The Gray Dawn | Page 6

they debouched on the Central Wharf, and the sound of the hoofs
and the wheels changed its tone. Central Wharf extended a full mile
into the bay. It was lined on either side its narrow roadway by small
shacks, in which were offered fowls, fish, vegetables, candy,
refreshments. Some of them were tiny saloons or gambling houses. But
by far the majority were the cubicles where the Jewish slop sellers
displayed their wares. Men returning from the mines here landed, and

here replenished their wardrobes. Everything was exposed to view
outside, like clothes hung out after a rain.
The narrow way between this long row of shops was crowded almost
dangerously. Magnificent dray horses, with long hair on the fetlocks
above their big heavy hoofs, bridling in conscious pride of
silver-mounted harness and curled or braided manes, rose above the
ruck as their ancestors, the warhorses, must have risen in medieval
battle. The crowd parted before them and closed in behind them. Here
and there, too, a horseman could be seen--with a little cleared space at
his heels. Or a private calash picking its way circumspectly.
From her point of vantage on the elevated seat Mrs. Sherwood could
see over the heads of people. She sat very quietly, her body upright, but
in the poised repose characteristic of her. Many admiring glances were
directed at her. She seemed to be unconscious of them. Nevertheless,
nothing escaped her. She saw, and appreciated and enjoyed, every
phase of that heterogeneous crowd--miners in their exaggeratedly
rough clothes, brocaded or cotton clad Chinese, gorgeous Spaniards or
Chileños, drunken men, sober men, excited men, empty cans or cases
kicking around underfoot, frantic runners for hotels or steamboats
trying to push their way by, newsboys and cigar boys darting about and
miraculously worming their way through impenetrable places. Atop a
portable pair of steps a pale, well-dressed young man was playing
thimble-rig on his knees with a gilt pea. From an upturned keg a
preacher was exhorting. And occasionally, through gaps between the
shacks, she caught glimpses of blue water; or of ships at anchor; or,
more often, of the tall pile drivers whose hammers went steadily up and
down.
Sherwood guided his glossy team and light spidery vehicle with the
greatest delicacy and skill. He was wholly absorbed in his task.
Suddenly up ahead a wild turmoil broke out. People crowded to right
and left, clambering, shouting, screaming. A runaway horse hitched to
a light buggy came careering down the way.
A collision seemed inevitable. Sherwood turned his horses' heads
directly at an open shop front. They hesitated, their small pointed ears

working nervously. Sherwood spoke to them. They moved forward,
quivering, picking their way daintily. Sherwood spoke again. They
stopped. The runaway hurtled by, missing the tail of the buggy by two
feet. A moment later a grand crash marked the end of its career farther
down the line. Again Sherwood spoke to his horses, and exerted the
slightest pressure on the reins. Daintily, slowly, their ears twitching
back and forth, their fine eyes rolling, they backed out of the opening.
Throughout all this exciting little incident the woman had not altered
her pose nor the expression of her face. Her head high, her eye
ruminative, she had looked on it all as one quite detached from possible
consequences. The little parasol did not change its angle. Only, quite
deliberately, she had relinquished the ribbon by which she held on her
hat, and had placed her slender hand steadyingly on the side of the
vehicle.
The bystanders, already leaping down from their places of refuge and
again crowding the narrow way, directed admiring eyes toward the
beautiful, nervous, docile horses, the calm and dominating man, and the
poised, dainty creature at his side. One drunken individual cheered her
personally. At this a faint shell pink appeared in her cheeks, though she
gave no other sign that she had heard. Sherwood glanced down at her,
amused.
But now emerged the Jew slop seller, very voluble. He had darted like a
rat to some mysterious inner recess of his burrow; but now he was out
again filling the air with lamentations, claims, appeals for justice.
Sherwood did not even glance toward him; but in the very act of
tooling his horses into the roadway tossed the man some silver.
Immediately, with shouts and cheers and laughter, the hoodlums nearby
began a scramble.
The end of the long wharf widened to a great square, free of all
buildings but a sort of warehouse near one end. Here a rope divided off
a landing space. Close to the rope the multitude crowded, ready for its
entertainment. Here also stood in stately grandeur the three livery hacks
of which San Francisco boasted. They were magnificent affairs, the like
of which has