"Um-m, yes, I suppose so," said Kendrick doubtingly. "But all this doesn’t settle that matter of the tule tract. I’ll see you to-night, Hampden. The general and I must talk business now." *CHAPTER XV* *A RIPPLE OF TROUBLE* The brawling of many voices filled the air as I ran down the stairs, spurred by curiosity and by a vague, subconscious misgiving that the event was of more than impersonal interest. When I reached the entrance the circling crowd was halted in a mass of struggling men, and the hoarse roar that issued from it vibrated with the indefinable yet definite thrill of savage anger. Police whistles were blowing, men were running from all directions to get sight of the struggle, blows given and taken could be heard amid sounds of curses and exclamations of pain, and the centers of disturbance became pyramids of squirming, struggling mankind. As I reached the street, Parks burst out of the crowd, his hat gone, his long hair tumbled in aggressive disorder, his face flushed, and his clothing bearing evidences of his violent passage through the mob. Behind him came Seabert, whom I knew for a member of the Council of Nine. Between them they dragged and pushed an old man, white-faced, frightened, who looked in helpless amazement on the turbulence about him. The old man’s face stirred vague reminiscence of the familiar, but for the moment I could not trace these promptings of memory to their source. "Here!" cried Parks, as they burst out of the struggling circle and flung their burden into the hands of a knot of men who stood by an express-wagon near at hand, "get him down to Number Two." As the old man was sent staggering forward, helpless, trembling, perplexed, the men circled around him, lifted him in their arms, and in a moment had climbed into the wagon and were going on a gallop down California Street. It had all been done in the time I had taken to pass from the door of the office building to the edge of the sidewalk. I pushed into the roadway and hailed Parks by name. He had snatched a hat from one of the men who climbed into the wagon, and was hastily removing the signs of conflict from his dress. "What’s the matter here?" I cried, when I saw that he recognized me. "Matter!" he cried. "Matter enough! There has been an interference with the natural right of a man to present his grievance to his fellow-man. It has been properly resented." "I don’t understand you," I said. "Who was the old man you rescued from the mob?" Parks looked at me in surprise. "Rescued from the mob!" he exclaimed. "Why, the mob--but wait a minute, and I’ll tell you about it." He turned as he spoke. "Stop that fighting!" he shouted. And at his word a score of men lent their efforts to the task of separating the struggling, wrestling groups, raising the prostrate and quieting the violent.