Baker led the way toward a blaring basement restaurant.

“I’m beginning to feel that I’ll have to find some monkey-food somewhere, or cash in,” said he.

They found a table and sat down.

“This is the place to see all the sights,” proffered Baker, his broad face radiating satisfaction.  “When they strike it rich on the desert, they hike right in here.  That fat lady thug yonder is worth between three and four millions.  Eight months ago she did washing at two bits a shirt while her husband drove a one-man prospect shaft.  The other day she blew into the big jewelry store and wanted a thirty-thousand-dollar diamond necklace.  The boss rolled over twice and wagged his tail.  ’Yes, madam,’ said he; ‘what kind?’ ’I dunno; just a thirty-thousand-dollar one.’  That’s all he could get out of her.  ’But tell me how you want ’em set,’ he begged.  She looked bewildered. ’Oh, set ’em so they’ll jingle,’ says she.”

After the meal they walked down the principal streets, watching the crowd.  It was a large crowd, as though at busy midday, and variously apparelled, from fur coat to straw hat.  Each extreme of costume seemed justified, either by the balmy summer-night effect of the California open air, or by the hint of chill that crept from the distant mountains.  Either aspect could be welcomed or ignored by a very slight effort of the will.  Electric signs blazed everywhere.  Bob was struck by the numbers of clairvoyants, palm readers, Hindu frauds, crazy cults, fake healers, Chinese doctors, and the like thus lavishly advertised.  The class that elsewhere is pressed by necessity to the inexpensive dinginess of back streets, here blossomed forth in truly tropical luxuriance.  Street vendors with all sorts of things, from mechanical toys to spot eradicators, spread their portable lay-outs at every corner.  Vacant lots were crowded with spielers of all sorts—­religious or political fanatics, vendors of cure-alls, of universal tools, of marvelous axle grease, of anything and everything to catch the idle dollar.  Brilliantly lighted shops called the passer-by to contemplate the latest wavemotor, flying machine, door check, or what-not.  Stock in these enterprises was for sale—­and was being sold!  Other sidewalk booths, like those ordinarily used as dispensaries of hot doughnuts and coffee, offered wild-cat mining shares, oil stock and real estate in some highly speculative suburb.  Great stores of curios lay open to the tourist trade.  Here one could buy sheepskin Indian moccasins made in Massachusetts, or abalone shells, or burnt-leather pillows, or a whole collection of photographic views so minute that they could all be packed in a single walnut shell.  Next door were shops of Japanese and Chinese goods presided over by suave, sleepy-eyed Orientals, in wonderful brocade, wearing the close cap with the red coral button atop.  Shooting galleries spit spitefully.  Gasolene torches flared.

Baker strolled along, his hands in his pockets, his hat on the back of his head.  From time to time he cast an amused glance at his companion.