“The others went through him,” he replied, sullenly; “I don’t know how much they got.”
“Shall we call it twenty-five dollars as a minimum?” I suggested.
His face expressed neither approval nor dissent, but he drew from a ragged pocket a large gold watch.
“Guess that’ll cover it,” he said, coolly, and on examination I found that it did, by fully another twenty-five dollars.
When, after considerable difficulty, I found my way back to the tobacconist, my companion had recovered consciousness and, with a bandaged head, sat up to hear my report.
“How much did you lose?” was my first question.
“Nothing,” he said; “I haven’t a cent in the world.”
“Then here’s something to be going on with,” said I, and handed him the watch.
After the foregoing, it is with some reluctance that I relate what happened two days later, but the experience is so typical of San Franciscan under-life that I can hardly allow it to pass unrecorded. My own part in the affair was entirely reprehensible, and I need say no more, for everyone knows that, while confession may be good for the soul, it is rarely compatible with personal dignity.
I wished to go to a certain theatre, and asked the way of the first pedestrian I met. He smilingly informed me that I was going in precisely the opposite direction, and that, as he happened to be passing the doors himself, he would show me the way. During the next five minutes I learnt that my guide was also a stranger to San Francisco, and that he had come from Canada. As I had lived there myself for four years this supplied a connecting link in our reminiscences, and we entered the first bar to improve the occasion. He certainly knew the Canadian prairie like a book, and his anecdotes of ranch and bush life were so interesting that the theatre was soon forgotten and we settled down for a chat.