sandalwood, punk, incense, oil, and the smell of mysterious
cookery.

"Chinatown!" exclaimed Travis. "I hadn't the faintest idea we had
come up so far. Condy Rivers, do you know what time it is?" She
pointed a white kid finger through the doorway of a drug-store,
where, amid lacquer boxes and bronze urns of herbs and dried
seeds, a round Seth Thomas marked half-past two.

"And your lunch?" cried Condy. "Great heavens! I never thought."

"It's too late to get any at home. Never mind; I'll go somewhere
and have a cup of tea."

"Why not get a package of Chinese tea, now that you're down here,
and take it home with you?"

"Or drink it here."

"Where?"

"In one of the restaurants. There wouldn't be a soul there at
this hour. I know they serve tea any time. Condy, let's try it.
Wouldn't it be fun?"

Condy smote his thigh. "Fun!" he vociferated; "fun! It is--by
Jove--it would be HEAVENLY! Wait a moment. I'll tell you what we
will do. Tea won't be enough. We'll go down to Kearney Street,
or to the market, and get some crackers to go with it."