Then the inevitable "_Adios_!" though sounding less harshly by favour of
the appended phrase--"_Hasta Cadiz_!"

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

ON PLEASURE BENT.

The clocks of San Francisco are striking the hour of ten. The moon has
risen over Monte Diablo, and sends her soft mellow beams across the
waters of the bay, imparting to their placid surface a sheen as of
silver. The forms of the ships at anchor are reflected as from a
mirror; their hulls, with every spar, stay, and brace, even to the most
delicate rope of their rigging, having a duplicated representative in
the fictitious counterfeit beneath. On none is there any canvas spread;
and the unfurled flags do not display their fields, but hang motionless
along masts, or droop dead down over taffrails.

Stillness, almost complete, reigns throughout; scarce a sound proceeding
either from the ships inshore, or those out in the offing; not even the
rattle of a chain dropping or weighing anchor, the chant of a
night-watch at the windlass, or the song of jovial tar entertaining his
messmates as they sit squatted around the forecastle stair.

Unusual this silence at such an early hour, though easily accounted for.
That there are so few noises from the ships in San Francisco Bay, is
explained by the fact of their being but few men to make them--in many
cases not a single soul aboard. All have deserted; either for good, and
are gone to the "diggings," or only for the night, to take part in the
pleasures and dissipations of the town. Now and then a boat may be
seen, putting off from, or returning to, the side of some vessel better
manned--by its laborious movement, and the unmeasured stroke of oars,
telling that even it lacks a full complement of crew.

Inside the town, everything is different. There, noises enough, with
plenty of people; crowded streets, flashing lights, and a Babel-like
confusion of voices. It is now the hour when iniquity has commenced its
nightly career, or, rather, reached its full flush; since in San
Francisco certain kinds of it are carried on throughout all hours of the
day. Business houses are closed; but these are in small proportion to
the places of pleasure, which keep their doors and windows wide open,
and where dissipation reigns paramount, as permanent. Into the
gambling-saloons go men laden with gold-dust, often coming out with
their wallets lighter than when they went in, but their hearts a deal
heavier. After toiling for mont