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On the edge of the rioting in Dublin during the "revolution" of the Sinn Fein organization. This scene is taken in Sackville street where the contest raged most violently.

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Austrian soldiers getting their rations at a field kitchen.

A section of the Mission, San Francisco, during the month following the great conflagration of three days beginning on

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April 18, 1906

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T WAS a cloudy afternoon on San dimly beneath. White columns of

Francisco At cold March steam from the vessels lying at the

Bay.

wind was blowing from the south, the sky was heavily overcast, the water seemed a mass of molten lead. In the distance a veil of fog and smoke hung over the hills of the city, the wharves and larger buildings looming

piers, drifted obliquely across dusky background. The effect was that of a dark, dun-colored cloud, streaked with streamers of white, weighing down upon the hills and water, and struggling to conceal the

angular outlines of tall business buildings which feebly tried to peer through the haze.

A chill and theerless scene.

So thought Kenneth Cuttle, newly arrived from New York, as he stood on the forward deck of the ferry boat and gazed at the unfamiliar pictures.

He saw a ferry steamer passing in the opposite direction. He noted its high white sides, pierced by a score of square windows. Above it the black walking beam solemnly see-sawed. A crowd of screaming gulls were wheeling and whirling above the wake.

Cuttle turned and transferred his attention to the hills of San Francisco, which were about two miles away. All that he saw had the attraction of novelty, for this was his first visit to California. But, as he looked, he asked himself:

"Is there any true local color left to San Francisco? Of course, it has its sea gulls and it has its climatewhich seems detestable to-day, with all this grayness and moisture and raw, chilly breeze-and it has its environment. But is there anything distinctive in the lives of its people? Are not their customs pretty much the same as in any other American metropolis ?"

And Kenneth Cuttle thought regretfully of the days of gold, sixty years ago, and of those other days thirty and forty years later, when fleets of fourmasted ships crowded to San Francisco bay, until the wharves were a forest of masts.

"Plenty of local color in those days," he murmured, regretfully. "But the sailing ships are gone now, or nearly gone. Commerce is carried on in the ocean tramp or tanker, and they are the same the world over. When I land in the city, I bet I'll feel as though I were in New York, for all the novelty I'll see."

By this time they had reached the San Francisco shore. The paddles stopped turning, the steamer drifted onward, and slid into its slip. The captain pulled a cord; a bell clanged in the engine room. The great wheels

as

churned the water for a moment their motion was reversed, and with a gentle bump the boat came to the landing.

Cuttle joined the rush across the gang plank and out through the ferry building. He heard the clang and clatter of electric cars, the sirens of automobiles, and all the other customary city noises. He glanced up at the great clock in the tower, and saw that it marked ten minutes to one.

"I'd better telephone," he thought. "I'll let Chill know I'm here before I start up town," and he turned toward the telephone booth, where he called up Heather & Company in the Balboa Building.

"Hello: is Mr. Chill in ?" "Just a moment, please."

He heard the connections rattle, and then he heard Chill's familiar voice.

"This is Mr. Chill."

"Hello, Chill. This is Kenneth Cuttle, from the Boston office. You had my letter, I suppose. I've just arrived. I'm at the ferry building, and I'm on my way to the office."

"Well, I'm glad you called me up," was the answer, after a few perfunctory inquires regarding Cuttle's journey. "I take lunch about this time, and should have made my escape before you got here. What do you say to meeting me at the lunch place, instead of here?"

"Very good. I haven't lunched yet."

"Fine," and Chill went on to give the address.

"It's right on the street leading up from the ferry. Take almost any car, get off at Third and Market, and look for the number. If you don't see me when you get there, go ahead, and I'll join you when I come in."

Cuttle left the car at the right block, but he turned toward the wrong sidewalk. He stood on the pavement for a moment, studying the numbers on the buildings as a first step in finding the address Chill had given him.

"But what have we here?" he thought. "This looks like local color."

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