“D——d bad.”
“In that—deal?”
“Steal, I call it.”
“How much?”
“Whole caboodle! Want a janitor up yonder?”
“Janitor—no. I want a nervy man to come in with me. Come?”
“I’m there.”
And now those two men are piling up millions together instead of betting them against each other. That’s San Francisco.
The Golden City is entered naturally enough by a Golden Gate. It is as proud of its Golden Gate and bay as Sydney is of “our harbour,” and that is saying a good deal. All the same, Sydney doesn’t quite like California calling itself God’s country.
My guide-booker says, “The entrance through the Golden Gate cannot be surpassed.” If he said that inside Sydney Heads he would be thrown to the sharks. And, as a matter of fact, having said that which is not the truth he would in some measure deserve his fate. Moreover, outside the Golden Gate there is a bar, of which more anon. There are other bars in the city which are safer except for millionaires, because you can’t spend less than twenty-five cents in them. A drunk in San Francisco is therefore an undertaking not to be entered on lightly.