of Italy—adventure enough for one who had no happy recollections of Delmonico’s on O’Farrell Street or of the Odeon or the Pup or the Black Cat, bright spots blotted out forever now. He partook heartily of the white man’s cooking, and drank three cups of steaming tea.
A young man, from his appearance perhaps a clerk, was eating a modest dinner at Chan’s side. After a few words concerned with the sugar bowl, Chan ventured to address him further.
“Please pardon the abrupt advance of a newcomer,” he said. “For three hours I am free to wander the damp but interesting streets of your city. Kindly mention what I ought to see.”
“Why—I don’t know,” said the young man, surprised. “Not much doing any more. San Francisco’s not what it used to be.”
“The Barbary Coast, maybe,” suggested Chan.
The young man snorted. “Gone forever. The Thalia, the Elko, the Midway—say, they’re just memories now. Spider Kelley is over in Arizona, dealing in land. Yes, sir—all those old dance-halls are just garages today—or maybe ten cent flop-houses. But look here—this is New Year’s Eve in Chinatown. However—” He laughed. “I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”
Chan nodded. “Ah yes—the twelfth of February. New Year’s Eve.”
Presently he was back on the sidewalk, his keen eyes sparkling with excitement. He thought of the somnolent thoroughfares of Honolulu by night—Honolulu, where every one goes home at six, and stays there. How different here in this mainland city. The driver of a sightseeing bus approached him and also spoke of Chinatown. “
