It is very much the custom to view life as if it were exactly ruled in two, like sleep and waking; the provinces of play and business standing¹ separate. The business side of my career in San Francisco has been now disposed of; I approach the chapter of diversion; and it will be found they had about an equal share in building up the story of the Wrecker — a gentleman whose appearance may be presently expected.

With all my occupations, some six afternoons and two or three odd evenings remained at my disposal every week: a circumstance the more agreeable as I was a stranger in a city singularly picturesque². From what I had once called myself, The Amateur Parisian, I grew (or declined) into a waterside prowler, a lingerer on wharves³, a frequenter of shy neighbourhoods, a scraper of acquaintance with eccentric characters. I visited Chinese and Mexican gambling-hells, German secret societies, sailors’ boarding-houses, and “dives” of every complexion⁴ of the disreputable and dangerous. I have seen greasy⁵ Mexican hands pinned to the table with a knife for cheating, seamen⁶ (when blood-money ran high) knocked down upon the public street and carried insensible on board short- handed ships, shots exchanged, and the smoke (and the company) dispersing⁷ from the doors of the saloon. I have heard cold-minded Polacks debate upon the readiest method of burning San Francisco to the ground, hot-headed working men and women bawl⁸ and swear in the tribune at the Sandlot, and Kearney himself open his subscription⁹ for a gallows¹⁰, name the manufacturers who were to grace it with their

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