They smoked for some time in silence; then Keith arose to go.
"It is a big idea; it requires thought," said he ruminatively. "You are a recent arrival, Mr. Krafft? What is your line of activity?"
The slight, elegant little man smiled.
"I am one of the—what is it you called, them—bums of whom we talk. I try to do what is within my power, within my strength-lest I, too, become discouraged, lest I, too, fall again—and not get up."
"I have not seen you about anywhere," said Keith, puzzled by this speech.
"I do not go anywhere; I should be eaten. You do not understand me, and I am a poor host to talk in riddles. I am a philosopher, not a man of action; egotist, not an egoist; one who cannot swim in your strong waters. As I said, one of that same class whom your bounty helped this evening."
"Good Lord, man!" cried Keith, looking about the little room. "You're not in want?"
Krafft laughed gently.
"In your sense, no. I have my meals. Enough of me. Go, and think of what I say."
Keith did so, and the result was the first organized charity in San Francisco. Since 1849 men had always been exceptionally generous in responding to appeals for money. Huge sums could easily be raised at any time. Hospitals and almshouses dated from the first. But having given, these pioneers invariably forgot. The erection of the buildings cost more than they should, and management being venal, conditions soon became disgraceful. Alms reached the professional pauper. The miner or immigrant, diseased, discouraged, out of luck, more often died—either actually or morally.