“What can I do more than I have done?” he was saying. “There are no orders from Washington. If you gentlemen will get a wire through I’ll do anything I am commanded to do. But I don’t see what can be done. The first thing I did this morning, as soon as I learned of the strike, was to order in the troops from the Presidio—three thousand of them. They’re guarding the banks, the Mint, the post office, and all the public buildings. There is no disorder whatever. The strikers are keeping the peace perfectly. You can’t expect me to shoot them down as they walk along the streets with wives and children all in their best bib and tucker.” “I’d like to know what’s happening on Wall Street,” I heard Jimmy Wombold say as I passed along. I could imagine his anxiety, for I knew that he was deep in the big Consolidated-Western deal. “Say, Corf,” Atkinson bustled up to me, “is your machine running?” “Yes,” I answered, “but what’s the matter with your own?” “Broken down, and the garages are all closed. And my wife’s somewhere around Truckee, I think, stalled on the overland. Can’t get a wire to her for love or money. She should have arrived this evening. She may be starving. Lend me your machine.” “Can’t get it across the bay,” Halstead spoke up. “The ferries aren’t running. But I tell you what you can do. There’s Rollinson—oh, Rollinson, come here a moment. Atkinson wants to get a machine across the bay. His wife is stuck on the overland at Truckee. Can’t you bring the _Lurlette_ across from Tiburon and carry the machine over for him?” The _Lurlette_ was a two-hundred-ton, ocean-going schooner-yacht. Rollinson shook his head. “You couldn’t get a longshoreman to land the machine on board, even if I could get the _Lurlette_ over, which I can’t, for the crew are members of the Coast Seamen’s Union, and they’re on strike along with the rest.” “But my wife may be starving,” I could hear Atkinson wailing as I moved on.