Underground life, of a peculiar and picturesque character, can be seen in San Francisco, in the parts of the city where the Chinese most do congregate. Soon after my arrival there, two of my friends, whom I will call the Doctor and the Colonel, invited me to a nocturnal visit to the Celestials. I accepted with alacrity, and, dressed in my poorest and oldest clothes, met my friends at the appointed hour in the Alta office. Macrellish and Woodward gave us their benediction, and we set out on our journey.
“The best thing we can do,” said the doctor, “is to lay in a stock of some powerful disinfectant, or neutralizer, before we start; the stench in some of those underground China kennels is something frightful.” I suggested carbolic acid. “Not strong enough!” said the doctor, shaking his head, doubtfully. The colonel forced two long streams of smoke from his cigarito through his nostrils, stroked his long mustache thoughtfully, and suggested,—
“Pisco?”
“What is Pisco?” I demanded.
“That settles it, my friend; you have a new experience before you, and we will fall back on Pisco!” said the colonel.
DRINKING “PISCO” (PERUVIAN BRANDY) IN A SAN FRANCISCO SALOON.
EXPERIENCE WITH PISCO.