fisherman’s togs, that’s what the kid is wearing. His thick curly brown hair spills over his ears to his collar. “That’s the dive for you, mister.”
Daniel has heard of the Palace Hotel, the first luxury resort on the West Coast. They say the Palace boasts eight hundred rooms and rivals the finest hotels in New York or Paris.
“Can’t afford that,” Daniel says mildly, sensing the kid’s antagonism. He offers the kid a ciggie, which the kid seizes and lights. No, he cannot afford such luxury. Not anymore.
“Yeah, I see,” says the kid. “Only a rich capitalist can afford a fancy joint like the Palace. I guess you’re no rich capitalist. Still, I guess you’re no tramp, either, mister.”
“Leave him alone, Jackie,” says Frank Norris. “He’s all right.”
“Yeah?” says the kid, eyeing Daniel’s bowler. “When the revolution comes, the property-owning class will be stamped out. Stamped out, I say, by the working classes. The working classes are the vanguard of the future. Without ‘em, the rich capitalists couldn’t survive. And with ‘em, the rich capitalists won’t survive. Get me, mister? Because the working classes will have a revolution. Oh, yessir, it won’t be long. Won’t be long at all before the revolution comes. Even as we speak, the United States of America is embroiled in a class struggle between those with property and those who labor in the service of those with property. A class struggle, and there’s no denying it. What do you say to that, mister?”
For once in his life, Daniel doesn’t know what to say. He has certainly heard such rabble-rousing in plenty of Paris cafés.
“I say drink your beer, Jack,” says Joaquin Miller. “Studying books all day has fevered your poor young brain.”
“Even as we speak, mister,” the kid says, continuing to fix Daniel with a baleful stare as he gulps his beer.
“Only time will tell,” says George Sterling. “This fiery young fellow is Jack London, Mr. Watkins. Jackie’s studying at the University of California over yonder in that cow pasture we call Berkeley. He may amount to some kind of writer one day, don’t you think, Frank?”
“If he doesn’t get thrown in the calaboose first,” Frank Norris says.
“I fear no jail,” Jack London says contemptuously. “I’ve seen the inside of plenty of jails.”
“What sort of lodgings are you looking for, Mr. Watkins?” Joaquin Miller says. “You a churchgoin’ man?”
“Hardly,” Daniel says, thankful to be off the subject of revolution.
“Ah. You’re wanting a quiet sort of place to rest your weary head?”
“Mr. Miller, I have journeyed many miles from Saint Louis, which is as deadly quiet a place as you can imagine.”
“Ah ha. You like the theater, then? The opera, perhaps? The Tivoli is the place for you.”
“The opera is all right,” Daniel says. “I can take it or leave it.”
“Leave the opera to the dogs,” Jack London advises.
“What’s your preference, then, Mr. Watkins?”
Daniel considers the question. “Sir, I have spent many months imbibing the Green Fairy at La Nouvelle-Athenes while whores danced the cancan and poets as fine as yourselves labored to express their desire to achieve ecstasy or die. I suppose you could say I’m lonely.”
The company guffaws. Jack London snorts, but Joaquin Miller slaps Daniel on the back.
“Then you must try Number Two Sixty-three Dupont Street, Mr. Watkins. Tell the lady there, a fine proprietress name of Miss Jessie Malone, that Joaquin Miller sent you. You’ll be in the thick of things, Mr. Watkins. The very thick of things, I assure you.”
“Sir, sir!” The stringy porter pokes his head in the door of the First and Last Chance Saloon. “The ferry to San Francisco, sir. She’s about to depart. Hurry!”
“Thanks!” Daniel says to his new friends, much refreshed by the boilermakers. “By the way,” he points to the sign above Johnny Heinold’s head. “Last Chance for what?”
“Last chance for a taste if you’re going to Alameda,” Frank Norris says, pointing south. “They’re dry as a bone over there.”
“And the First Chance?”
“Why, if you’re going to San Francisco, this is your first chance to get pickled, dipsy, pie-eyed, dead blue, and, dare I say it, loaded, Mr. Watkins,” shouts Joaquin Miller. “Verily, and lackaday, tell her Joaquin sent you, sir!”
Marvelous Californ’!
* * *
A magnificent double-deck steamboat, that’s the Chrysapolis. All black and white with a huge smokestack spewing charcoal-colored clouds. The willful bay would have flung a lesser boat about, but the Chrysapolis plows through wave and tide, speeding her passengers on their way. Some are pilgrims from the Overland train, some citizens of genteel