The party who had caught Cuttle's attention was a man of more than average size and of very dark complexion; apparently an Italian. But his costume was what attracted the eye.

He was dressed in a suit of rich red velvet and the velvet was ornamented with horizontal stripes or slashes of golden yellow. Above it he wore a sleeveless leather coat, fastened in front with straps and buckles. His leggins were of yellow leather. Over his drab slouch hat there drooped a gray plume. The broad brim was caught by a scarlet rosette. With his brilliant medieval dress and his dark complexion, which seemed to rival the leather of his coat, he was a striking picture. Romantic enough he looked, but his occupation was very prosaic.

He carried a placard announcing that an Italian restaurant was located

within the building. As Cuttle eyed him, he thought:

"What a picture that fellow makes, with his drooping dove-colored hat, his close-fitting coat of leather, and his suit of red and yellow. If he had a halberd in his hand, instead of that absurd placard, he'd be sublime. Now, he's only ridiculous."

But the advertisement reminded Cuttle that somewhere he had read of a type of restaurant very popular on the Pacific Coast-the cafeteria, and he decided to look for one as he walked along.

The block was in the very center of San Francisco's retail district. way was lined with shops of all sorts, between which yawned the entrances to tall office buildings. Every fifty yards there was a moving picture show its presence announced by gaudy posters, by photographs of recent

events, and by the clanging chords of gigantic music boxes built on the plan of a pipe organ. And then Cuttle saw a sign which read "Quaker Cafeteria." "More local color," he thought.

At the entrance there stood a portly gentleman of rosy countenance and well-fed appearance. His long over

coat was of Quaker drab, his hair was covered with a gray wig—such a wig as the author of Robinson Crusoe might have worn. He supported a leather banner, announcing the hours. during which the place was open. It also gave the further information that "Tourists and families were welcome."

"He looks more like an Irishman than a Quaker," thought Cuttle, as he studied the man, and then he remembered that there are Quakers in Ireland.

"I wonder if there are any more such places in this block," he meditated, and he crossed the way to where he saw the entrance to a very large business building. Sure enough, there was the name of another cafeteria.

On one side of the door he saw the sign, "Lunch Now Ready-11 a. m. to 2 p. m." On the other side, the bill of fare was displayed: "Split pea soup, roast spring chicken, steamed rice, hot chocolate, etc." And then Cuttle noticed that the address was the one for which he was looking.

"Good. If I take lunch here, I'll get the lunch and a lot of local color, too," and he descended the marble staircase leading to the basement of the building.

The room which he entered was so large that the ceiling seemed low, although a full twelve feet above the floor. Cuttle noted the long rows of little square tables for four, all set obliquely, their corners pointing to the wall. Upon them the diffused daylight descended through skylights set in the sidewalk. The wavy glass wavy glass showed dim outlines of the passersby, tramping above, a succession of moving shadows. He scanned the room for a glimpse of his friend, but there was no sign of Chill.

The counter on Cuttle's right now

claimed his attention. At that counter lunch was being served. He saw a line of diners helping themselves each to a tray from a high pile, and filing before a line of attendants-men in white jackets and long white aprons, women in white dresses, who were dealing out the orders. Cuttle joined the line, taking a tray and napkin in which the necessary knife, fork and spoon seemed to be wrapped.

He now saw that at this counter only hot dishes-soups, meats, vegetableswere being served. Ahead, running at right angles to the first, he saw a second counter, set with an array of cold dishes-salads, pies, etc.

As he faced the first attendant, she rattled off a list. Cuttle named an order, which was promptly dished from a steaming pan. In such fashion he edged his way past the two counters, filling his tray as he went. At the extreme end of the second he came to a cash register.

Here a dark-haired young lady sat on a high stool. As Cuttle approached, she cast an eagle eye over his tray, and then twisted a crank attached to the register. It printed and spat out a ticket. This she placed among the dishes. It indicated the sum which he must "please pay the cashier." Cuttle noted that it amounted to thirty-one cents.

Leaving the cash register, he headed toward the tables. But, before reaching them, he must pass a marble drinking fountain. Here an array of glasses were set for the convenience of the guests.

Cuttle, while stopping to draw a glass of water, observed that the ceiling was supported by a long line of rectangular columns. These were surrounded with mirrors for a distance of about three feet above the tables. Above each table was a row of hooks. Above these hooks the upper part of each column was very tastefully decorated with strings of artificial vines, leaves and roses. It was on a table placed against a column that he put his tray.

He hung his hat and overcoat on one

of the hooks above, seated himself, and transferred his dishes to the table. The tray was removed by an attendant.

On the table there rested a silver stand, crowned by a crimson shade, within which an electric bulb gleamed. As Cuttle noticed the graceful combination-the white damask cloth, the colored light, the sparkling mirrors, and the vine leaves above-it looked good to him.

"There seems to be some style about this place," was his thought, as he glanced toward the buff-tinted walls, adorned with bunches of palms and flowers, presumably artificial.

The seat which he had chosen commanded a view of the entrance. As he began to eat, he kept a watch for his friend, whom he presently saw entering. The recognition was mutual.

Five minutes afterward, Chill was placing his steaming tray on the opposite side of the table, and the two

friends were greeting each other.

Mr. George Chill, smooth shaven, dark complexioned, dressed in a suit of well tailored blue, was a very pleasing representative of that class of business men who spend half their time on the road and half in the office. The hearty cordiality of the hand clasp with which he welcomed Cuttle was strictly in character.

For a quarter of an hour the talk ran along personal lines, until Cuttle happened to refer to the fact that a cafeteria was a novelty to him.

"I declare, I had altogether forgotten that they don't have many in the East." answered Chill. "Otherwise, I should have had you come up to the office first, so that I might escort you to the place myself and initiate you into its methods. However, you seem to have made yourself right at home. And it seemed a pity to have you come out of your way, clear to my office up in the Balboa Building."

"Well, I'm learning something about San Francisco's local color. I had my doubts as to whether such a thing existed here any longer."

"Local color," answered Chill. "Why, the whole city fairly reeks with local color."

"Go slow, Chill. We have a Chinatown in New York."

"Oh, I didn't refer to Chinatown. If that were all we had to show to strangers, I'd emigrate to New York," and Chill launched into his favorite topic, the advantages of the Golden State as a place of residence, for he was a native son. Furthermore, he had invested his savings in California real estate.

The phrases rolled from his lips: his lips: "Our matchless harbor," "our marvelous climate," "our diversified industries," "our sun-kissed snowy mountain tops."

valleys and

"And such sites for homes," he went on. "You should let me take you to a tract I-I happen to know of, which overlooks the bay from the east. I'll show you plenty of local color; great concrete mansions, crowning low foothills which roll away toward the water in a succession of long green waves; fan palms, with great brown trunks two feet thick, and broad green fans that rustle and sway in the gentle air; long stone walls hidden beneath the pink and green of ivy geraniums. We'll find them all."

"Oh, I don't doubt that you have all of those things in California," said Cuttle. "In an area of over one hundred and fifty thousand square miles one ought to find much which is distinctive and delightful. But here in San Francisco ?"

"Yes, right here in San Francisco there is plenty of local color," answered Chill. "Come on, we've had our lunch. Climb Taylor street hill with me."

Cuttle and Crane walked to the cashier's desk to settle their reckoning. Then they left the building by a door. opposite to the one by which Cuttle had entered. They walked up O'Farrell street to Taylor. There they

stopped and turned toward the north. They looked up Taylor street hill.

Cuttle counted the blocks to the top: one, two, three, four, five, six, each a little steeper than the one below it. The last was so steep as to be almost unavailable for ordinary traffic. Grass grew between the cobblestones. From where Cuttle stood, it showed in bright green patches against the gray.

The two friends were half way up the last block when Cuttle noticed on his left the ruins of what had been a palatial residence. Nothing remained but the bulkhead and basement walls. They had been built of yellow brick. With their arched openings, some high and wide, others small and narrow and guarded with curving bars of rusty iron, the effect was picturesque as well as interesting.

They climbed to the top of the hill, where they leaned on a rough wooden fence which protected the front of the property. They gazed down into what had been the basement, where they saw a chaos of broken bricks, among which rusty fragments of iron pipe lay scattered.

"The portal was of marble," Chill explained. "It was left in very fair condition by the fire, and was moved to the Park, where it now ornaments the shore of a little lake," and he went on:

"In 1906 this section of the city contained nothing but local color of this sort, but nowadays one has to know where to find it."

Cuttle stifled a yawn as he turned to the east and inquired:

"Isn't there some point where we can get a view out over the bay?" "Yes. Let me take you to Jones street hill. It isn't far, and the view is superb."

"But wait. Are there any steep hills to climb on the way?"

"Oh, nothing bad. That is, there are none on the route I'll follow."

"All right," and the two friends. turned toward a point half a mile

away.

They came to the corner of Jones and Broadway, walked fifty yards to

1

the east, and stood on the brow of the hill. The sky had cleared and the sun was shining now, and the view, as Chill had promised, was superb.

Below them the hill fell away twice as steeply as the one up which they had come. Directly on their left a series of homes clung to the hillside, descending step by step. Their terraced gardens, filled with trees and shrubs and flowering plants, overhung the sidewalk.

After its first plunge the street stretched away to the wharves, a long gray band, on either side of which the city lay, a sea of flat roofs from which rose the narrow tower of the ferry building. Beyond was the bay. An island bulked large in its center. Half a dozen ferry boats, some pumpkin colored, some white, were coming and going. Behind each was a broad splash of foam, which presently resolved itself into three narrow white ribbons. Beyond the water, the view to the east was bounded by the Contra Costa hills, above which hung a gray drift of clouds. Here and there a patch of pearl white peeped through the gray.

The city front was less than a mile away, and it was fascinating to watch the traffic on the water. A river

steamer paddled past the wharves and piers. The afternoon sun shone full on its long white side, above which rose the square pilot house and tall black funnel. The great red wheel was churning a roll of foam.

From the north there came a steam schooner, marked by its black hull and high white bow and deckload of lumber.

"This point gives the view to the east," said Chill. "If you'll come two blocks farther, I can show you the view to the north."

"Delighted!" answered Cuttle, for now he was thoroughly interested. Ten minutes later they stood at the corner of Jones and Green. For two hundred yards the street descended so steeply as to be practically useless for traffic. The cobbles were almost hidden by the grass which grew between them.

"And the block next below is just as bad,' explained Chill, for the slope was so steep that they couldn't see the lower half.

Farther down, the street stretched away toward the yellow clay and sand which bordered the water. Beyond the beach lay that portion of the harbor known as the quarantine ground. A great four masted sailing ship was an