one in
the town could be seen there off and on. It was perfectly respectable. A
man might take his wife and daughter there.

On the second floor there were private dining rooms, and to dine there,
with one or more of the opposite sex, was risque but not especially
terrible. But the third floor--and the fourth floor--and the fifth! The
elevator man of the Poodle Dog, who had held the job for many years and
never spoke unless spoken to, wore diamonds and was a heavy investor in
real estate.

There were others as famous in their way--Zinkaud's, where, at one time,
every one went after the theatre, and Tate's, which has lately bitten
into that trade; the Palace Grill, much like the grills of Eastern
hotels, except for the price; Delmonico's, which ran the Poodle Dog neck
and neck in its own line, and many others, humbler, but great at the
price.

THE BOHEMIAN CLUB.

To the visitor who came to see the city and who put himself in the hands
of one of its well-to-do citizens for the purpose, the few days that
followed were apt to be a whirl of mirth and sight-seeing, made up of
breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, drives, little trips across the bay,
dashes down the peninsula to the polo and country clubs, hours spent
in Bohemia, trips around the world among all the races of the habitable
globe, all of whom had their colonies in this most cosmopolitan of
American cities.

In club life the Bohemian stood first and foremost, the famous club
whose meeting place, with all its art treasures, is now a heap of ashes,
but which was formerly 'Frisco's head-centre of mirth. Founded by Henry
George, the world-famous single tax advocate, when he was an impecunious
scribbler on the San Francisco Post, it grew to be the choicest place of
resort in the Pacific metropolis.

Within its walls the possession of dollars was a bar rather than an
"open sesame," the master key to its circles being the knack of telling
a good story or the possession of quick and telling wit. Fun-making was
the rule there, and the only way to escape being made its victim was
the power to deliver a ready and witty retort. In this home of good
fellowship all the artists, actors, wits, literati, fiddlers, pianists
and bon vivants were members. Here an impoverished painter could square
his grill and buffet account by giving the club a daub to hang on its
walls. Here in days of old the Sheriff used to camp regularly once a
month until the members rustled up the money