* * * * *

On the afternoon of October 5th, 1885, a tiny four-page paper made its first appearance on the streets of San Francisco.

The first page, with its queer jumble of news and advertisements, had a novel and attractive appearance quite apart from the usual standards of typographical make-up.  People laughed at King’s naive editorial apology for entering an overcrowded and none-too-prosperous field; they nodded approvingly over his promise to tell the truth with fearless impartiality.

William Coleman was among the first day’s visitors.

“Good luck to you, James King of William,” he held forth a friendly hand.  The editor, turning, rose and grasped it with sincere cordiality.  They stood regarding each other silently.  It seemed almost as though a prescience of what was to come lay in that curious communion of heart and mind.

“Going after the crooks, I understand,” said Coleman finally.

“Big and little,” King retorted.  “That’s all the paper’s for.  I don’t expect to make money.”

“How about the Southerners, the Chivalry party?  They’ll challenge you to duels daily.”

“Damn the ’Chivs’.”  King answered.  “I shall ignore their challenges.  This duelling habit is absurd.  It’s grandstand politics; opera bouffe.  They even advertise their meetings and the boatmen run excursions to some point where two idiots shoot wildly at each other for some fancied slight.  No, Coleman, I’m not that particular kind of a fool.”

“Well, you’d better carry a derringer,” the other warned.  “There are Broderick’s plug-uglies.  They won’t wait to send a challenge.”

King gave him an odd look.  “I have feeling that one cannot change his destiny,” he said.  “If I am to be killed—­then so be it ...  Kismet, as the Orientals say.  But meanwhile I’ll fight corruption.  I’ll call men by name and shout their sins from the housetops.  We’ll wake up the town, or my name isn’t James King of William....  Won’t we, James?” He clapped a hand on Nesbitt’s shoulder.  The other turned half irritably.  “What?  Oh, yes.  To be sure,” he answered and resumed his writing.  Charles Gerberding, who held the title of publisher in the new enterprise, looked up from his ledger.  “If this keeps up,” he said, smiling and rubbing his hands, “we can enlarge the paper in a month or so.”  He shut the volume with a slam and lighted a cigar.

“Hello, Coleman, how are the Vigilants?  I’m told you still preserve a tacit organization.”

“More of the spirit than substance,” said Coleman smiling.  “I hope we’ll not need to revive it.”

“Not so sure,” responded Gerberding.  “This man here,” the cigar was waved in King’s direction, “this editor of ours is going to set the town afire.”

Coleman did not answer.  He went out ... wondering whether Isaac Bluxome was in town.  Bluxome had served as secretary for the Vigilance Committee of ’51.