Iliad of the Potrero

Table of Contents

The San Francisco Examiner - Sunday, February 28, 1892

The Deadly Feud That Has Rent South San Francisco.

WAR, CRUEL WAR, WITHOUT END.

The Origin and Chronicles of a Blue-Mud Quarrel-A Bright Outlook for Several First-Class Wakes and Funerals.

For long years did the blue mud of the Potrero rest peaceful and knee deep on the busier thoroughfares, all untrodden by the gory hoof of war.

If a little riot disturbed the calm monotony of wake or wedding it was rioted out in a catholic and harmonious way; if a few of the boys set about “swatting” the conductor of the last street car or pelted the driver thereof with rocks, they " swatted " or pelted, as the case happened to be, in true fraternal harmony.

Now, however, the blue mud on Illinois street and the blue mud on Michigan street are muds severed and apart; and it is all along of Frank McManus and his brother, the “Gorsoon,” coming down with discords and other alien things and camping in the heart of the Potrero.

In five—-nay, in less than five-short years they have rooted out all that ever lurked of brotherly love from the viscous blue mud, and in place thereof they have sown the seeds of hellish discord.

When Frank McManus first came to the Potrero he went into the saloon business with one Anderson, the foreman of the shipyard, as a partner. It was a poor lookout or the ship yard hand that got drunk on liquor other than that vended by McManus, which circumstance culminated in a scandal that ended disastrously for Anderson, but affected neither the King nor brother, the “Gorsoon.”

Later there arose a similar partnership between “Mac” - as his friends call him - and a master mechanic of the rolling mills named Lester. A second scandal knocked this combine on the head and Lester had retire from the partnership.

Then it was that Mac moved into the new Union Hotel, and as master of a big boarding-house, took unto himself the royal title of “King of the Potrero.”

His path to power, however, was by no means unhampered or unhindered.

Early in the day, ere yet the iron heel of despotism had scrunched into very bones of the Potrero’s neck, the Welch boys, in the capacity of self elected Davids, had combated of the Goliath who oppressed them.

Hefty boys are the Welches - Jack and Jim and Jerry and-oh, in fact, the entire root and branch of the family.

They can hit hard and straight; they can hit often. The split nose of Frank McManus, his dented skull, and divers other evidences, bear testimony to this statement. They had stout hearts and feared not to champion Potrero’s cause, through there are evil-minded people who say that the Welch boys first picked a quarrel with McManus because he was drawing trade from the Mechanics’ saloon down to his “shebang” on Michigan street.

Now it happens that McManus’ Union Hotel is right opposite the gate of the iron works. The boys have got to climb up Napa-street hill to Illinois street to get a drink there, and a fellow can slip over and take a drink at the Union in half no time.

This circumstance beguiled many who might have been good Welchites - and therefore, straight Democrats - into the clutches of the red Republican Kink, and he deftly poison their minds with such remarks as “What de—-’s de dood o’ dem Welches anyhow ? Why, —- —- me soul, I’d swat de gob offen de hull bloody lot of ’em if dey looked twicet at me crosswise !” and divers others of similiar scandalous import.

It was pretty much the same with the Welch boys. Whenever a known back-slider would run across one of them he would hear a lot of unpleasant things about the self-elected King.

“Say, now. Bill (or Tom, or Pat, or as the case chanced to be), don’t youse know better nor ter be consortin’ wid de likes o’ dat skunk McManus and de Gor soon? What de hell good are dey nohow ? Why, de stuff he sells youse for whisky do come from de vitri’l works, an’ de gang he’s got roun’ him is de same. Dem McManuses is t’ieves anyhow, an’ dey knows it. Yes an’ dey’re —-”

And at this point the Welch representative would become so flowery and forcible in his language that the ethics of latter-day journalism forbid the transcription of the same.

Often of a wet day one of the Welches stoutest adherents would drop in with a few pals to take a drink at the McManus’. It would be the middle or maybe the end of the month. Treats were stood on credit. The McManus adherents would set ’em up time and time again. Mac himself would take a turn and have the house stand arouud just to show there was no ill-feeling.

Penniless, creditless, in the very bowels of Michigan street and far from his Illinois-street chums, what was the poor Welchite to do? Here he was smiling across the bar at Frank McManus himself, drinking his whisky, drinking at his expense, drinking at his friends expense, and never a nickel or dime in his pocket wherewith to keep his end up.

“What’s that do be troublin’ you, lad? Eh ! Ain’t got no money in yer clothes? Well! Well! An’ you standin’ there as if yer heart was broke.

“Why, me boy, yer name’s as good as the best of em for anything youse like to call fer”

“What’ll it be, boys? It’s Jim Brady’s treat.”

The insidious smile, the ensnaring laughter of the King had got in its deadly work. Home, honor, the Welches, the Potrero itself, were all forgotten. Merrily passed the bowl. The Welches had lost another clansman.

Episodes like this became common, and the results equally so. After a desertion one of the Welch boys, with a few hefty adherents, would go forth and lie in wait for MeManus, or the Gorsoon, or Big Phil, or any other prominent member of the King’s household.

Presently word would be brought to Michigan street, and Mac, or some equally potent champion, would start out with posse of henchmen.

On the corner of Illinois street they would meet the Welch hero, who would turn up his nose and say:

“Boo!”

To this the McManus would retort:

“Boo, yourself!”

“Who de - are yez talkin’ ter?”

“I’m talkin’ to youse! See?”

“Well, yez’ll quit —- —– soon, or I’ll smash yer jaw. See?”’

“Yer will: will yer!”

Biff! Bang! Squelch! Whizz! * * !!! * * * !!!!

And the blue mud would boil like a pot.

Whenever the feud would reach a new head and a preconcerted or accidental encounter of forces resulted in a riot, McManus would average his losses by a general scouring out of the Rolling Mills employees, who boarded with or in any way patronized the enemy.

By bragging about “My friend, Irving M.,” he impressed the Potrero with an aweinspiring dread of influence with I. M. Scott. Patrick Noble was always plain “Pat” when Mac talked about him to patrons of the Union bar.

When Dan Burns was appointed Police Commissioner Mac stood out in broad noonday on the corner of Illinois street itself and mocked at the Welches under the gates of their own castle.

“Dan’s in now!” he cried, “and Dan an’ me is pardners now, an’ I’ve a pull wid de cops now, an’ they daren’t lay no hands on me.

“Dan’s in, begobs, and I’m goin’ ter kill all the Welches!”

Such were the words attributed to King McManus on the celebrated day of Dan Burns’ elevation the Board of Police Commissioners, and Jack Welch states he believes they partially paralyzed the executive ability of Sergeant Bennett and all the other officers of the Potrero police squad.

With the presumption that Dan Burns, “Pat” Noble and “me friend Irving M.” were all at his back, Frank McManus’ standing in the Potrero began to resemble an oriental potentate in his own domains, and no Shah or Sultan of the nethermost East ever used his power so tyrannically. At least, that is what the Welch boys say.

So it came about that one by one the Welchites fell away until the Monterey House stood almost desolate and the peagreen doors of the Mechanics’ Saloon creaked on their rusty hinges.

Now and then, in fits of grim desperation, the Welches would attempt a coup d’etat. They would wait around with still faithful followers, they would say “Boo!” as here-inbefore set forth and described, and in the subsequent proceedings they would " slug” the McManus men and “swat” them. Then all parties concerned would get “run in” and fined; but what mattered the jail when an enemy’s skull was broken?

Clubs and fists are used by the two the usual weapons used by the tow factions, but on Sunday night last, when Mac’s brother-in-law, Bill Phillips, accused Jim Welch of committing arson by setting his own hotel,–the Monterey House - on fire for the insurance money, pistols and knives were handled with ease and freedom;

There certainly was a small fire and a small row thereat; but it was not until McManus who went forth with a mob to do up the Welches that the real rumpus occured. The night was black dark - there no lights on Illinois street - and in the melee which arose it is a marvel that nobody was murdered.

Shots were fired freely, Sergeant Bennett smashed his locust on sombebody’s head, Jack Welch broke his wrist McManus’ nose, and scalps were split in all directions. Owing to the fact that there are only four policemen in the entire Potrero the arrests were comparatively few; but four broken clubs, two knives and a revolver were found in the blue mud on the morning after the battle.

McManus was then charged by Welch with assault to murder subsequently discharged on his own recognizances. He told an Examiner man on Tuesday last that he had furnished the necessary bonds up to that period; and smiled at the pull it implied: but that is neither here nor there. Of course Jack Welch got run in too; but what is one arrest more or less in the long litany thereof that has characterized the feud of the Welches and the McManuses.

Up to date nobody has been murdered by either faction; but there are strong hopes that the near future life-blood will be spilled.

When once murder begins the Hatfield-McCoy feud of West Virginia will pale into dim insignificance and the memory of Kentucky’s border wars will be blotted out, drowned as it were, and obliterated in the blue mud of the Potrero.