* * * * *

Francisco and his son went gaily forth to see their city after dark.  Truth to tell, the father knew more of it than the lad, who acted as conductor.  Francisco’s wanderings in search of ‘local color’ had included some nocturnal quests.  However, he kept this to himself and let Frank do the guiding.

They went, first, to a large circular building called the Olympia, at Eddy and Mason streets.  It was the heart of what was called the Tenderloin, a gay and hectic region frequented by half-world folk, but not unknown to travelers nor to members of society, Slumming parties were both fashionable and frequent.  Two girls were capering and carolling behind the footlights.

“They are Darlton and Boice,” explained young Stanley.  “The one with the perpetual smile is a great favorite.  She’s Boice.  She’s got a daughter old as I, they say.”

They visited the Thalia, a basement “dive” of lower order, and returned to the comparative respectability of the Oberon beer hall on O’Farrell street, where a plump orchestra of German females played sprightly airs; thence back to Market street and the Midway.  “Little Egypt,” tiny, graceful, sensually pretty, performed a “danse du ventre,” at the conclusion of a long program of crude and often ribald “turns.”  When “off-stage” the performers, mostly girls, drank with the audience in a tier of curtained boxes which lined the sides of the auditorium.  At intervals the curtains parted for a moment and faces peered down.  A drunken sailor in a forward box was tossing silver coins to a dancer.

They made their exit, Francisco frankly weary and the young reporter bored by the unrelieved crudity of it all.  A smart equipage, with champing horses, stood before the entrance.  They paused to glance at it.

“Looks like Harry Bear’s carriage,” Frank commented.  “You know the young society blood who’s had so many larks.”  He turned back.  “Wait a minute, father, I’m going in.  If Bear has a party upstairs in those boxes it’ll make good copy.”

“It’ll make a scandal, you mean,” returned Francisco rather crisply.  “You can’t print the women’s names.”

“Bosh!” the younger man retorted pertly.  “Everyone’s doing this sort of thing now.  Come along, dad.  See the fun.”  He caught his father’s arm and they re-entered, taking the stairs, this time, to the boxes above.  From one came a man’s laughing banter.  “That’s he,” Frank whispered, Hastily he drew his half reluctant father into a vacant box.  A waiter brought them beer, collected half a dollar and inquired if they wanted “Company.”  Francisco shook his head.

The man in the adjoining box was drunk, the girl was frightened.  Their voices filtered plainly through the thin partition.  He was urging her to drink and she was protesting.  Finally she screamed.  Stanley and his son sprang simultaneously to the rescue.  They found a young man in an evening suit trying to kiss a very pretty girl.