The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 28, 1902, Page 4

THE SUNDAY CALL BY SARAH COMSTOCK. wnstairs singing in a 1-tenor, e Rose of Killarney, the v the landing he added, sweetheart, are brighter ars above ‘On next Sunday big “good morning” nat are things too ute to the politician’s art. can sing wife told me he w himself. He out the house a little. He t he is afraid of jt for him- that it might prove is afraid ooks as If it would takea c to enervate him. He e fall mornings. He is esome and crisp as sber. He has the happy look of a as always lived near many of ngs of life—fresh air, for in- health and friendship. has the bulld and breeziness of the e has the well-built head of the sane This head is more plainly revealed it was some years back. has en eye that chums with you. has the chin of the get-In-and-get- wh “Come upstairs,” was the first thing that Mr. Lane had to say, and upstairs was where we found the famlily. The family means the hearty candidate, 2 wife who suggests a certain Burne- Jone= study I have in mind, a four-year- old boy who minfatures his father, and Laddie. Laddle might not be included if he did not force himself in so nervy a fashion. He has the instinct of the lob- by He welcomes you before you know you have arrived, he holds you up for your attention, entire attention, the instant you enter he holds you down with two firm forepaws as soon as you are seated and he reels off a rapid and convincing spiel of barks while you can’t get away. If he doesn’t know what the flutter in the Lane household is all about, then no dog ever knew anything. He poses as in charge of the campaign. He goes about stump-barking every time he is let out of the house. He insists upon getting in the picture every time a photographer approaches. He hustles and rustles as if the election depended upon his efforts. Lane's is a representative San Fran- olenn “pme. It is long and narrow, hall on one side and rooms on the ether, is. with a bay window and a bay view, is Just as the typical San Francisco house the library, just as in everybody’s house. The sunniest room above, the room This is the family living-room, and it FRANKLIN K. LANE. is safe enough to assert that the friends of the house are taken above stairs to spend a cosy evening while the formal callers are received below In the parlor where the plano and the teatable are, just as in other people's houses. But everybody hasn’'t the taste that shows in a Turkish hanging here, an old master there. I believe a woman is at the bot- tom of it. ““Good morning. Here's a button,” was the greeting of the next lobbyist. He pinned to my lapel a campaign but- ton bearing the paternal countenance. ‘‘He’s the man that’s spending the most enthusiasm on this campaign,” explained his father. *“He's my boss. He gave me the only political instructions I ever had. When I went to Sacramento I went un- der his parting directions: ‘Get there, daddy.’ " The kilts swaggered up to me once more. They are very short, for they have but a tiny distance to reach as yet. Even ®0, they swagger. “You bet I told him to get there.” “Why did you want him to?" “So that I can be the Governor’'s son. That's the easiest job I know, being the Governor’s sgon. That'll suit me pretty well. Yes, sir.” ‘“He's a wise one,” remarked the nom- Inee. “I don’t think it would suit him very well, for all he says,” put in the mother of the swaggering kilts. ‘“He doesn't like easy things as much as he thinks he does. He likes to work after his own foshion.” It becomes apparent after a visit to the house of Lane that Master Sidney Ed- mund has too much superfluous steam to let off in any such position as being the Governor’'s son. He is a chip of the old block in more ways than one. There' is the same vitality for will and the same broad, resistant jaw for won't. “I want to show her my baseball things. Here. These are my baseball things. That's a bat. You know what it is, don't you? How d'you like that glove? Pretty fine, huh? I want to show her my gun. ‘What do you think of that? Look here, that's a picture of me when I was a little boy. I don't remember then. My mother takes pictures.’ I'll show you the camera. This is a baseball mask.” They were being piled in a heap on the library floor and the little legs in the lit- tle blue kilts were trotting as fast as legs of their length could trot to bring more. “There, that's enough,” Mr. Lane broke in. “Show them how you can bat.” “In here, Frank!"” There was a feminine sound of horror. “No—say, dad, we'd better not do it in here.” H “All right, old fellow. Say—we'll do It out dcors the first chance we get. Then the great leather chalr in the win- dow engulfed them both and they con- fabbed in mutual manly sympathy that they were denied a game of baseball in the library. “That's a thing I haven't got over lov- ing yet,” sald Mr. Lane. “That's base- ball. I went in for it hard when I was a college fellow. I had the distinction of being captain of the only baseball team that Hastings Law ever had.” “I inherit it,” put in the junior Lane with calm Introspection. ¢ “He inherits it from both sides,” came from the third corner of the triangle. “I like baseball.” “I should say she does. Mrs. Lane was a first-class rooter. We're a baseball taplly. ~ “Football 7" “Nos hever went In for that. I hunt and fish, though. That's the way 1 spend my vacations. I went to the Yosemite last time. I have to break away from business about once a year. It doesn’t do to keep in the rut too long at a time. Mr. Lane looks like the kind of man when on a vacation. work while he works plays, thereby having be cheerful and gay A that he does he does might, on the ground that things done by halves are never done right. He is aggressively wholesome. The vacations that Lane occasionally takes now are not half enough to squaro him with the years when he did not know what a vacation looked like. During the time that he was a messenger boy and a clerk and a university student and a typesetter he did his level best to make Jack a dull boy. He never succeeded. He merely bottled up his great spirits, and has them now ready to let out on the rare occasions when they get a week or two to try themselves. “Dad, you get vacations on sometimes,” prompted the junior. “That's so, old fellow; I do. We know about those, don’t we?"” “We know." They deserted us while they buried themselves in another chuck- ling masculine confidence, from which re- marks about “the park” and “the don- keys” emerged in whispers. The others of us had to resort to the tameness of feminine confidence. WVhen Mr. Lane has a Sunday he usu- ally takes Ned to the park. His other spare time he spends at home. He likes music for a recreation.” “I don’t sing.” Mr. Lane heard and in- sisted upon vindicating himself. “You have a good voice, Frank.” “You're the musician. Mrs. Lane is very musical.” My music is all mechanical. Mr. Lane’s is natural. “We won't quarrel. Anyway, we take in every grand opera we get & chance at. 1 like ‘the later operas—Pagliaccl’ and the lfke.” “] like the Spanish dance mamma play The younger Lane never intends to be left out of any discussion. “We like to hear her play anything, don’t we, old man?” “We do that, dad.” nd we like to read, too, don't we?” “We do that.” “T'll tell you what I read most of all, the head of the household said as sunk still deeper into the hospitable who would vacate He is the type to and play while he found Sunday leather chair. He had a cigar in the library, although baseball is. by this time. Evidently tobacco is not prohtbited it,” ke California histor so far that it's some haul myself out far e business. It's the m tory in the world uresqueness, tk I've gone into that hard work to 1 early Span - great. And I'li tel do. It's never been ¢ get out of this poli to write a brief, simple i California. There isn't a satisfac in existence. “Knowing that history is what ma the landmarks work interesting, on. “I want to go in for the Lan Club work. There ough taken of the old plac should be preserved, and plates s put on the buildings. There of interesting points around v in town—the old_Presidio, an’s Bay—hundreds of them. I'm going to devote myself to that as soon as I 1 of this political hustle Mr. Lane is as sincere about the labors he has laid out for himself as if he had the nine lives of a cat in which to for landmarks, write school histories, complete a law career and get through “this political hustle.” I dreaded to men tion any more good works lest he co; himself further. If it were not for Franklin Lane's Ir- repressible humor all these deadly earnest ambitions might prove weighty enough to But his humor saves crush him entirely. the day. Do you remember how a man touched him for ten once upon a time? “Can’t you let me have $10, Mr. Las sald the man. “I want to get a meal. Lane-FaMiry = N “Better take fifteen while you're abom replied Mr. Lane. “You might want “I to buy a toothpick.”