antics. The guest smiled. The family did not.

Somewhat as an anti-climax, Dr. Jordan said whimsically, “That was our son, Knight. Next time round, he will shake your hand.”

“Quite a boy, Dr. Jordan. Quite a boy.” When his blue eyes beheld the eleven-year-old Edith, he rushed to her as he held his free hand over his heart. “And who might this lovely lady be. I’m already smitten.”

Edith had never before experienced this degree of immediate adulation and her face turned beet red as if she were a member of the lobster family. Miller’s next move only heightened her embarrassment. He reached down, grabbed her petite hand and kissed it all the while doing a little bow as if he were attending a soiree at some French Marquis’ chateau.

Dr. Jordan went along with the performance and with fatherly pride, said, “You’ve kissed the lovely hand of my first-born. My lovely daughter, Edith.”

“And this young lady standing beside her with the little one?” Jordan held his breathe; Mr. Miller was now glancing at Jordan’s wife, Jessie. “Surely, this must be another of your lovely daughters.”

Dr. Jordan could only smile to himself. He had seldom witnessed such blatant hogwash. He expected Jessie would correct Miller and bring some sense to the scene. Instead, she beamed like a schoolgirl and just barely caught herself before almost tittering like one.

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“No, Mr. Miller,” Dr. Jordan corrected him, “this is my wife, Jessie and she’s holding Barbara, our recently born daughter.”

Without looking at Dr. Jordan, Mr. Miller looked at the mother and child with rapture in his eyes and said, “If you want to see God, look upon a mother with child.”

In spite of himself, Jordan was taken with the phrase. He recognized that Miller had gone through this same scene on countless occasions---first espying the young daughter and then moving on to the older woman. From where he stood, Dr. Jordan could vouch that the whole connivance worked. Both Edith and Jessie were obviously taken with this mountaineering poet. He could not say the same for himself.

On the mantelpiece, a Mexican onyx clock sounded the half-hour; it was 5:30. The meeting would take place at 7:00. Jordan thought, to gather his family, harness the horse and get there could take anywhere from thirty to forty-five minutes. That left almost forty-five minutes remaining to entertain Mr. Miller. Good Lord, how could he carry on a conversation for forty-five minutes with such a maverick?

Jessie, the gracious hostess, suggested that Dr. Jordan should help Mr. Miller bring in his things and place them in the spare bedchamber. In the meantime, she would prepare tea and some pastries that they would have in the parlor.

Touching his hand to his head, Miller bid the two ladies and baby “Adieu,” and then, almost as heavy footed as Jordan, followed his host to the front porch.

Outside, Joaquin Miller asked Dr. Jordan if he would he care to join him in smoking some excellent cheroots..

“They’re made in Cuba,’ he said.

“Thank you, but I’ve never smoked or imbibed liquor, for that matter.”

“Well, I’m afraid I do a bit of both,” Miller said as he pulled two boxes from the inside pockets of his leather jacket. One was a box of Key West cheroots manufactured by a Juan F. Portuondo and the other a small box containing anti-wind matches. Jordan watched as the poet carefully faced away from him so as not to blow smoke in his face. With casual precision, he placed the cheroot in his mouth, struck the match on the side of box and cupped his hands around the lower part of his face, protecting 488

his beard as he lit the cheroot. He sucked and exhaled several times, until the end of the cheroot glowed in the approaching evening’s dim light.

In the confidential tone men used when speaking to one another, Joaquin said, “There is no need to harness up your horses. Old Bitsey here is all raring to go, so please let me use my rig, tonight.”

Jordan was pleased at the offer. It was one less chore he would have to do because once harnessed, his horse would need to be rubbed down, later tonight, when the harness was removed.

“I appreciate that. Of course, you can use the barn, tonight, for Old Bitsey. And I have plenty of feed. Fine looking horse you got there, Mr. Miller.” She was a nag, but what else could he say.

“She seen better days, but haven’t we all? Call me, Joaquin, Dr. Jordan.”

It was difficult for Dr. Jordan to say it but he managed, “And please call me, David, Joaquin.”

It was almost as if his conviviality was overpowering, Jordan thought.

At least until the cheroot was smoked, Jordan managed to unravel some small talk.

“Joaquin, I don’t think you mentioned the title of your lecture, tonight. I’d like to refer to it when I introduce you.”

“No, I don’t think I did. I was thinking about that when I was driving over here from Berkeley. I decided that “Education in China” would be a good topic for me to cover.”

“’Education in China’, sounds real interesting. ” Jordan surprised himself by how quickly he picked up Miller’s jargon. “Have you been to China, recently?”

“No, not recently, David. In fact, I’ve never been there. But I’ve talked to lots of Chinamen and read lots of books about China. And I’ve got some real strong thoughts on the matter.”

Jordan was hesitant about whether or not to continue this line of questions. In any case his dilemma was solved when Joaquin looking out at the unkempt garden surrounding the cottage, said, “When I speak, I always like to wear a white rose in my buttonhole. Do you think you could find me one in your garden, there, David?” 489

It was almost wintertime, growing dark and the chances of finding a rose; any rose was extremely remote. Of finding a white one, nigh on impossible. Still the ever-optimistic doctor was not to be denied. “Well, I am not sure,” as he stepped off the porch on to the still muddy ground, “but I certainly will try.”

Jordan had no formal garden as such. At one time, Peter Coutts, the previous owner, had an extensive one but Jordan did not have the gardening inclination or time. He did know the approximate area where the prickly shrubs grew and he strode over to that site and scanned their naked branches for buds, any size, any color. As luck would have it, there alone on a branch grew a single white bud. Without concern for thorns, he tweaked the rose off and held it high in the air for Joaquin to see. In the process, he did manage to prick his thumb. Blood slowly started to ooze from the puncture.

“Here you are,” he said, trying to stifle a sense of accomplishment at satisfying his strange guest’s even stranger request. White rose, humph! And what’s this trickling down my hand? Good Lord, blood. All because of the fool’s request.

Miller stepped to where Jordan stood and with one sweeping gesture plucked the rose from his hands and straightaway pierced his leather buttonhole with its short stem. He turned toward Jordan waiting for some words of admiration.

Instead, Jordan said, “Perhaps, Joaquin, we should return to the ladies. I expect our tea may be poured. The men went to Miller’s buggy and pulled his single valise from it and returned to the cottage. Jordan pulled his white handkerchief out and bound his hand, just in case the blood might drip on the rugs. Once inside he would excuse himself and see to it.

Back inside, Jordan hesitated to tread on the costly French rugs with their muddy boots but felt it was neither the time nor place to request that his new friend take off his high boots. Joaquin was not the least bit reluctant when he tramped back in. Jordan was sure Jessie, in these circumstances, would overlook their transgressions.

And, indeed, she did. Jessie had ensconced herself on the settee with the their silver tea service before her. Edith was standing, humbly, at her side in case anything was needed from the kitchen. Knight was nowhere to be seen. Baby Barbara was in the kitchen being cared for by Lucy Fletcher.

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On a silver tray were some delicious apple pastries Mrs. Jordan had ordered from the local Chinese Bakery. They understood what she wanted when she asked for “little apple pies.”

Joaquin Miller quickly dispensed with the need for family names so it was “Jessie that,” and “David, have you heard?” Dr.. Jordan found all this informality to be disconcerting. He looked hopefully up at the onyx mantle clock, “Good Lord,” he thought, “it was only a few minutes past six ‘o clock---thirty to forty five minutes more, of this.”

There was no reason to be concerned. Mr. Joaquin Miller took it upon himself to regale the Jordan family with a quick synopsis of his life interspersed with rendering his poetry. For the life of him, Jordan could not remember a word that was uttered by himself or Jessie requesting this history or the renderings. Joaquin needed no prompting.

“I was born in 1841 in a covered wagon pointed west. My real name is Cincinnatus Heine Miller. I was named after an august Roman statesman and my middle name came from the famed German poet but I’ve more identified with England’s Lord Bryan who has always been a personal hero of mine.

“As a youth I was a roustabout in a California mining camp. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed or not but I’ve got a limb in my left leg just like Lord Bryan but mine was due to being wounded at the Battle of Castle Crags when a few of us were almost overwhelmed by a tribe of warlike Indians.

The word, “Indians,” must have reverberated through the cottage because Knight Jordan’s small figure appeared around a corner and he made his way to where his mother was sitting and plunked himself down beside her. Joaquin acknowledged the new arrival with a nod of his head but his narrative did liven a bit from that point onward.

“In the camps, I worked as a cook. They called me ‘Crazy Miller’ because I started to write poetry in the kitchen but I will say this I cooked all winter for 27 men and every man was alive in the spring.”

Jessie and Edith tittered at this remark.

“In ’55 I joined William Walker as a filibuster and I saw more than 2,500 of us secure Nicaragua for the United States so that Walker could rule that poor country. I returned to Oregon before the likes of Cornelius Vanderbilt turned Walker out.”

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Jordan noticed that something was awry with the dates. In ’55, Miller would have been fourteen years old. He looked at his enthralled family and decided to let the matter pass.

“Back in Oregon, I took a good look at myself and decided to go to college. Which I’m sure you would agree was good step, Dr. Jordan.” And he smiled and nodded his head toward his host. “I taught school, edited a paper and studied the law, eventually becoming a Judge but all the time I was writing poetry and I couldn’t stop thinking that being a poet was my true calling.”

“It was right about then that I wrote the poem celebrating Joaquin Murietta, whose legend in California is often compared with England’s Robin Hood. I’m sure you’ve heard the whole poem but there is one verse that I am particularly fond of….”

Joaquin Miller rose to his full stature and in a deep, dramatic voice recited for them.

“Afar the bright Sierras lie A swaying line of snowy white, A fringe of heaven hung in sight Against the blue base of the sky, I look along each gaping gorge, I hear a thousand sounding strokes”

To dramatize the scene, Joaquin stood on his toes towering over the family. Knight looked up at him with a look of awe and wonder.

“Like giants rending giant oaks, Or brawny Vulcan at his forge;”

With his arms and hands Joaquin struck imaginary molten metal with an imaginary hammer. He was Vulcan. Jordan was beginning to think he was more than strange.

“I see pick axes flash and shine; Hear great wheels whirling in a mine, Here winds a thick and yellow thread, A moss’d and silver stream instead; And trout that leap’d its rippled tide Have turned upon their sides and died.”

Having said the word, “died,” Joaquin slumped back into his seat with a look of deep sorrow on his face.

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A transfixed Jordan family came to life. Jessie, Edith, Knight clapped their hands and Dr. Jordan added a wistful, “Bravo, Bravo.” Joaquin’s unhappiness changed to a wide boyish grin of appreciation. Jordan could faintly hear his words, “Thank you. Thank you.”

Once composed, Joaquin continued his narrative. “Well, as you heard, there should have been no doubt in anyone’s mind that I would be a world-famous poet just like my hero, Lord Byron.”

The man’s self-esteem is gargantuan, Jordan thought.

“But that was not to be. Californians were not impressed with my talents and it was about that time that my good friend, Ina Coolbrith, a wonderful poet in her own right, as Dr. Jordan knows, came to my rescue and suggested that I change my name from Cincinnatus to Joaquin.”

Since there was no more mention of “Indians,” Knight started to squirm and broke from his mother’s arms into a run that ended with tromping up the stairs to his bedchamber and continued play with his tin soldiers.

Joaquin disregarded his departure. “With my own money I had 100 copies of my book of poems printed up and proceeded first to New York where I had mild success but it was in London that the Goddess of Fortune truly touched me. It seemed like Londoners were stifled with all their polite, drawing room palaver and yearned for an escape into my world of miners, bandits, Indians and filibusters. It was there I ran into Lily Langtry at Lord Houghton’s house in Arlington Street, London.” Jessie couldn’t suppress a gasp at the mention of the world-renowned actress.

With that sound of appreciation, Joaquin decided it was an opportune time to recite the poem he composed for Lily. Again, arising from his seat, he said in a much more melodious tone, “At the end of the evening I returned to Lily’s presence with a torn sheet of paper and read to her the following verse,”

This time he faced Jessie Jordan and addressed his poem to her. She in turn looked up at him with what would have to be termed, “pure rapture.”

“To the Jersey Lily:

If all God’s world a garden were And women were but flowers If men were bees that busied there Through endless summer hours, 493

O! I would hum God’s gardens through For honey until I came to you.

Afterwards, he again resumed his seat to Jessie and Edith’s plaudits and Jordan’s whispered “Bravos.”

“…bees that busied there,” drivel, thought Jordan. Luckily, he was not the jealous type otherwise he might have been affronted by Joaquin’s play for the affections of his wife. Obviously, the man was an insecure lout.

“After successful visits to New York City and Washington, D.C., I returned to the state I have always loved, California, to buy 75 acres on a barren hillside above Oakland where I now make my home. My “Hites.”

Dr. Jordan thought this was an opportune time to interject. For the first time during his quest’s soliloquy, he arose from his chair and took center stage, “Joaquin, thank you, thank you, for this information about yourself but I do think we should be going to the Quad. It wouldn’t do for you to be late for your public.”

Jessie turned to her step daughter, “Edith, please go up and get Knight and have him put on his velvet jacket.”

Knight’s voice from above could be heard pleading, “No, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.” Then silence and Edith’s and Lucy’s whispers, which must have promised some sort of bribery for his acquiescence and presence. “Oh, all right. Help me put on my jacket, please.”

Now tromping down the steps, the youngest member of the Jordan family, made a bee line to Joaquin Miller and looking down at the poet’s great boots, piped up, “I know why they call you ‘Walk-een.’ It’s because you walk so much!”

Both Jessie and Dr. Jordan smiled at the brightness of their son’s remark. Whether forced or not, Miller responded with hearty laughter and with this spirit of joviality in the air, preparations were begun for their departure.

Within ten minutes, the Escontiite Cottage became silent, solely occupied by Barbara and Lucy Fletcher.

^^^^^^^^^^

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It was another Monday morning, December 14, 1891. Christmas Vacation loomed before the administration beginning the following Monday and ending two weeks hence on January 3rd. Four weeks later the First Semester at LSJrU would end and three days’ later the Second Semester would begin. There was a great deal of administrative work to be done in preparation for these events but all work was forgotten in the wake of Joaquin Miller’s visit.

Dr. Jordan bid Dr. Elliott to join him in his office. Neither man sat. What Dr. Jordan had to say to Dr. Elliott could be said, standing.

“’Education in China’ I told you that was the topic he told me he was going to talk about and I took him for his word and introduced him with all that folderol about his accumulated knowledge about China, leaving out the fact that he had never been there, not once. ‘Horse Thievery in California’ would have been more appropriate topic. You heard, of course, that he stole a horse when he was a callow youth. He was lucky he wasn’t hung for his mischief and that was when he was suppose to be saving Nicaragua for the United States.”

Dr. Elliott could see that Jordan was working himself into a tizzy over the matter but Jordan continued his tirade, “Yes, Yes, he talked of many subjects---affection for doves; devotion to an idea, any idea, it seemed, with the exception of education in China; significance of world peace, which I for one heartily agreed with, but nothing about China and nothing about education.”

Dr. Elliott interjected, “I heard that one student asked him about the omission of the subject and he responded, ‘Sorry, there was just not enough time. Perhaps Dr. Jordan will invite me, again, to cover the subject’.”

“Small chance in Hell, I will invite that man again. He is poseur of the worst sorts. He even had the temerity to attempt to win the affections of my dear wife.”

“From what I saw I would say he was attempting to win the affections of anyone wearing skirts,” said Leslie.

“Leslie, that was my thoughts, exactly---not only a poseur but a libertine, as well. And did you hear him singing the text of that new song of his:”

In a deep dramatic baritone voice, Dr. Jordan sang: 495

“There are many tomorrows, my love, my love, There is only one today.

Does that make any sense, at all, Leslie?”

“No sense at all, Dr. Jordan, but at the moment we need to make sense of how we are going to bring about the closing of our university in a weeks’ time and reopening only two weeks’ later and four week’s from then, new and returning students and faculty.”

“Yes, yes, I can see I must get this man out of mind.” He looked down at the sheaf of papers strewn on his desk, but then looked back up at Leslie with a retained look of malevolence, “Have I told you about the poem he wrote for Lily Langtree?” he said.

^^^^^^^^^

The Business Office under the guise of inability to overturn a decision made by the Senator chose to ignore the students’ petition. Since Leland and Jane Stanford were in Washington, DC, while the Senate was in session and were not planning to return to campus until springtime, the only recourse remaining was to forget the matter. It was about then that Professor Swain began to consider other opportunities in the academic world.

Sosh Weinberg was not to be denied, he had already begun circulating another petition. This one raised the cry of complaint that electric lights are out at 10:30pm. It was obvious that more time was needed for studying and the new petition asked that the lights remain on until 2:30am.

By December 19th, the first day of Christmas Vacation, most of the faculty and students had left the campus for their homes. Since the vacation would be two week’s long almost all the students except for those living in the Midwest and East departed.

Since final tests would be held during the last week of January and a multitude of term papers would be due then, the vacation was in name only. There was still much work to be done and there was really no let up for students, still on-campus or off, to spend long hours studying, researching and writing.

Winko took Sam to his opulent home in San Mateo where they planned to spend the holiday season in decadent activities, mostly in San Francisco. Delores, Sally, Betsy, Bump, George, Milt returned to 496

Southern California aboard the good ship Santa Rosa. Sally, Betsy and Delores were to get together later in the week in Los Angeles.

^^^^^^^^^

Fletcher continued to recuperate at the Villa. With Irene’s assistance he was now walking in the gardens. Plans were afoot for him to return to Encina in the New Year. Since the Halloween Party there had been no sign of the ghost.

On the last day of the year, Irene received the following note from Bruce Hornsby’s sister. Hornsby was Irene’s fiancé, the man lost at sea.

December 5, 1891

Dear Irene,

Wonderful news! We just received a letter from the American consulate in Honolulu informing us that poor Bruce is alive! He was rescued by a passing Schooner. He suffered from amnesia and has been languishing in an Australian hospital all these months. He recovered his memory a month ago and will be returning to the United States, shortly. We know you are as happy about this as we are and I promise to keep you informed of Bruce’s arrival home. Your loving sister-in-law to be, Penelope

The note dropped from Irene’s hand. Unlike Lucy she was not one to swoon but if there was a moment when swooning was appropriate, this was it!

^^^^^^^^ . Of the total campus population numbering over 550, about twenty- five girls had not gone home for Christmas Vacation and remained at Roble Hall and almost seventy-five boys were at Encina Hall.

Shortly after the main body of students left, three Encina stalwarts personally delivered a large envelope to Mrs. Richardson, Mistress at Roble Hall. In their presence, she opened the envelope and withdrew a hand engraved invitation complete with illustrated lettering and a scene of a baby in diapers representing “1892” chasing a withered old man, “1891.” She read the following message, aloud:

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“Dear Mrs. Richardson and the Young Ladies of Roble Hall,

Join us as we turn out ’91 and welcome ’92.

Your attendance is respectfully requested at an Entertainment to be held at Encina Hall on Thursday evening, December 31, 1891, at 7 pm to be followed by a banquet in the Dining Room. Please convey your hoped for acceptance to Mr. Hubert Fesler, Master of Encina Hall.

Mr. Hubert Fesler for the Stanford Men at Encina Hall”

Mrs. Richardson graciously acknowledged receipt of the invitation and told the conveyers that a response would be forthcoming.

For two days Encinians held their collective breathes. After all, it had been only two months since their invitation to a dance had been so brusquely declined. Would fortune shine on them, this time? Then, one evening at dinnertime three young ladies strolled into Encina’s lobby and handed a small pink envelope to a Stanford stalwart who happened to be passing through. They gave the bug-eyed recipient a fetching smile, swiftly turned about and exited, wordlessly.

The stalwart rushed into the dining hall and found Mr. Fesler eating alone at one of the tables in the corner. Fesler had decided at the beginning it would not be wise to become friendly with any of his charges. No one could accuse him of favoritism.

It was obvious to diners who watched the young man make his agitated entrance with a pink envelope held high in his hand that this must be the reply they had been waiting for. Fesler knew this and also knew that many of the boys were homesick for home fires and family. He rose from his seat with note in hand. Everyone stopped eating. There was not a sound; even the Japanese waiters stopped in their tracks and were silent. Mr. Fesler could not believe it. For the first time, everyone took notice of what he was saying. In a booming voice already too familiar with most, Fesler said, “Yes, it is a note from Roble Hall. I have not as yet read the contents so you will all know as I do whether our friends at Roble will be our guests.” He read,

“Dear Mr. Fesler and the Stanford Men at Encina Hall:

Thank you for your gracious invitation. We will be most pleased to attend your New Year’s Entertainment.

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Mrs. Richardson and the Young Ladies of Roble Hall”

Wild cheers and jubilation were the consequence. The scene was like a celebration of a foot-ball victory---grins, backslapping, punches in the belly. Mr. Fesler could not help himself even he smiled.

Later the consequences set in. It would be Encina Hall’s first social event. Much must be done during the next week: a play to be cast, staged and lines learned, words to songs practiced and bright, witty speeches and limericks to be written and rehearsed. It was vitally important that everything be in readiness for their first feminine guests.

^^^^^^^^^

With the exception of Bert Hoover, it seemed that everyone in the hall, even faculty members, had a hand in preparing for the reception..

Bert’s activities ran contrary to the tide. Because of his dire financial situation, returning to Oregon did not even enter his head even though he wanted to see his sister, May, who was not well and his older brother, Tad, who was turning into somewhat of the black sheep of the family. Bert heard from his Aunt that Tad was drinking and had taken up with questionable young ladies.

There was too much to occupy him at the campus. Still twice a day he took care of Jim at the Villa and did errands for Miss Butler and Miss Fletcher and sometimes the ladies of Alvarado Row or Mrs. Jordan might need his help plus delivering the papers and picking up and delivering laundry and a now a special need to study for the Freehand Drawing class’s final taught by Mr. Brown.

It turned out that freehand drawing was not one of Bert’s greatest talents. As soon as Dr. Branner arrived next semester he wanted to drop it and change his major from Mechanical Engineering to Geology, emphasizing Mining Engineering, but for the time being he had to concentrate on at least passing Mr. Brown’s class.

From early morning to late evening there was not enough hours in the day for learning words to a play or writing witty limericks. He would leave that to others.

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On Thursday evening, December 31st, after an abbreviated supper was served early in the evening in anticipation of the Banquet later that night, Bert was studying his “Manual for Freehand Drawing” at his desk when Lester Hinsdale burst into his room.

“So what are you doing here?” He looked Bert over. “I see you are not even dressed for the party.”

“I’m not going. I have nothing to wear so why should I? If I’m not there no one will miss me.”

“I will.” Lester said, pulling Bert out of his chair. “I need you to go with me. Here,” Lester had some clothes in his hands. “I thought that would be your excuse so I brought you my other suit, even a shirt and tie. You should be able to fit into them even if you are slightly taller than I.”

Deep within, Bert wanted to go to the party but he needed someone like Lester to coax him. Now, he enthusiastically took his own clothes off and put Lester’s borrowed clothes on. “How do I look?” He said with no shoes on, wearing dark pants and coat and white shirt. The pants were about two inches too short.

Lester lied, “Great, the pants are sort of short but it isn’t noticeable. Now I’ll help you with this four in hand and you put on your own shoes, no one will notice that, either, with everything muddy like it is. And we are ready to go” which they proceeded to do. The only clean socks Bert had were a pair of red ones his aunt had knitted for him. He put them on and then the mud spattered shoes he had used that day to do his errands at Adelante Villa.

Hoover stood proudly before the mirror on the wall, his hazel eyes looking himself over. He liked what he saw. He was a handsome clean- cut young man. Surely some young woman would be struck by these looks. The mirror was too short to reflect how the pants’ cuffs revealed two to three inches of red socks. He went over to the dresser and took a comb he used each morning for his straight, mouse-colored hair and returned to the mirror where he spent several minutes making sure every hair was in place. When he was satisfied, he turned to Lester. “Let’s go,” he said, abruptly. Lester was used to Hoover’s mannerism of speech.

When they were walking down the hall on the way to the lobby, they ran into Herbert Hicks. He was running and shouting at the same time. “They’re coming. They’re coming. It’s raining cats and dogs outside and they’re still coming to our party. I looked out the window and I could see them carrying green boughs and umbrellas.”

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“Who are you talking about,” asked Bert.

“The Roble girls, clod,” said Lester.

Herbert joined Lester and Burt and they made their way to the lobby. They were too late to gain a place near the entrance and had to be satisfied with standing in the back, looking over the heads of those eager chaps who had beat them to it.

The entrance doors swung open and in swished Mrs. Richardson followed by twenty five to thirty wet and bedraggled young ladies, in spite of the weather, dressed in their very best. Raincoats and hats were removed and hastily given to attentive young men who tagged them and whisked them to upstairs’ rooms where they would be kept under lock and key. Bert watched the unveiling of brown and black dresses adorned with bright red, orange and various shades of blue sashes and ribbons that immediately enlivened the lobby with the colors of the rainbow. The boughs they brought with them were taken to the Dining Room and added to the greenery already in place. Bert could feel the excitement in the air.

Each lady was seated and given a program of the events that were about to unfold. Before them was the broad landing whose “pesky step” some of them had previously tripped on. It was fitted up as a stage upon which, the program informed them, O. D. Howell’s amusing little farce would soon be played.

Hiding the stage was a makeshift white fire curtain. It appeared to be made of not too clean, bed sheets, upon which, emblazoned in cardinal fabric, were the words, “Encina Opera.”

After everyone was seated, the lobby’s electric lights were turned off and for a few seconds it and all of its occupants were enveloped in complete darkness. This lapse caused the young ladies and Mrs. Richardson to wonder what they had got themselves into. To everyone’s relief, the fire curtain arose revealing the bright interior of a sleeping car with accommodations for two, one above the other.

The players made their entrance from the right staircase. The first, a black faced porter burdened with far too many traveling bags and leather Gladstones, which he constantly banged about and dropped, accompanied by his continuous babble of mumbled excuses. Following him, were two young ladies, or better-said, seemingly young ladies since two gladiators of the budding foot-ball team, Carl Clemans and Wesley Anderson, played their roles. Their arrival in full feminine dress and make up, including bustles, petticoats, powdered skin, rouged cheeks, eyes that were heavily lashed and darkened, arched eyebrows and red, red, cupid lips, brought the 501

house down. For several minutes all action stopped while members of the audience chortled their amusement and disbelief at what they were seeing.

Bert Hoover was not alone in that he had no idea who these people were and it just faintly dawned on him that the women were in fact, men. For him as it was with most of the other males in the audience, this would be their first theatrical presentation.

After the audience returned to some semblance of normalcy, the two “women” dismissed the porter with a tip that, from his look of undisguised displeasure, was not even close to his expectations. He exited stage right mumbling more incomprehensible words of annoyance.

The “ladies” were left to discuss small matters of daily life such as the idiosyncrasies of some of their relatives---the manner in which an uncle snored, a cousin ate, an aunt married numerous times usually younger men.

Some of their remarks were quite caustic and funny but it really made no difference because if a comment failed to cause amusement, one of the “ladies” managed to find something to do, such as pulling up her stockings or pulling down her bustle, or putting on slightly smeared lipstick, automatically causing side-splitting laughter.

Suddenly two more actors made an abrupt and unexpected appearance almost falling down the stairs. It was Wesley Anderson’s husband and brother. The husband went to the other lady, in this case played by Clemans and swiped the wig off the top of his head. Horrors! One of the young ladies was in truth; a man and the inhabitants of Roble were watching the enfolding of what could have been a sordid tale. Thank goodness, the villain, in this case young Clemans, has been exposed as the basest of womanizer.

Happily, all turned out well. Anderson, the other “lady,” realizing the wrongness of her ways miraculously discovered how her husband was truly wonderful and that she, in fact, loved him, dearly. Her brother has the villain in a headlock proving that once again those who do wrongly get their just deserves, in this case, incarceration for stealing affection. The two newly recreated lovebirds hugged and with much relish faked a passionate kiss. Brother and porter, who for some mysterious reason reappeared, approvingly looked on and Clemons with his head enfolded by the brother’s arms, watched with abject failure written all over his face. To thunderous applause, the curtain went down.

Due to the continuous ovation, three times the plays’ complement was accorded curtain calls. From appearances, they, too, were thoroughly 502

enjoying their own performances. Each time the curtain went up the players were caught in various tableaux entertaining themselves. The final tableau revealed Clemons now holding the brother in a headlock and the porter, brother and Anderson, still in full dress, poised to pounce on the two of them. After the curtain fell for a final time, more thumping and bumping could be heard behind it culminating with a final crashing sound apparently caused by the sleeping car set being crushed and destroyed by the cast’s larking about. From the sounds of it, many of the Encina men felt an intense desire to rush behind the curtain and join the melee.

Once some degree of normalcy had returned, a rather circumspect Professor Douglas Campbell made his entrance, stage left, and took up a position before the curtain with his mandolin in hand. A short chubby man he announced, “I will sing two melodies by Stephen Foster, ‘Silver Threads among the Gold’ and ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.’”

During this brief intermission, whispered words were passed from one Encina fellow to the other, “Right after the songs, get in line to go on stage.”

As Hoover heard the words and passed them on to Lester, he could not believe what he was hearing and saying.

After Lester had passed the phrase along to the fellow sitting next to him, Hoover whispered, “What’s that all about?”

“We’re all going on stage so that the girls can pick out who they want as their escorts,” was his response.

Bert looked at his friend, in disbelief, “You never told me. Did you know this would happen? Are you trying to mock me? Make me look like a fool?”

Lester could see that his friend was really fired up. He tried to calm him. “I didn’t know what was going to happen. Bert, you are my friend, I would never mock you.”

While this little drama was taking place, Professor Campbell was deeply engrossed in his renditions of Foster’s songs. The Professor was a tenor and what he lacked in vocal prowess (Some of his high notes were decidedly off-key.) was made up for in dramatic phrasing. A few of the Roble ladies found themselves brushing aside a tear or two as the Professor melodically recalled his fondness for his aging mother. The next song was equally somber. Listeners got the impression that although the Professor wanted to take Kathleen home, she was neither interested 503

nor available. The song ended on a sustained almost on key high note that caused the Professor’s face to turn a rosy red coloring. For a moment, the audience was concerned for his health.

They graciously gave Professor Campbell a rousing cheer and more applause. Rising from his seat, Professor Campbell accepted their ovation with a wave of his pudgy hand.

In the meantime, Carl Clemans having doffed his female attire, returned to center stage and announced, “Gentle ladies as you see from your program our little entertainment has ended. We hope you have enjoyed it.” Appreciative sounds and gentle clapping of slender hands could be heard. “You will note on your program that our banquet is about to begin but to make the task of determining which of our gentlemen would escort our guests to the dining room, we have concocted a little test which will assess both your knowledge of the science of pedology and reward you with entertaining companionship.”

On cue, Encina men rose from their seats and started to move toward the improvised stage. In single file, they walked behind the fire curtain until there was no more space. The remaining men, including a dismal Hoover, were held back for the next viewing. The fire curtain began its slow ascent stopping when the men’s shoes and legs up to their knees were revealed. Either because of shyness or lack of information, some of the feet were facing the wrong direction. With whispered prompting, this slight mishap was corrected. Eventually, the shoes correctly pointed toward the audience.

Most of them were black and well polished. Some were heavy-duty plough and “hard knock” shoes. A few were the fashionable oxfords with the new narrow tips. All were clean with cuffs that came reasonably close to their owners’ shoe tops. Since he was in the group that would be next on stage, Bert could only view part of the gathering. It was enough. He tried to bolt, to get back to his room. Leslie, on his one side and Herbert on his other, would not let him go and rather than kick up a real fuss, he controlled his impulses and resigned himself to his fate.

Meanwhile, Clemans had chosen a young lady who passed in front of the line of male extremities and made her selection of two pairs whose owners made their way around the curtain and appeared as full-sized young men. After a few words of introduction, they stood quietly by their selector’s side as another lady strolled by the stage filled with feet. The process moved along fairly quickly and soon the entire first group was chosen. Those waiting at the side of the stage moved in as their replacement.

504

The curtain remained in its semi open position and the audience giggled as they watched dismembered appendages troop on, appear in disarray and then turn to face the onlookers. Hoover’s extremities could not fail to catch everyone’s eye---with scuffed and muddied work shoes, red socks and near-bicep hugging cuffs. One of the less mannered Encina laughed out loud. Hoover behind the curtain knew exactly what was causing hushed conversations and the single outburst of coarse laughter--- he was. He could feel his face blushing and reddening with embarrassment. For a second, the red socks appeared ready to make a hasty retreat then righted themselves and faced the audience, squarely. Hoover promised himself that never, never, ever would he attend this kind of party, again. Ridicule, he could not stand.

Edith Wilcox was the first young lady chosen to select out of the second group. She was a senior who had transferred from the University of the Pacific and the only single lady in the Class of ’92. Quickly, without hesitation, she chose Hoover’s red socks as her first selection and a pair of worn but clean plough shoes as her second. When Hoover, with his young handsome face and the other chap came around from behind the curtain, with great warmth and friendliness, she grasped both their hands and introduced herself. “I’m Edith Wilcox and I am so pleased to make both of yours acquaintances,” she said.

Words came hard for Hoover, he wanted to thank her profusely for rescuing him from a terribly embarrassing situation but all he could say was “Thank you,” with as much meaning and purposeful eye contact as he could muster.

Miss Wilcox, a sensitive person, herself, somewhat understanding his predicament, simply replied, “I understand.”

After all the Roble ladies were fully equipped with escorts, it turned that four fellows were left over. Miss Wilcox asked her escorts if they would mind if she added one more to their ranks. No one demurred and three additional ladies ended up with the pleasure of three escorts instead of two.

That done, the doors to the Dining Room were flung open. Mr. Clemans, in good cheer, shouted out, “Everyone is invited to partake of our offerings on this grand New Year’s Eve of 1892.”

Taking care not to rush into the Dining Room as they usually did, Encina men purposely stood back and graciously allowed others to enter the hall before them. Looking on, Burt Fesler, Encina’s Master acting as a chaperon, rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The ruffians were taking on the semblance of gentlemen. It was hard to believe. 505

Once everyone was seated at five of the long dining tables, Japanese waiters began serving trays of ices, fruits, cakes, nuts and lemonade. Conversation, first subdued, soon became so loud it was difficult to hear a nearby person unless they spoke up.

Seated across from one another at the end of one of the tables, Miss Wilcox engaged in questioning the young men, mostly about where they came from and Bert Hoover found himself talking at length about the wonders of living in Salem. By carefully asking a few more questions, Miss Wilcox was able to end Hoover’s dissertation and allow one of the others to speak.

Hoover marveled at the lady’s diplomacy and handsome appearance. He thought to himself that he should make an effort to see her, again, but he was not sure how he might bring this about. These thoughts were quickly dashed when Miss Wilcox volunteered that she was engaged to a certain William Beasly. “How lucky this William Beasly was to have landed such a catch,” was Hoover’s silent reaction. “Surely there must be others like her?” he thought.

It was now about 8:30 pm and the eating of delicacies had somewhat slowed down, enough so that Mr. Fesler decided it was time to begin the final part of the entertainment. He gently tapped his glass with his spoon three times to gain attention. Almost immediately, everyone stopped talking and gave him their full attention. For Fesler, it was another moment of disbelief.

“Welcome, young ladies and Mrs. Richardson, again, to Encina Hall. We hope you have enjoyed your evening as much as we have. Now, we have a series of short speeches about familiar subjects from both residents of your hall and ours.” He introduced Miss Shirley Baker who spoke about “The University vs. Social Life,” and immediately following her, Charles Field gave the audience some humorous insights into “Life in Encina,” Miss Hatte Estes did the same for “Life at Roble,” and Mrs. Ellen Elliott, Leslie Elliott’s wife, who was also one of the chaperons, told them revealing tales about the “The Decalogue,” and finally William Greer gave them his impressions of arriving at the Palo Alto Farm during those first days before the Opening Ceremonies.

Their remarks made both Encina and Roble residents think back to all that had happened to them during these past few months. When the Flatcar Prank, the Flight of Angels, the painting of the ’95 Oak, the first Roble reception, the Faculty/Senior Baseball game, the Opening Ceremonies, the Senator and Jane Stanford, Jasper Paulsen’s bus, Searsville water, and trudging through rain and mud were mentioned--- 506

irregardless of gender--- members of these pioneering classes couldn’t help but be impressed by their frequent shared experiences.

Breaking in on these thoughts, Burt Fesler, spoke to the gathering, “Now I would like to introduce the President of your Student Body, John Whittemore.”

Whittemore, tall and handsome, had been sitting with a group toward the back of the Dining Room. He stood up and told them, “I just wanted to let you know that just before we broke up for Christmas vacation, your Student Council selected cardinal as our school color.”

Cardinal was the favorite so everyone shouted their approval of the selection.

“And we have an official school yell, now, and I want you to join me as we do our yell for the first time in public. Here is how it goes: Rah Rah Rah (pause) Rah Rah Rah (pause)Rah Rah Stanford! All right, now. Everyone up on your feet and let’s raise the roof so that even our friends at the State University can hear us.”

There was the rumble of chairs legs against wooden floors as every one got to their feet and Whittemore led them as they yelled:

“Rah Rah Rah Rah Rah Rah Rah Rah S T A N F O R D”

During all this chandeliers rattled and some thought they could hear windows cracking. Even Dr. Jordan and his family heard the “Stanford” part of the yell at a small New Year Eve’s dinner they were having at Escontite Cottage which was about a half mile away.

Jon Whittemore showed his appreciation by applauding their efforts and then he said, “Now I have one more surprise for you, we have a new Professor in attendance who will be joining the faculty next semester. I understand he has many years of foot-ball experience and tonight he has agreed to act as the Advisory Coach for our team. I have the pleasure of introducing Professor Martin Wright Sampson.”

Professor Sampson arose from the table he had been sharing with Whittemore, Professor Miller and some of the chaperons. He was also a good-looking, beardless young man---taller and more muscular than most of his fellow professors.

Speaking in a deep, sonorous voice that projected self-confidence, he said, “I want to tell you how excited I am to be here at Leland Stanford 507

Junior University. My old friend, Dr. William Miller told me about all the wonderful things happening here. I understand from your foot-ball co-captains, John, “ and he pointed to the seated Whittemore, “and Milt Grosh that many of you chaps are already getting into condition doing running drills and calisthenics for next year’s games. Let me tell you this, we may not be the biggest team around but we will certainly win our share of games.” Robust cheers from the group broke into his speech. Sampson stood there obviously appreciating the enthusiasm.

He continued, “And when we don’t win we will give our opponents a good run for their money.” Cheers from all corners of the room again interrupted him. Even the Japanese waiters applauded and stood and listened with looks of awe and admiration on their faces. Then he added one more phase that brought the house down, “Particularly the State University at Berkeley.” More cheers.

“We need to line up teams to play and I already have some ideas about games that we will play even in January and February and who knows, if all goes well, we may even play our State University friends in March.”

More cheers. This time some of the young men were so enthusiastic they started standing on their chairs. Even the young ladies were laughing and shouting. It would appear that the desire to win foot-ball games would be another shared experience in ’92.

“As I see it, no particular qualifications are necessary to be a good foot-ball player, just a good heart and not minding a bump or two. So if any of you gentlemen would like to join us at practice just come out to the field. Sorry, ladies, as yet they haven’t come up with a feminine version but all of you are certainly welcome to come and watch us practice. See you in ’92 and have a wonderful Happy New Year.”

Professor Sampson resumed his seat and found that everyone was grabbing for his hand and shaking it and perfect strangers were clapping him on the back. He was being treated like a hero and the team had not yet won or even played a game. “Yes,” he thought, “William was right. Stanford is truly ready to play foot-ball.”

^^^^^^^

By 10:30 to 11:00 that evening most of the attendees at Encina’s first social event were sound asleep and would not greet 1892 until the 508

following morning. A few of the more energetic Encina fellows slipped out of their rooms and made their ways by the light of the moon to one of the many Mayfield’s saloons that on a night like New Year’s would remain open all through the night.

Small faculty dinners, similar to the one Dr. Jordan had, ended around 11:00. By midnight, the time when the upstart ‘92 vanquished old Father Time from his stay on earth, Leslie and Ellen Elliott were sound asleep only to be awakened by the sound of firecrackers bought in Chinatown and set off in Mayfield. Leslie raised himself on one elbow and kissed his wife on the forehead, saying, “Happy New Year, dear Ellen.” Ellen, just barely awake, returned the kiss and whispered, “Happy New Year, Leslie.” Then they both rolled over and returned to a sleep of the innocent.

^^^^^^^^

Sam Cutter stood at the edge of Pier 54 of San Francisco’s embarcadero. He had just watched Winko’s head disappear under the murky waters of the bay. It was just a matter of fate, Sam would think, that the two fraternity brothers had ended up at the edge of the pier after drinking too much at a local tavern in celebration of the New Year. Winko accidentally slipped and fell headfirst into the water. When his head bobbed up he was fifteen feet away. Winko could not swim and he called out for help and the look on his face was as if he fully anticipated his friend to jump in and save him. Sam did not move.

The second time he came up, Winko looked as if he knew what fate had planned for him. His cry of help was feeble, his arms flailed in a vain attempt to keep his head above water.

The third time, he was unconscious, his head lolled to one side. The peace of death, possibly a heart attack, had prevailed.

Sam waited another ten minutes and then threw himself, fully clothed, into the water. In spite of his wounded shoulder, he was a good swimmer. There was no need for others to know that. He made a quick circuit of the area and then returned to the dock and pulled himself to safety.

“Help, help,” he cried out, “My friend has drowned.” A policeman at the end of the street heard his cries and ran to help.

Officer Kevin O’Reiley later reported that there was nothing he could do for the drenched and distraught young man who valiantly tried to save 509

the life of his drowned friend. As yet the body had not been recovered. With prevailing tides, it may have been washed out to sea. .

^^^^^^^^^^^

Appendix 513

Bibliography

It has been a long time since I have done one of these so please forgive me if the format is not all what it should be. If you are interested in reading any of these sources, this gives you enough information to get the book or get the information from the archives. To be very honest, this was the fun part of the book. The hard part was getting those boys out of Chinatown and Fletcher down from that mountain.

Ager, Carolus (Charles Kellogg Field, ’95). Four-Leaved Clover: Being Stanford Rhymes, Press of C. A. Murdock & Co., San Francisco, 1899

Anonymous, Stanford Alumni: 1891-1955, Volumes I and II., Stanford Alumni Association, Stanford, CA., 1956

Anonymous, The Sequoia, Vol.1, No.1 dated December 9, 1891 and Vol. 1, No. 2 dated December 16, 1891. Green Library, Stanford Archives.

Batchelder, Francis J. Correspondence, 1891-1939, SC 035:5, Stanford Archives, Green Library.

Burn, A. R. The Pelican History of Greece, Penguin Books, Middlesex, England, 1974

Burner, David. Herbert Hoover: A Public Life, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1979.

Calhoun, Charles W., Editor. The Gilded Age: Essays on the Origins of Modern America, SR Books, Wilmington, Delaware, 2000.

Crabbe, Mary Freeman. Diaries, 1890-1895, SC 489, Stanford Archives, Green Library.

514

Cutler, Leland W. America Is Good to a Country Boy, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA., 1954.

Elliott, Ellen Coit. It Happened This Way: American Scene, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA., 1940.

Elliott, Orrin Leslie. Stanford University: The First Twenty-Five Years. Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA., 1937.

Elliott, O. L. and Eaton, O. V. Stanford University and Thereabouts, C. A. Murdock & Co., San Francisco, 1896.

Elliott, O. L. and Clark, A. B. Stanford: from the Foot-Hills to the Bay, Robinson & Crandall, Palo Alto, 1915.

English Club, First Year at Stanford: A Sketch of Pioneer Days at Leland Stanford Junior University, Stanford English Club, 1905

Eisen, J., Fine, D., and Eisen K., Editors. Unknown California, Collier Books, New York, 1985.

Field, Charles K. and Irwin, Will. Stanford Stories, A. M. Robertson, San Francisco, 1913

Hicks, John D. The Populist Revolt, University of Minnesota, 1931

Hilton, Suzanne. The World of Herbert Hoover, Walker and Company, New York , 1987

Hoover, Herbert. The Memoirs of Herbert Hoover: Years of Adventure, 1874-1920, The Macmillan Company, New York, 1931.

Irwin, Will. Herbert Hoover: A Reminiscent Biography, Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1928

Israel, Fred L., Editor. 1897 Sears, Roebuck Catalogue, Chelsea House Publications, Philadelphia, 1993.

James, Norris E., Editor. Fifty Years on the Quad: A Pictorial Record of Stanford University and the 35,000 Men and Women Who Spent a Part of Their Lives on the Campus 1887-1937, Stanford Alumni Association, Stanford University, CA., 1938

515

Jordan, David Starr. The Days of a Man: Being Memories of a Naturalist, Teacher and Minor Prophet of Democracy, Volume One, 1851-1899, World Book Company, Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York, 1922.

Jordan, David Starr and Elliott, Orrin Leslie. Where the Rolling Foothills Rise…, Stanford Bookstore, Stanford, CA., 1919.

Knox, Bernard, Editor. The Norton Book of Classical Literature, W. W. Norton & Company, New York, 1993.

Lavender, David. California: A Bicentennial History, W. W. Norton & Co., New York, 1976.

Latta, Estelle. Controversial Mark Hopkins: The Great Swindle of American History, Cochran Historical and Research Foundation, Sacramento, CA, 1963

Laurie, Bruce. Artisans into Workers: Labor in Nineteenth-Century America., University of Illinois Press, Urbana, Chicago, 1997

Lewis, Oscar and Hall, Carroll D. Bonanza Inn: America’s First Luxury Hotel, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1939.

Lyons, Eugene, Herbert Hoover: A Biography, Doubleday & Company, Inc., Garden City, N. Y., 1964.

McDonald, Emanuel B. “Sam”. Sam McDonald’s Farm: Stanford Reminiscences, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA., 1954.

Menand, Louis. The Metaphysical Club, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 2002

Mirrielees, Edith R., Editor. Stanford Mosaic, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA, 1962

Mirrielees, Edith R. Stanford: The Story of a University, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, 1959

Nash, George H. Herbert Hoover and Stanford University, Hoover Institute Press, Stanford, CA., 1988

Pearce, Catherine Owns. The Herbert Hoover Story, Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York, 1965

Peck, Henry Thurston. Twenty Years of the Republic: 1885-1905, Dodd, Mead & Company, New York, 1932 516

Robinson, Edgar Eugene and Edwards, Paul Carroll, Editors. The Memoirs of Ray Lyman Wilbur, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA., 1960.

Rolle, Andrew. California: A History. Harlan Davidson, Inc., Wheeling, Illinois, 1998.

Roper, Laura Wood. FLO: A Biography of Frederick Law Olmsted, The Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore and London, 1973

Rybczynski, Witold. A Clearing in the Distance, Touchstone Books, New York, 2000

Schlereth, Thomas J. Victorian America: Transformations in Everyday Life, 1876-1915, Harper Perennial, New York, 1991

Starr, Kevin. Americans and the California Dream: 1850-1945, Oxford University Press, New York, 1973.

Taylor, Katherine Ames. The Romance of Stanford, H. L. Crocker Company, Inc., San Francisco, 1927

Wellman, Paul I., Death on the Prairie: Volume I of the Indian Wars of the West, A Pyramid Book, New York, 1964

Williams, R. Hal. Years of Decision : American Politics in the 1890s. Waveland Press, Inc., Prospect Heights, Ill., 1993

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517

Cast of Characters

There are far too many characters in this book. But how can you write about a university and its environs without involving masses of people?

To help the reader through these myriad names, here is an alphabetical listing by several main categories of those which are significant and reoccurring. (Make more than one appearance or are mentioned several times in the text.)

Also, an * is placed before the names of historical characters as opposed to the fictional ones. If historical, with the exception of Timothy Hopkins, most of the information about the character is factual. Timothy was such a slippery soul in real life; the author did take great liberties with his story.

When a fictional character is freely based on a real one, due credit is given. .

The author hopes this helps the reader but attending college is like going to a new job or church. There are so many names---but after a while the names begin to fall in place.

~~~~~~~~~

Administration and Faculty Members and Their Relatives

*Batchelder, Francis “Frank”. Second Year from Newark, New Jersey. Worked in Administrative Office as stenographer and was member of Phi Delta Theta Fraternity. (Editor’s note: Freely used information from letters he wrote to his mother and sister that are available in the Stanford Archives.)

*Brown, Instructor Bolton C. Member of original faculty, taught Freehand Drafting. Ellen Eliott’s brother.

518

*Elliott, Ellen. Leslie’s wife. Bolton Brown’s sister. Her book, It Happened This Way, is one of the main sources for this novel

*Elliott, (Orrin) Leslie. LSJrU’s first Registrar.

*Elliott, Louis. Leslie and Ellen’s three-year-old son.

*Jordan, Barbara. David Starr Jordan’s second child from second marriage. Born during first semester of school’s existence.

*Jordan, David Starr. LSJrU’s first President.

*Jordan, Edith. David Starr Jordan’s eldest eleven year old daughter from first marriage.

*Jordan, Harold. David Starr Jordan’s eldest eight year old son from first marriage. He stayed with Jordan’s friends in Indianapolis. During this period of time, it was common for children of first marriage to remain with relatives or at boarding schools.

*Jordan, Jessie. David Starr Jordan’s second wife. Mother of Knight and Barbara.

*Jordan, Knight. David Starr Jordan’s first child from second marriage.

*Richardson, Professor George R. Member of original faculty taught Chemistry.

*Swain, Professor Joseph. Member of original faculty taught Geology.

Whitman, Professor Henry Tarver. Member of original faculty taught Greek Fletcher Martin’s roommate.

*Jenkins, Professor Oliver Peebles. Member of original faculty taught Zoology and Physiology.

Business Office Staff

*Bingham, (Miss). First Matron at Roble Hall

*Leach, (Miss). First Mistress at Roble Hall

*Fesler, Burt. First Master at Encina Hall

519

Founders and their relatives

*Lathrop, Ariel. First Business Manager, Jane Stanford’s elder brother.

*Lathrop, Charles Second Business Manager, Jane Stanford’s younger brother

*Stanford, Jane. Leland Stanford’s wife, founder of LSJrU.

*Stanford, Leland. Senator from California, former Governor of California, and one of founders of Central Pacific Railroads, founder of LSJrU.

*Stanford, Leland, Jr., son of Leland and Jane Stanford, died at age of sixteen years.

Residents of Menlo, Mayfield and San Francisco

*Behn, Fred. Owner of P.F. Behn’s Saloon in Mayfield. Fletcher Martin’s friend.

*Behn, Jorgen. Fred’s younger brother.

Butler, Irene Francis. One of the founders of Villa Adelante (Coon House) predecessor to Castilleja School for Girls. Fletcher Martin’s good friend. (Author’s Note: Irene’s character is freely based on Eleanor Brooks Pearson who accomplished all the historical deeds credited to Irene.)

*Fletcher, Lucy H. One of founders of Villa Adelante (Coon House) predecessor to Castilleja School for Girls.

Fong, Wu Sing. Resident of San Francisco’s Chinatown. Wealthy Chinese businessman who acted as President of Six Companies. Fictional father of Walter Fong.

*Gordon, Alex. Mayfield businessman who originally held legal rights to “Palo Alto” name for his “College Terrace” development.

*La Pierre, George. Mayfield merchant who daily delivered groceries to Alvarado Row residents in his cart.

Lu, Chang. Quong Wu’s hatchet man. 520

O’Grady, Claire. Maggie’s oldest daughter.

O’Grady, Maggie. Wife of Shaunessy O’Grady, Mayfield Stonemason, who was killed constructing university.

O’Grady, Wilfred. Maggie’s oldest son.

*Paulsen, Jasper. Driver of horse-driven bus stationed in Menlo.

*Thoburn, Reverend Wilson Wilbur. Mayfield’s Methodist Minister. Formerly Professor of Biology at University of Pacific in San Jose.

*Wo, Quong. Proprietor of Laundry Works in Mayfield.

Senator Stanford’s Business Associates, Their Relatives and Friends

*Hopkins, Mark. One of the founders of Central Pacific Railroads, died in 1879.

*Hopkins, Mary Sherwood. Mark Hopkins’ wife. After his death, she legally adopted Timothy Hopkins who was, perhaps, her son.

*Hopkins, Timothy. Treasurer of Central Pacific Railroads. Adopted by Mary Sherwood Hopkins (his, perhaps mother). Senator & Mrs. Leland Stanford’s close friend and business associate. Founder of city of Palo Alto. Founded Hopkins Marine Laboratory in Monterey. Long time Menlo Park resident and civic leader. Lifetime Trustee of LSJrU.

*Hopkins, Mary Kellogg (Crittenden). Timothy’s wife (and, perhaps cousin) and Mary Sherwood Hopkins’ niece, long time Menlo Park resident and civic leader.

*Huntington, Corliss. One of the founders of Central Pacific Railroad. Later became antagonist of Leland Stanford and LSJrU. Originated derogatory phrase, “Stanford’s Circus.”

*Searles, Edward. New York City Interior Decorator. Mary Sherwood Hopkins’s second husband and upon her death sole beneficiary of her estate. Timothy Hopkins’ nemesis.

(Author’s note: If the whole Hopkins’ affair is confusing, please don’t worry about it. No one knows the real facts.)

521

Students of Leland Stanford Junior University

*Batchelder, Francis “Frank”. Second Year from Newark, New Jersey. Worked in Administrative Office and was member of Phi Delta Theta Fraternity. (Editor’s note: Freely used information from letters he wrote to his mother and sister that is available in the Stanford Archives.)

Cooper, David Frederick (“Bump”). First Year from Riverside, California

Cutter, Samuel Hawthorne, III. First Year from streets of Chicago

*Fong, Walter Ngon. First Year from San Francisco. (Author’s note: The historical Walter Ngon Fong entered Stanford in 1892. He was the first Chinese student to graduate from Stanford.)

Forrest, Sally (“Dollie”). First Year from Anaheim, California. Father killed by gunmen in Mussel Slough Shoot-Out.

“Freck”. Second Year. Transferred from University of Pacific. Member of Alpha Phi Fraternity. David Cooper’s first roommate.

*Freeman, Mary. First Year from Woodland, California. (Author’s note: Freely used her daily dairies for background information. They are available in the Stanford Archives. Miss Freeman entered Stanford in 1895.)

*Gardner, George. First Year from San Diego, California. Had two wooden legs.

*Greer, Medorem William. First Year from Boston, Massachusetts. Rubin’s roommate

*Grosh, Milton David. First Year from Pomona. David’s second roommate. Co-Captain of foot-ball team.

*Hoover, Herbert C. “Bert”. First Year from Salem, Oregon. Would become the 31st President of the United States. Significantly Stanford’s only President.

Marshall, Betsy. First Year from Los Angeles. Delores’ friend.

522

Martin, Fletcher Chard. Graduate Status from Sioux City, Iowa. West Point graduate. Officer in US Calvary for ten years fighting Indians.

“Mitch.” Second Year. Transferred from University of Pacific. Member of Alpha Phi Fraternity. Sam Cutter’s roommate

Payson, Delores Ynez Teresa. First Year from Los Angeles. Rubin’s cousin

Reichold, John. David Cooper’s friend from Riverside, California. Broke leg in foot-ball game. Will enter Stanford in 1892.

Weinberg, Rubin (“Sosh”). First Year from Omaha, Nebraska, Delores Payson’s cousin. (Writer’s note: Rubin’s character is freely based on Edwin Ray Zion, also known as “Sosh”, who was a member of the Class of 1894 and was not Jewish.)

*Whittemore, John Reboul. Senior Class from Indiana. Outstanding athlete who was Co-Captain of foot-ball team.

Wilkins, Timothy Lambert “Pudge”. Second Year. Transferred from the University of Pacific. Member of Alpha Phi Fraternity.

*Williams, Fred Steele. First Year from Salem, Oregon. Bert Hoover’s friend and first roommate.

Winters, Frederick Summers “Winko”. Second Year. Transferred from University of Pacific. President of Alpha Phi Fraternity.

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