There was no question of Price's father, Morgan Ruyler, leaving New

York, even if he had contemplated the sacrifice for a moment; that his

second son and general manager of the several branches of the great

business of Ruyler and Sons--as integral a part of the ancient history

of San Francisco as of the comparatively modern history of New

York--should go, was so much a matter of course that Price had taken the

first Overland train that left New York after the receipt of his uncle's

despairing telegram.

In spite of the fortune behind him and his own expert training, the

struggle to rebuild the old business to its former standard had been

unintermittent. The terrific shock to the city's energies was followed

by a general depression, and the insane spending of a certain class of

San Franciscans when their insurance money was paid, was like a brief

last crackling in a cold stove, and, moreover, was of no help to the

wholesale houses.

But Price Ruyler, like so many of his new associates in like case, had

emerged triumphant; and with the unqualified approval and respect of the

substantial citizens of San Francisco.

It was this position he had won in a community where he had experienced

the unique sensation of being a pioneer in at the rebirth of a great

city, as well as the outdoor sports that kept him fit, that had endeared

California to Ruyler, and in time caused him whimsically to visualize New

York as a sternly accusing instead of a beckoning finger. Long before he

found time to play polo at Burlingame he had conceived a deep respect for

a climate where a man might ride horseback, shoot, drive a racing car, or

tramp, for at least eight months of the year with no menace of sudden

downpour, and hardly a change in the weight of his clothes.

To-day the rain was dashing against his windows and the wind howled about

the exposed angles of his house with that personal fury of assault with

which storms brewed out in the vast wastes of the Pacific deride the

enthusiastic baptism of a too confident explorer. All he could see of the

bay was a mad race of white caps, and dark blurs which only memory

assured him were rocky storm-beaten islands; mountain tops, so geological

tradition ran, whose roots were in an unquiet valley long since dropped

from mortal gaze.

The waves were leaping high against the old forts at the entrance to the

Golden Gate, and occasionally he saw a small craft drift perilously near

to the rocks. But he loved the wild weather of San Francisco, for he was

by nature an imaginative man and he liked to think that he would have

followed the career of letters had not the traditions of the great

commercial house of Ruyler and Sons, forced him to carry on the burden.




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