At the corner of Grant (once called Dupont) and California Streets, the guide halted their car and the party alighted. The boys looked around them with delight. In every direction were houses and stores speaking of the Orient. Close at hand on one corner
was a Catholic church, one of the landmarks of the district. On another corner was a restaurant from which came strange Chinese music.
Up the California Street hill droned a strange little cable car, its sides open and passengers facing outward. Below, clear in the moonlight, lay the Bay with a lighted ferryboat making the crossing.
While the boys were drinking it all in, and staring owl-eyed at the slippered Chinamen in baggy pants and blouses shuffling past, their guide was in converse with a stranger. Now he approached Mr. Temple and touched his cap.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, “but this is where I leave you. I’ll turn you over to this man.”
Mr. Temple regarded him sharply, then looked at the other.
“Isn’t that a bit unusual?” he asked.
“No, sir,” said the original guide, “this man has certain territory here which we let him cover by agreement. When he has shown you around, you’ll find me here, sir, and I’ll continue with you. Shall I dismiss the car, sir? You’ll spend some time here, and might as well dismiss it now and get another later, rather than have it eat up fares.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Temple. “Here.” And he handed the man a bill.
Under the conduct of the new guide, the party