It was a note of
gay melody struck athwart the discordant monotony of soiled tent houses,
tumble-down huts and oblong, flat-roofed buildings stretching their
disorderly array along the road. Coming closer he saw the name,
"Pipesville," printed on the door, and knew that this must be the
"summer home," as it was called, of San Francisco's beloved minstrel,
Stephen Massett, otherwise "Jeems Pipes of Pipesville," singer, player,
essayist and creator of those wondrous one-man concerts dear to all the
countryside.
"Jeems" himself appeared in the doorway to wave a greeting and Benito
went on oddly cheered by the encounter. In front of the Mansion House,
adjoining Mission Dolores, stood Bob Ridley, talking with his partner.
"You look warm, son," he remarked paternally to Windham, "let me mix you
up a milk punch and you'll feel more like yourself. Where's your boss
and whither are ye bound?"
"Died," Benito answered. "Going to my--to the ranch."
"Thought so," Ridley said. "I hear there's no one on it. Why not steal a
march on that tin-horn gambler and scallawag. Rally up some friends and
take possession. That's nine points of the law, my boy, and a half-dozen
straight-shooting Americans is nine hundred more, now that Geary's
alcalde and that weak-kneed psalm-singing Leavenworth's resigned
under fire.
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