He was certain that
McTurpin had somehow been at the bottom of it. Swiftly he was lost to
all reason. He took the weapon from his pocket, examined it carefully to
make certain that the caps were unimpaired by moisture. Then he
set forth.
At the polling station he made casual inquiries, but the ballot-box
stuffer for some time had not been seen.
"Charley Elleard ran him off, I think," said Frank Ward, laughing. "He'd
have voted Chinamen and Indians if he'd had his way. But if you're
looking for the rascal try the gambling house at Long Wharf and
Montgomery street; that's where his kind hang out."
Later in the spring of 1850 Montgomery street was graded. Now it was a
sloping streak of mud, the western side of which was several feet above
the other. Where Long Wharf, which was to be cut through and called
Commercial street, intersected, or rather bisected Montgomery, stood a
large building with a high, broad roof. Its eaves projected over a row
of benches, and here, sheltered somewhat from the rain, a group of
Mexicans and Chilenos lounged in picturesque native costumes, smoking
cigarettes. Through the door came a rollicking melody--sailor tunes
played by skillful performers--and a hum of converse punctuated by the
click of chips and coin.
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