a stranger? He peers through her veil, getting only a glimpse of the curve of her lip, her wide-set eyes staring at him more boldly than he would have expected. He gives her the business card he’s used in Europe. “That’s my name, at least,” he says. “Daniel J. Watkins of Saint Louis, London, and Paris. I haven’t settled upon a residence yet, but I shall be here a while to settle my father’s accounts. When may I see you again?’
“Soon, I’m sure, sir,” the veiled bird says as they step off the plank onto the dock.
Though she had clamped quite a grip on him, and he on her, she manages swiftly to extricate herself and slip away. In less than an instant, his veiled bird disappears into the crowd milling about the dock. Such a tiny waist!
Never mind. San Francisco! San Francisco, at last! Daniel breathes the salt air, relishing the cold clean tang of it. Bang, bang, bang! He starts, then laughs at the smoke and the stink of gunpowder. Small boys leap about on the dock, lighting some sort of red tassels and flinging them on the planking. A Chinese man—a coolie, they’re called—clad in denim pajamas, straw sandals, and wide-brimmed conical straw cap chases after the boys, shouting and gesticulating. One boy tosses a silver coin onto the dock where the boards are pocked and uneven. The coolie dives frantically for his coin before it drops into the water below. Daniel smiles wryly. Cruel kid.
He strolls through the Ferry Building, a portion of which is under construction, the wood skeleton laid bare. The strapping porter trots after him, hauling his bags and his trunk. Horse-drawn wagons and cable cars and gangs of men mingle chaotically on the cobblestone avenue. A green and red cable car with “SIGHTSEEING” emblazoned down its sides waits on a track. The cable car is much like the trams he’s seen in Europe, only bigger and wider and grander. More American. They say Mr. Hallidie, the brilliant Scotsman who invented and built the first cable car line on Clay Street with twenty thousand dollars of his own life savings, is a multimillionaire now. There’s a business for a young gentleman to consider. Daniel wonders if he should buy a street-railway franchise, lay in a new cable car line.
Bang, bang, bang! A brass band strikes up a rousing tune. A gigantic parade promenades up the street.
“What’s that?” He points to the chaotic avenue before him.
“This here’s Market Street,” shouts the strapping porter, flushed with excitement. “It’s the Fourth of July parade, mister! Ain’t it grand?”
It is, indeed. Regiment after regiment of former soldiers in uniform pass by, some on foot, some on horseback, some in carriages or open wagons. Gold and silver braid crisscrosses jackets of blue or maroon, deep green or violet. There are high-peaked caps, caps with brims like wings, and plumed helmets. Feathers flutter, tasseled ropes swing. The men bear their pistols and rifles proudly. Banners and flags snap in the brisk sea breeze.
The United States Army and Navy march past, then the Coast Guard, the California Club, the Schuetzen Club, the Scottish Clan, the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden West. The Camera Club has set up their tripods in surreys and snap photographs of the cheering crowd. The Cycling Club rolls past, three men in tight bicycling togs wobbling precariously on old-fashioned high wheelers. The rest of the club—including ladies in bloomers—clip smartly along on modern bicycles sporting two low wheels of the same size rimmed in sterling silver, huge silver bells, and fish horns with which they produce a terrific racket.
Vehicular traffic congests Market Street, navigating around and through the parade. A splendid brougham trots by, pulled by matched chestnuts with plumes in their bridles. A hansom with an elegant blue body, green and carmine striping, and plenty of scrollwork in gold and silver leaf nearly collides with an ice wagon bearing on both sides a fine reproduction of Emanuel Leutze’s painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware. More coolies in wide-brimmed caps and denim pajamas dash across the avenue, their baskets heaped with vegetables or fish and slung on yokes that they bear over their shoulders. Daniel spies the Palace Hotel looming eight stories high and taking up the whole block. Other elegant commercial buildings boast an intricate style more flamboyant, more exuberant, more baroque than any architecture he’s ever seen. The street lamps are crafted of beveled capiz shell and stained glass.
Ladies in their