a certain spirit that there was in San Francisco.

For on the ground floor was a public restaurant where there was served
the best dollar dinner on earth. At least, if not the best it ranked
with the best, and the others were in San, Francisco. There, especially
on Sunday night, almost everyone went to vary the monotony of home
cooking. Everyone who was anyone in the town could be seen there off and
on. It was perfectly respectable. A man might take his wife and daughter
to the Poodle Dog.

On the second floor there were private dining rooms, and to dine there,
with one or more of the opposite sex, was risque but not especially
terrible. But the third floor - and the fourth floor - and the fifth!
The elevator man of the Poodle Dog, who had held the job for many years
and who never spoke unless spoken to, wore diamonds and was a heavy
investor in real estate. There were others as famous in their way - the
Zinkand, where, at one time, every one went after the theatre, and
Tate's, which has lately bitten into that trade; the Palace Grill, much
like the grills of Eastern hotels, except for the price; Delmonico's,
which ran the Poodle Dog neck and neck to its own line; and many others,
humbler but great at the price.

Listen! O ye starved amidst plenty, to the tale of the Hotel de France.
This restaurant stood on California street, just east of Old St. Mary's
Church. One could throw a biscuit from its back windows into Chinatown.
It occupied a big ramshackle house, which had been a mansion of the gold
days. Louis, the proprietor, was a Frenchman of the Bas Pyrenees; and
his accent was as thick as his peasant soups. The patrons were Frenchmen
of the poorer class, or young and poor clerks and journalists who had
discovered the delights of his hostelry. The place exhuded a genial