face in a
gesture that her friends recognize as characteristic. Did she, by
accident, stumble on one of the secret signals of a great secret
traffic? That is her only explanation of what followed. For suddenly the
old Chinaman shuffled to her side, unobtrusively turned his back towards
her. One of the bananas on top the bunch, easy to the reach of her hand,
was opened, displaying itself to be emptied of fruit. But in its place
was something--something little, wrapped in tissue paper. Her complete
astonishment apparently warned the vendor of drugs of his mistake. He
scuttled across the street; in a flash had vanished in a back alley.

One could go on forever. I cannot forbear another. A woman was passing
through the theatrical district of San Francisco one night, just before
the theatres let out. The street was fairly deserted. Suddenly she
was accosted by a strange gentleman of suave address. Obviously he had
dallied with the demon and was spectacularly the worse for it. He was
carrying an enormous, a very beautiful--and a very expensive--bouquet.
In a short speech of an impassioned eloquence and quite as flowery
as his tribute, he presented her with the bouquet. She tried to avoid
accepting it. But this was not, without undue publicity, to be done.
Finally to put an end to the scene, she bore off her booty. She has
often wondered what actress was deprived of her over-the-foot-lights
trophy by the sudden freak of an exhilarated messenger.

I know that the Native Son works and works hard. The proof of that is
California itself. San Francisco twice rebuilt, the progressive city of
Los Angeles, all the merry enterprising smaller California cities and
towns. But, somehow, he plays so hard at his work and works so hard
at his play that you are always wondering whether it's all the time
he works or all the time he plays. At any rate, out of his work comes
gaiety and out of his play seriousness. His activities are so many that
when I try to make my imagined program of his average day, I should
provide one not of twenty-four hours, but of seventy-two.

I imagine him going down to his office at about nine in the morning,
working until noon as though driven by steam and electricity; then
lunching with a party of Native Sons, all filled with jocund japeful
joshing Native Son humor which brims over in showers of Native Son
wit. I imagine him returning to an afternoon of brief but concentrated
strenuous labor, then going for a ru