The Young Vigilantes: A Story of California Life in the Fifties

At this question, Walter flushed up. He drew himself up stiffly, smiled pityingly, and said nothing. His manner conveyed that he didn’t know exactly how much he was worth. “That’s first-rate,” the conductor went on. “Now, look here. You’ll get lost in Boston. I’ll tell you what. I’ll show you how to get down among the riggers’ lofts when we get in. You’re a rigger, you say?” Walter nodded.

“They’re all in a bunch, down at the North End, riggers, sailmakers, pump- and block-makers, and all the rest. Full of work, too, on account of this California business. Everybody’s goin’ crazy over it. You will be, too, in a week.” By this time, the train was rumbling over the long waste of salt marsh stretching out between the mainland and the dome-capped city, and in five minutes more, it drew up with a jerk in the station, with the locomotive puffing out steam like a tired racehorse after a hard push at the finish. The conductor was as good as his word. He told Walter to go straight up Tremont Street until he came to Hanover, straight down Hanover to the water, and then follow his nose.

“Oh, you can’t miss it,” was the cheerful, parting assurance. “Smell it a mile.” But going straight up this street, and straight down that, was a direction not so easy to follow, as Walter soon found. The crowds bewildered him, and in trying to get out of everybody’s way, he got in everybody’s way. He was jolted, shoved about, and stared at as he slowly made his way through the crowd until his roving eyes caught sight of the tall masts and fluttering pennants, where the long street suddenly ended. Walter put down his bundle, removed his cap, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.