Luncheon being in order we are embarrassed with riches.  Perhaps the Mint restaurant is as good as the best and probably gives a sight of more prominent politicians than any other resort; but something quite characteristic is the daily gathering at Jury’s, a humble hole-in-the-wall in Merchant Street back of the Bulletin office.

Four lawyers who like one another, and like good living as well, have a special table.  Alexander Campbell, Milton Andros, George Sharp, and Judge Dwinelle will stop first in the Clay Street Market, conveniently opposite, and select the duck, fish, or English mutton-chops for the day’s menu.  One of the number bears the choice to the kitchen and superintends its preparation while the others engage in shrimps and table-talk until it is served.  If Jury’s is overflowing with custom, there are two other French restaurants alongside.

After luncheon we have a glimpse of the business district, following back on the “two-bit” side of the street.  At Clay we pass a saloon with a cigar-stand in front and find a group listening to a man with bushy hair and a reddish mustache, who in an easy attitude and in a quaintly drawling voice is telling a story.  We await the laugh and pass on, and I say that he is a reporter, lately from Nevada, called Mark Twain.  Very likely we encounter at Commercial Street, on his way to the Call office, a well-dressed young man with Dundreary whiskers and an aquiline nose.  He nods to me and I introduce Bret Harte, secretary to the Superintendent of the Mint, and author of the clever “Condensed Novels” being printed in the Californian.  At California Street we turn east, passing the shipping offices and hardware houses, and coming to Battery Street, where Israelites wax fat in wholesale dry goods and the clothing business.  For solid big business in groceries, liquors, and provisions we must keep on to Front Street—­Front by name only, for four streets on filled-in land have crept in front of Front.  Following this very important street past the shipping offices we reach Washington Street, passing up which we come to Battery Street, where we pause to glance at the Custom House and Post Office at the right and the recently established Bank of California on the southwest corner of the two streets.

Having fairly surveyed the legitimate business we wish to see something of the engrossing avocation of most of the people of the city, of any business or no business, and we pass on to Montgomery, crossing over to the center of the stock exchange activities.  Groups of men and women are watching the tapes in the brokers’ offices, messengers are running in and out the board entrances, intense excitement is everywhere apparent.  Having gained admission to the gallery of the board room we look down on the frantic mob, buying and selling Comstock shares.  How much is really sold and how much is washing no one knows, but enormous transactions, big with fate, are of everyday occurrence.  As we pass out we notice a man with strong face whose shoes show dire need of patching.  Asked his name, I answer, “Jim Keane; just now he is down, but some day he is bound to be way up.”