And, completely to put the quietus on any last lingering hopes he might have had of her, he was in the thick of his spectacular and intensely bitter fight with the Coastwise Steam Navigation Company, and the Hawaiian, Nicaraguan, and Pacific-Mexican Steamship-Company.
He stirred up a bigger muss than he had anticipated, and even he was astounded at the wide ramifications of the struggle and at the unexpected and incongruous interests that were drawn into it.
Every newspaper in San Francisco turned upon him.
It was true, one or two of them had first intimated that they were open to subsidization, but Daylight's judgment was that the situation did not warrant such expenditure.
Up to this time the press had been amusingly tolerant and good-naturedly sensational about him, but now he was to learn what virulent scrupulousness an antagonized press was capable of.
Every episode of his life was resurrected to serve as foundations for malicious fabrications.
Daylight was frankly amazed at the new interpretation put upon all he had accomplished and the deeds he had done.
From an Alaskan hero he was metamorphosed into an Alaskan bully, liar, desperado, and all around "bad Man."
Not content with this, lies upon lies, out of whole cloth, were manufactured about him.
He never replied, though once he went to the extent of disburdening his mind to half a dozen reporters.
"Do your damnedest," he told them.
"Burning Daylight's bucked bigger things than your dirty, lying sheets.
And I don't blame you, boys... that is, not much.
You can't help it.
You've got to live.
There's a mighty lot of women in this world that make their living in similar fashion to yours, because they're not able to do anything better.
Somebody's got to do the dirty work, and it might as well be you.
You're paid for it, and you ain't got the backbone to rustle cleaner jobs."
The socialist press of the city jubilantly exploited this utterance, scattering it broadcast over San Francisco in tens of thousands of paper dodgers.
And the journalists, stung to the quick, retaliated with the only means in their power-printer's ink abuse.
The attack became bitterer than ever.
The whole affair sank to the deeper deeps of rancor and savageness.
The poor woman who had killed herself was dragged out of her grave and paraded on thousands of reams of paper as a martyr and a victim to Daylight's ferocious brutality.
Staid, statistical articles were published, proving that he had made his start by robbing poor miners of their claims, and that the capstone to his fortune had been put in place by his treacherous violation of faith with the Guggenhammers in the deal on Ophir.
And there were editorials written in which he was called an enemy of society, possessed of the manners and culture of a caveman, a fomenter of wasteful business troubles, the destroyer of the city's prosperity in commerce and trade, an anarchist of dire menace; and one editorial gravely recommended that hanging would be a lesson to him and his ilk, and concluded with the fervent hope that some day his big motor-car would smash up and smash him with it.
He was like a big bear raiding a bee-hive and, regardless of the stings, he obstinately persisted in pawing for the honey.
He gritted his teeth and struck back.
Beginning with a raid on two steamship companies, it developed into a pitched battle with a city, a state, and a continental coastline.
Very well; they wanted fight, and they would get it.
It was what he wanted, and he felt justified in having come down from the Klondike, for here he was gambling at a bigger table than ever the Yukon had supplied.
Allied with him, on a splendid salary, with princely pickings thrown in, was a lawyer, Larry Hegan, a young Irishman with a reputation to make, and whose peculiar genius had been unrecognized until Daylight picked up with him.
Hegan had Celtic imagination and daring, and to such degree that Daylight's cooler head was necessary as a check on his wilder visions.
Hegan's was a Napoleonic legal mind, without balance, and it was just this balance that Daylight supplied.
Alone, the Irishman was doomed to failure, but directed by Daylight, he was on the highroad to fortune and recognition.
Also, he was possessed of no more personal or civic conscience than Napoleon.
It was Hegan who guided Daylight through the intricacies of modern politics, labor organization, and commercial and corporation law.
It was Hegan, prolific of resource and suggestion, who opened Daylight's eyes to undreamed possibilities in twentieth-century warfare; and it was Daylight, rejecting, accepting, and elaborating, who planned the campaigns and prosecuted them.
With the Pacific coast from Peugeot Sound to Panama, buzzing and humming, and with San Francisco furiously about his ears, the two big steamship companies had all the appearance of winning.
It looked as if Burning Daylight was being beaten slowly to his knees.
And then he struck—at the steamship companies, at San Francisco, at the whole Pacific coast.
It was not much of a blow at first.
A Christian Endeavor convention being held in San Francisco, a row was started by Express Drivers' Union No.
927 over the handling of a small heap of baggage at the Ferry Building.
A few heads were broken, a score of arrests made, and the baggage was delivered.
No one would have guessed that behind this petty wrangle was the fine Irish hand of Hegan, made potent by the Klondike gold of Burning Daylight.
It was an insignificant affair at best—or so it seemed.
But the Teamsters' Union took up the quarrel, backed by the whole Water Front Federation.
Step by step, the strike became involved.
A refusal of cooks and waiters to serve scab teamsters or teamsters' employers brought out the cooks and waiters.
The butchers and meat-cutters refused to handle meat destined for unfair restaurants.