But the hack on a sudden pulled up, and I saw that
we were before the long, low, ugly wooden building that sat square
across Market Street as the gateway to San Francisco through which the
tide of travel must pass to and from the Golden City.
"Look out on both sides, Wainwright," I cautioned. "You carry the boy
and I'll shoot if there's any trouble. See that you keep him safe."
There were nearly ten minutes before the boat left, but the hurry for
tickets, the rush to check baggage, the shouts of hackmen and
expressmen, the rattle and confusion of the coming and departing
street-cars that centered at the ferry, made us inconspicuous among the
throng as we stepped out of the hack.
"Here Fitzhugh, Brown," I said, catching sight of two of my retainers,
"get close about. Have you seen anything--_any_ signs of the
enemy?"
"I haven't," said Fitzhugh, "but Abrams thought he saw Dotty Ferguson
over by the Fair Wind saloon there. Said he cut up Clay Street before
the rest of us caught sight of him--so maybe Abrams was off his nut."
"Quite likely," I admitted as we turned the jutting corner of the
building and came under shelter by the ticket office. "But keep a close
watch."
The other four retainers were in the passageway, and I called to the
ticket-seller for the tickets to Livermore. By the price I decided that
Livermore must be somewhere within fifty miles, and marshaling my troop
about the boy, marched into the waiting-room, past the door-keeper,
through the sheds, and on to the ferry boat.
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