Reddick, as the mouthpiece of the Council of Nine, gave a speech filled with denunciations of social and industrial conditions, and with the roars of applause that he evoked, the currents and eddies of men grew stronger. As he drew toward the close of his address, I felt a touch from behind, and turned to find Clark beckoning for attention. As I bent to him, he whispered in my ear: "Those fellows of Morgan’s are trying to stir up a rumpus. They are going through the crowd now passing the word that it’s time to burn out the rich fellows that have brought in the Chinese, and that the place to begin is on Van Ness Avenue, and finish with Nob Hill and Chinatown. There’s going to be trouble as soon as the meeting breaks up." This alarming information revealed Bolton’s purpose, whatever might be the plans of the Council of Nine, and though the meeting seemed likely to be prolonged for an hour or two more, I scribbled a note on the back of one of Wharton Kendrick’s cards and handed it to Clark, saying: "Get down to the Old City Hall, see Chief Ellis, or whoever is in charge, and tell him that Kendrick’s place is to be attacked. Ask him to send as many men as he can spare to keep the avenue clear. That card will get you a chance to speak with him, and you can tell him what the gang is doing. I am going up to Kendrick’s before the meeting closes and get ready for trouble." "I’ll do the best I can, sir," said Clark, with evident doubt of his power to influence so important a man as the chief of police, and in a moment had disappeared into McAllister Street. While I had been engaged with Clark, Reddick had ended his speech with a fiery peroration that brought a roar of applause, during which a stout, red-faced man climbed to the platform and took his place. "This is all wrong, men," were the first words I heard from the new speaker. "We can’t help the cause of labor by getting into a row with the police. We can’t get more wages by hunting a fight with the militia. We can’t even get a better job by punching a Chinaman’s head." "Who the devil is this?" cried Reddick angrily. "He’s a hell-hound of plutocracy. Who asked him to speak?" "Stop him, D’Arcy," said Parks. "He’ll be a wet blanket on the meeting." So far from being a wet blanket, the speaker had a remarkably enlivening influence on the crowd. The elements that had been roused to enthusiasm by fiery speeches, culminating in Reddick’s red-pepper harangue, were in no mood to listen to this sort of talk, and catcalls, hoots and cries of dissent drowned his words. "This agitation don’t do us no good," shouted the volunteer orator. "It hurts us. It scares away capital. I lost two jobs by it myself." "Sit down! Dry up! Get off the platform!" came in volleys from the audience, and the chairman, with a pull at the speaker’s coat tails, paraphrased the demand. "I won’t sit down!" shouted the unknown. "I’m an American citizen and as good as any of you."