"Well, she ought to know."
We arrived at the Seven Houses and Cluness paused before the tallest and dirtiest.
"Here's where she lives; I'm going up for a few moments."
"Have a drink first," suggested Leander, fixing his eyes upon the saloon under the brick house.
We three went in and sat down at one of the little round zinc tables—painted to imitate marble—and the Kanaka woman herself brought us our drinks. While we were drinking, one of the beggars came in. He was an Indian, totally blind, and in the day time played a mouth-organ on Grant Avenue near a fashionable department store.
"Tut, tut," said Cluness, "poor fellow, blind, you see, what a pity, I'll give him a quarter."
"No, let me," exclaimed Leander.
As he spoke the door opened again and another blind man groped in. This fellow I had seen often. He sold lavender in little envelopes on one of the corners of Kearny street. He was a stout, smooth-faced chap and always kept his chin in the air.
"What misery there is in this world," sighed Cluness as his eye fell upon this latter, "one half the world don't know how—"
"Look, they know each other," said Leander. The lavender man had groped his way to the Indian's table—evidently it was their especial table—and the two had fallen a-talking. They ordered a sandwich apiece and a small mug of beer.