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I San Francisco, May 1922 "Thief! Thief! Catch Thief!" "Mr. Bastion, over here," hailed a dogged voice from the welcoming throng. Picking his name out of the shouted din, a dapper figure in his early twenties turned a pair of piercing blue eyes to peruse the crowd. Shortly he spotted the hawk faced retainer, the man’s arm beckoning among a sea of arm wavers. The newcomer left the ferry’s railing, and unconsciously using his height and athletic build to good advantage, worked his way down the landing ramp onto the terminal’s main floor. |
"Welcome home, Mr. Bastion, Joseph said over
the din of the excited chatter around them. "Glad to be home and good to see you - you old fart." The younger man dropped his bags and grasped the chuckling older man's hand. "Only these two bags?" "Yes, here you take this one; I’ll tote the other. The steamer trunk is shipped through to Bastion House." The two men stepped through the thinning crowd to the sunlit Market Street exit. Joseph Duggan had been with the family for thirty-six years and had as much to do with raising its sons as anyone. His mother hen manner and normally sorrowful expression belied the rough and tumble service he had given the trading house in its early days. In these latter years he had learned to look the part of a family servant. |
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