_April 7th._ On the way back from a little outing the other day my
companion, Tim, who in civil life had been a barkeeper and a good one
at that, ingratiated himself in the good graces of a passing
automobile party and we consequently were asked in. There were two
girls, sisters, I fancy, and a father and mother aboard.

"And where do you come from, young gentlemen?" asked the old man.

"Me pal comes from San Diego," pipes up my unscrupulous friend, "and
my home town is San Francisco."

I knew for a fact that he had never been farther from home than the
Polo Grounds, and as for me I had only the sketchiest idea of where my
home town was supposed to be.

"Ah, Westerners!" exclaimed the old lady. "I come from the West
myself. My family goes back there every year."

"Yes," chimed in the girls, "we just love San Diego!"

"In what section of the town did you live?" asked the gentleman, and
my friend whom I was inwardly cursing, seeing my perplexity, quickly
put in for me:

"Oh, you would never know it, sir," and then lowering his voice in a
confidential way, he added, "he kept a barroom in the Mexican part of
the town."

"A barroom!" exclaimed the old lady. "Fancy that!" She looked at me