Little Joe King, a son of the murdered editor, 10 years of age, sat
stiff and stunned by the strangeness of it all in a carriage beside Mrs.
John Sime. Mr. and Mrs. Sime were great friends of his father and
mother, and Mrs. Sime, whom he sometimes called "Auntie," had taken him
into her carriage, since that of the widow was filled.
Little Joe did not know what to make of it all. He knew, somehow,
vaguely, that his father had been put into a long box that had silver
handles and was covered with flowers. He knew of that mystery called
death, but he had not visualized it closely heretofore. The thing
overwhelmed him. Just now he could only realize that his father was
being honored as no one had ever before been honored in San Francisco.
That was something he could take hold of.
As the carriage approached Sacramento street the crowd thickened. He
heard a high-pitched voice that seemed almost to be screaming. He made
out phrases faintly:
"... God!... My poor mother!... Let nobody call ... murderer ... God
save me ... only 29 ..."
Swiftly the screaming stopped. A strange silence fell on the crowd. They
turned their heads and looked down Sacramento street.
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