Part 33 (1/2)

The slight, elegant little man smiled.

”I am one of the--what is it you called, them--b.u.ms of whom we talk. I try to do what is within my power, within my strength-lest I, too, become discouraged, lest I, too, fall again--and not get up.”

”I have not seen you about anywhere,” said Keith, puzzled by this speech.

”I do not go anywhere; I should be eaten. You do not understand me, and I am a poor host to talk in riddles. I am a philosopher, not a man of action; egotist, not an egoist; one who cannot swim in your strong waters. As I said, one of that same cla.s.s whom your bounty helped this evening.”

”Good Lord, man!” cried Keith, looking about the little room. ”You're not in want?”

Krafft laughed gently.

”In your sense, no. I have my meals. Enough of me. Go, and think of what I say.”

Keith did so, and the result was the first organized charity in San Francisco. Since 1849 men had always been exceptionally generous in responding to appeals for money. Huge sums could easily be raised at any time. Hospitals and almshouses dated from the first. But having given, these pioneers invariably forgot. The erection of the buildings cost more than they should, and management being venal, conditions soon became disgraceful. Alms reached the professional pauper. The miner or immigrant, diseased, discouraged, out of luck, more often died--either actually or morally.

So much had this first interview caught his interest that Keith dropped in on his new acquaintance quite often. It soon became evident that Krafft lived in what might be called decent poverty. The one fine rig-out in which he made his public appearances was most carefully preserved. Indoors he always promptly a.s.sumed a dressing-gown, a skull cap with a gold ta.s.sel, and his great porcelain pipe. His meals he cooked for himself. Never did he leave his house until about three o'clock. Then, spick and span, exquisitely appointed, he sauntered forth swinging his malacca cane. After a promenade of several hours he returned again to his dressing-gown, his porcelain pipe, and his books.

Keith enjoyed hugely his detached, reflective, philosophical, spectator-of-life conversation. They talked on many subjects besides sociology. At his fourth visit Krafft made a suggestion.

”You shall come with me and see,” said he.

He led the way to the water front under Telegraph Hill, the newest and the most squalid part of town. The shallow water was in slow process of being filled in by sand from the grading uptown and with all sorts of miscellaneous debris, Pending solidity, this sketchy real estate swarmed with squatters. There were lots sunken below the street level, filled with stagnant water, discarded garments, old boxes, ashes, and rubbish; houses huddled closely together with stale water beneath; there were muddy alleys; murderous cheap saloons; cheaper gambling joints; rickety, sagging tenements. The people corresponded to their habitations. All the low elements lurked here, the thugs, strong-arm men, the hold-ups, the heelers, the weaklings, the b.u.ms, the diseased.

In ordinary times they here dwelt in a twilight existence; but at periods of excitement--as when the city burned--they swarmed out like rats for plunder.

Krafft held his way steadily to the wharves. There he left the causeway and descended to the level of the beach. Beneath the pilings, and above the high-water mark, was a little hut. It was not over six feet square, constructed of all sorts of old pieces of boxes, sc.r.a.ps of tin, or remnants of canvas. Overhead rumbled continuously the heavy drays, shaking down, through the cracks the dust of the roadway. Against one outside wall of this crazy structure an old man sat, chair tilted in the sun. Even the chair was a curiosity, miraculously held together by wires. The man was very old, and very feeble, his knotted hands clasping a short, black clay pipe. Inside the hut Keith, saw a rough bunk on which lay jumbled a quilt and a piece of canvas.

”Well, John,” greeted Krafft cheerfully, ”I've brought a friend to see you.”

The old man turned on Keith a twinkling blue eye.

”Glad to see you,” he said briefly.

”Getting on?” pursued Krafft.

”Fine.”

”Here's a new kind of tobacco I want you to try. I should value your opinion.”

Keith's hand wandered toward his pocket, but stopped at a sharp look from Krafft. After a moment's chat they withdrew.

”What a pathetic old figure! What utter misery!” cried Keith.

”No!” said Krafft positively. ”There you are wrong. Old John is in no need of us. He has his house and his bed, and he gets his food. How, I do not know, but he gets it. The spark is burning clear and steady. He has not lost his grip. He gets his living with confidence. Let him alone.”

”But he must be very miserable--especially when it rains,” persisted Keith.

Krafft shrugged his shoulders.