The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 7, 1902, Page 2

F=HE recent sad and sudden death of Mr. Frank Norris arks the loss to the English peaking world of one of the greatest writers of the day. Ax am suthor he was just in his prime. His last novel, “The Octopus,” pub- Jished last year, haw been recos- nized both here and mbroad as the cionest approximation to the great American novel of anything that has ever appeared from the pem of any writer. As a Californian Mr. Norris made & name that brings the eatest eredit to his Stat d as the thor of “The Octopus,” Mr. Norris wrote the stromgest book om Cali- fornia ever published. This movel, under the author's primal idea—so disastrously inter- rupted by his death—vwas intended 10 be the first of a series of three books devoted to that greatest of world forces, wheat. story meerns ftself with the & ing ot the wheat. It was Mr. N * idea 1o have the second book = moveF with Chicago as & center and the wotif of the book war the handling of wheat by the brokers in the pit; while the third book of the trilogy sbould tell of the final distribution of wheat in Eurepe. Fortanately he Octopus” ix mpiete in itself, and ux a matter of fmc ould naturaiiy be the monst interesting of the trilogy for us of Ualifpr for Mr. Norris choxe as the scene for this book the most im- meuse wheat field koown the world over—our own plains of the tan Jouquin Valley. ‘The wtory concerns itself wiin the life of the farmers of ‘the great plains and tneir struggles not omly with soll and aganinst the mishaps of weather, but uiso against the ravemous sharks of the business world who hover around to tear away the prof- fts from the tiller of the lnnd. As @ movel thix ix the ncarest ap- proach to the grea: American novel so long sought for by critica and public. As m story, it will keep ¥ sitting up Bights ustii you have tinished it be character studiex in this book are peculiarly for- mian, and particulariy accurate aud couvinein, lmmedintely upon the death of Mr. Aorris, realizing the great inter. esd that would mnaturaily be awak- ened in hisx laxt movel, “The Octo- pus’—a masterpicce oi fiction—7The Sunday Call forthwith mmnde ar- rengements at t expenxe with Mr. Dorris’ publ shers tor the exclu- sive rights of “The Uctopus” for the Pacific Ceast. he first fustallment of this great book wias published in The Sunday Call of November 9, and but few coples of tiat edition are left) so it you wish 1o read ~I'he Octepus” you would better apply for the first ine sue—~Sunday Cull of Noyember 9— &t once. ? he Octopus” “The Gowxpel! of Aaren Dwisz created n t Europe and Ax will be followed by Judas iscarios.” imidwin, swwhich ¥ us Suror both in it throws a mew light on the strange life, the charseter and motives of this, the most bitterly esecrated man in either the biblicai or profune his- tory of all uges. It = wa the spléendors, the vices ex, the wa and the feasts, sporix und pleasures of as they. bave mever beem showr before, and tellx of the com- ing of Chrixt and Lix long and glori- ® struggle to esiablish his king- dom of heavem on curth, und th re aarirble part cocas pluyed 1m hix eruveifixion. Then will come “The Leopard's Epots,” by Thomas Dixon Jr.v “When Koighthood Was in Flower,” by {hariex Major: “The Gentiema. From Indinn by Booth Tarking- won: “Tainted Gold. Mrs. C. N. Willlamsou, whose “Mystery Beox,” published n few weeks ago in The funday Call, was one of the bent srories § this remurkable weries: he Turmpike louse,” by Fergus Hume, ete., etes Just ponder over fhix books, ax well ax the nam writers, and remember yo there wtories free with The Sunday Call. Other announcements will be sade later. Copyright, 1901, by Doubleday, Page & Co. “ T is a force bern out of certain conditions, and J-no man—can £top it .or control it. Can.your Mr. Derrick stop the wheat grow- He can burn his crop, or he. ean give it away, or sell it for & cent & bushel as I could go into bank- ruptey—but otherwise his wheat must grow. Can any one stop the wheat? Well, then no more can I stop the road.” Presley regained the street stupe- ficd; bis brain in e whirl. This new fidea, this new conception, dum- foun@ed him. BSomehow, he could not @eny It. It rang with the clear reverbera- tion of truth. Was no one, then, to blame for the horror at the irrigating ditch? Forces, conditions, laws of supply and demand—were these then the enemies, af- ter all? Not enemies; there was no ma- levolence in nature, Colossal indifference only, a vast trend toward appointed goals. Nature was, then, a gigantic engine, a vast coyclopean power, huge, terrible, leviathan with a heart of steel, knowirig no compunction, no forgiveness. no toler ance; crushing oyt the human atom standing in fts way, with nirvanic calm, the agony of destruction sending néver a jar, never the faintest tremor through all that prodigious mechanism of wheels and cogs. He went to his club and ate his supper alone, in gloomy agitation. He was som- ber, brooding, lost in a dark. maze of gloomy reflections. However, just as he was rising from the tabie, an incident oc- curred that for the moment roused him and sharply diverted his mind. His table had been placed near a window and as he was sipping his after-dinner coffee he happened to glance across the street. His éye was at once caught by tha sight of a familiar figure. Was it Minna Hooven? = The figure turned the street corner and was lost to sight; but it bad been strangely like. On the moment Pres- had risen from the table and, clapping his hat, had hurriéd into the streets, t{‘e the lamps were already beginning shine search though he would, Presley could not again come upon the young wo- man, in whom he fancied he had seen the daughter of the unfortunate German. At last he gave up the hunt. and, returning to his club—at this hour aimost deserted —semoked a few cigirett:s. vain y attempt- ed to read from a volume of essays in the library, and at last, nervous, distraught, exhausted, retired to his bed. But none the less, Presiey had not been mistaken. The girl whom he had tried to follow had been indeed M‘nna Hooven. ‘When Minna, a week before this time, had returned fo the lodging house on Cas- tro street, after a day's unsuccessful ef- fort to find employment, and was told that her mother and Hilda had gone, she was struck speechless with surprise and dism She had never before been in arger than Bonneville, and now not which way to turn nor how to account for the disappearance of her d littie Hilda. That the land- e point of turning them out but it had been agreed she understoo that the family should be allowed to stay more day, in the hope that Minna find work. Of this she remindéd rdl But this latter at once upon her such a torrent of vj- submission. she faltered, “I know. I am sorry. 1 know we owe you money, but where did my mother go? I only want to find her.” “Ob, I ain’t going to be bothered.” shrilled the other. “How do I know?” The truth of the matter was that Mrs, Hooven, afraid to stay In the vicinity of the house, after her eviction, and threat- ened with arrest by the landlady if she persisted in hanging around, had left with the woman @ note scrawled on an old blotter, to be given to Minna when she re- turned. ‘This the -landlady had lost. To cover her confusion, ghe affected a vast indignation, and a turbulent, irascible de- meanos e “I ain’t going to bé bothered with such cattle as you,” she vociferated in Minna's face. “I don't know where your folks is, Me, I only have dealings with honest peo- ple. 1 ain't got & word to say so long as the rent is paid. But when I'm_soldiered out of a week's lodging, then I'm done. You-get right n!on{ now. I don’'t know you. I ain’t going t6 have my place get a bad name by having any south of Mar- ket street chbipples hamging around. You get along, or T'll call &n officer.” Minna sought the street, her head in'a whirl. It was about 5 o'clock. In her pocket was 35 cents, all she had in the world. What now? All at once the terror of the city, that blind, unreasoned fear that only the out- cast knows, swooped upon her, and clutched her, vulfure-wise, by the throat. Her first few days' experience in the matter of finding employment had taught her just what she might expect from this new world upon which she hid. been thrown. What was td hecome of her? What was she to do, where was she to go? Unanswerable. grim questions, ‘and Dow she no longer had herself to_fear for. Her mother and the baby, littie Hilda, both of them equally unable to look after themselves, what was to become of them, where were they gone? Lost, lost, all of them, herself as well. But she rallied her- self as she walked along. ‘Lhe idea of her starving, of ber mother and Hilda starv- ing, was out of all reason. Of course, it’ would not come to that, of course not. It was not thus that starvation came. Some- thing would happen, of course it would— in time. But meanwhile, meanwhile, how to get through this ugpn;lchln‘ night, and the next few days. That was the thing to think of just now. The suddenness of it all was what most unnerved her. During all the nineteen years of her life she had never known what it meant to shift for herself. Her father had always sufficed for the-family; he had taken care of her, then, all of a rudden, her father had been killed, her mother snatched from her. Then all of a THE- DEATH OF- S BEHRMAM sudden there was no help anywhere. Then all of a sudden a terrible voice demanded of her, “Now, just what can you do to keep yourself aiive?” Life faced her; she looked the huge stone image squarely In the lusterless ey 1t was nearly twilight. Minna, for the sake of avolding observation — for it Seemed to her that now a thousand prying giances followed her—assumed a matter- of-fact demeanor, and began to walk briskly toward the business quarter of the town. She was dressed neatly enough, in a blue cloth skirt with a blue plush belt, fairly decent shoes, once her mother’s, a pink shirtwalst, and jacket and a straw eallor. She was, in an unusual fashion, pretty. Even 'her troubles had not dimmed the bright light of her pale, greenish blue eyes, nor faded the aston- ishing redness of her lips, nor hollowed her strangely white face. Her blue-black hair was trim. She carried her well- shaped, well-rounded figure erectly. Even in her distress she observed that men looked keenly at her, and sometimes after her as she went along. But this she noted with a dim sub-consclous faculty. The real Minna, harassed, terrified, lashed With a thousand anxiefles, kept murmur- ing under her breath: ““What shall I do, what shall I do, oh, ‘what shall 1 do, now?” After an iInterminable walk, she gained Kearny strect, and held it till the well- lighted, well-kept neighborhood of the aliopping Alstrict gave place to the vice: crowded saloons and concert halls of the Barbary Coast. She turned aside in avoidance of this, only to plunge into the purlieus of Chinatown, whence only she emerged, panic-stricken and out of breath, after a half hour of never-to-be-forgotten terrors, u‘r‘l-d at a time when it had grown ite dar] On the corner of California and Dupont streets she stood & long moment, ponder- ing, “l must do something,” she sald to her- self. “I must do something.” She was tired out by now, and the idea occurred to her to enter the Catilic Church in whose shadow she stood, and sit down and rest. This she did. - The evening service was just beln! concluded. But long after the priests and altar boys had departed from the chancel, Minna still sat in the dim, echoing interior, con- fronting her desperate situation as best she might. Two or three hours later, the sexton woke her. The church was being closed; she must leave. Once more, chilled with the sharp night alr, numb with long sit- ting in the same attitude, still oppressed with drowsiness, confused, frightened, Minna found herself on the pavement. She began to be hungry, and, at length, yleld- ing to the demand that every moment ew more imperious, bought and eagerly evoured a five-cent bag of fruit. Then, once more she took up the round of walk- ing. At length, in an obscure street that branched from Kearny street, near the corner of the Plaza, she came upon an il- luminated sign, bearing the inscription, “Beds for the Night, 15 and 25 cents.’> Fifteen cents! Could she afford it? TI¢ would leave her with only that much more, that much between herseif and & state of privation of which she dared not think; a besides, the forbidding look of the building frightened her. It was dark, gloomy, dirty, a place suggestive of obscure crimés and hidden terrors, For twenty mi or half an hour, she hesi- tated, walking twice and three -times around the block. At last, she made up her mind. haustion such as she had never know ighed like lead upon her shoulders and dragged at her heels. She must sleep. She couid not walk the streets all night e entered the doorway un- der the sign, and found her way up & filthy flight stairs. At the top, a man in a blue checked “jumper” was filiing & lamp behtind a high desk. To him Minna applied. “I should like,” she faltered, “to have a room—a bed for the night. -One of thos for fifteen’ cents will be good enough, I think.” “Well, this place is only for men,” said the man, looking up from the lamp. “Oh,” sald Minna ‘“oh—~I-I d&dn’t know She looked at him stupidly, and he, with equal stupidity, returned the gaze. Thus, for a long moment, they held each’s oth~ eyes. —I didn’t know,” repeated Minna, Y Yes, it's for men,” repeated the other, She slowly descended the stairs, and once more came out upon the strests. And upon those streets. that, as the hours advanced, grew more and more de- serted, more and more silent, more and more oppressive with the sense of the bit- ter hardness of life toward those who have no means of living, Minna spent the first night of her struggle to keep her head above the ebb-tide of the city’s sea, into which she had Dbeen plunged. Morning came, and with it resewed Bun« ger. At this time, she had found hef way uptown again, and toward 10 ¢'clock v-, sitting upon a bench in a little park ful of nurse-maids and children. A group of the maids drew their baby-buggies to Minna’s bench, and sat down, continuing & conversation they had already begun. Minna listened. A friend of one of the. thaids had suddenly thrown up tion, leaving her “madame’ would appear to have been degperved am= barrassment, “Oh,” said Minna, breaking in, with sudden unwonted fluency, nurse-girl. 1 am out of & place. De you think I could get that one?” The group turned and fixed her—eg evi- dently a country giri—with a supercilisus indifference. ““Well, you might try,¥ sald one of/them, “Got good reference “References?”’ repeated Minna blankly. She did not know what this meant, “Oh, Mrs. Field ain't the kind to stick about references,” spoke up the other, “she’s that soft. ~Why, anybody eould work her.” y “I'll go there,” sald Minna. “Have you the address?” It was told to her. “Lorin,” she murmured. “Is that out of town?"” “Well, it’s across the bay.” Across_the bay. “Um. You're from the country, ain't u ? ,O"Yes. How—how do I get there? Is it far?”’ “Well, you take the ferry at the foot of Market street, and then the train on the other side. No, it ain't very far. Just ask any one down thers. Tney’ll tell you.” It was a chance; but Minna, after walk- ing down to the ferry slips, found that the round trip would cost her twenty cents. If the journey proved fruitiess, only a dime would stand between her and the end of everything. But it was & chance; the only one that had, as yet, pre- sented itself. She made the trip. And upon the street-rallway cars, upon the ferryboats. on the locomotiv: and way-coaches of the local trains, she was reminded of her father's deagh, and of the giant power that had reduced her tg her present straits, by the letters, P. and 8. W. R. R. To her mind, they occurred everywhere. She seemed to ses them In every direction. She faneled herseif sur- rounded upon every hand by the . long arms of the monster. Minute after minute, her hunger gnawed at her. She could not keep her mind from it. As she sat on the boat, she found herself curiously scanning the faces of the passengers, wondering how long since such a one had breakfasted, how long be- fore this other should sit down te lunch. When Minna descended from the train, at Lorin on the other side of the bay, she found that the place was one of those suburban towns, not yet become fash- ionable, such as may be seen beyond the outskirts of any large American eity. All along the line of the railroad thereabout, | houses, small villas—contractors’ ventures ere scattered, the advantages of sub- urban lots and sites for homes being pro- claimed in_seven-foot letters upon mam- moth bill-boards close to the right of way. Without much trouble, Minna found the house to which she had been directed, a pretty little cottage, set back from the street and shaded by palms, live oaks, and the inevitable eucalyptus. Her heart warmed at the sight of it. Oh, to find a little niche for herself here, & home, & refuge from those horrible city streets, from the rat of famine, with its relentless tooth. How she would wotk, How strenue ously she would endeavour to please, how patient of ‘rebuke she would be, how faithful, how conscientious. Nor were her pretensions altogether false; upom her, while at home, had devolved almost con- tinually the care of the baby Hilda, her little sister. She knew the wants and needs of children. Her heart beating, her breath fi she rang the bell set squarely in the mi dle of the front door. The lady of the house herself, an elder- Iy lady, with pleasant, kindly face, opened the door. Minna stated her errand. “But I have already engaged 's girl,’ she said. “Oh,” murmyred Minna, striving with all her might to maintain appearances, “Oh—I thought perhaps—"* he turned sway. “I'm sorry,” sald the lady. Them she added, “Would you care to look after so many as three little children, and help around in light housework bhetween ‘whiles?” “Yes, ma'am.” “Because my sister—she lives in North Berkeley, above here—she’s looking for & rl. Have you had lots of experience? jot good references?" “Yes, ma'am.” “Well, I'll_give yofl the sddress. She lives up In North Berkeley. She turned back into tne house s mo- \ ment and returned, handing Minna a card. g shat's where she lives—careful not te blot it, child, the ink's wet yet—you had better see her. “I8 it far? Could I walk there?™ “My, no; you better take the electrio cars, about six blocks above here. ‘When Minna arrived in North Berkeley she had no money left. By a cruel mis. take, she had taken a car going in the wrong direction, and though her error was rectified easily enough, it had cost her her last 5-cent plece. She was-now to try her last hope. Promptly it crumbled away. Like the former, this place had been already filled, and Minna .left the door of the house with the certainty that her chance had come to naught, and that now she entered into the last struggle with life—the death struggle—shorn of her last pit.ful defcnse, her last safeguard, her last penny. As she once more resumed her Intermin- able walk she realized that she was weak, faint; and she knew that it was the weak- ness of complete exhaustion, and _the faintness of apprr»afh(ng starvation. Was this the end coming on? Terror of death aroused her. “I must, I must do something, oh, any- thing. I must have something to eat.” At this late hour the idea of pawning her little jacket occurred to ler, but now she was far away from the ecity and its pawnshops, and there was no getting back. She walked on. An hour passed. She lost her sense of direction, became con- fused, knew not where she .was “goin; turned corners and went up by-styeets without knowing why, anything to keep moving, for ghe fancied that so soon as she stcod still the rat in the pit of WNg stomach gnawed more eagerly. At last she entered what seemed to be, if not a park, at least some sort public inclosure. There were many trees: the place was beautiful; weil-kept roads and walks led siguously and invitingly: under- neath the shade. Through the trees upon the other side of a wide expanse of turs