Topham promised.
That had been two months before and San Francisco was now close at hand. The glow that hovers above every great city had grown more and more distinct; the peak of Mt. Tamalpais bisected it and the black bulk of the low southern shore was faintly visible beneath it. Soon the channel and range lights grew into visibility. Then the steamer slid through the heavy rolling waves of the bar into the calm of the outer bay. Fifteen minutes more and it passed through the Golden Gate and the great city lay outstretched before it.
Topham looked at his watch and wondered whether he would get ashore in time to catch the midnight train for the east.
Scarcely had he formulated his wish, when a boat came alongside, and a fresh young voice hailed the deck.
“This is a launch from Fort Alcatraz,” it explained. “Is Commander Topham on board? I’ve been sent to land him. Here’s the permit from quarantine.”
In five minutes Topham was in the boat, speeding shoreward. “Orders from Washington, Mr. Topham,” explained the officer in charge. “Your berth has been engaged on the twelve o’clock train. It’s nearly nine now. Meanwhile I’m at your orders. Will you come out to the fort, or go straight to Oakland and the train, or do you want to see the Great White Way in San Francisco first? Command me.”
“Thank you! I’ll go to San Francisco, please. I have an errand to discharge. Please land me at the foot of Market Street.”
“Just as you say, sir.” The young man spoke to the coxswain and the boat bore away to the right.
Once landed in the western city, Topham said good-night and started up Market Street, reading the signs on the lamp posts as he went.
Stiles had not been able to give him the number of the restaurant for which he was looking, but he knew that it was on Market Street just below Kearney Street, close to Lotta’s fountain and the Chronicle Building, which he could see outlined against the sky far up the street.