angular outlines of tall business buildings which feebly tried to peer through the haze.

A chill and cheerless scene.

So thought Kenneth Cuttle, newly arrived from New York, as he stood on the forward deck of the ferry boat and gazed at the unfamiliar pictures.

He saw a ferry steamer passing in the opposite direction. He noted its high white sides, pierced by a score of square windows. Above it the black walking beam solemnly see-sawed. A crowd of screaming gulls were wheeling and whirling above the wake.

Cuttle turned and transferred his attention to the hills of San Francisco, which were about two miles away. All that he saw had the attraction of novelty, for this was his first visit to California. But, as he looked, he asked himself:

"Is there any true local color left to San Francisco? Of course, it has its sea gulls and it has its climatewhich seems detestable to-day, with all this grayness and moisture and raw, chilly breeze-and it has its environment. But is there anything distinctive in the lives of its people? Are not their customs pretty much the same as in any other American metropolis ?"

And Kenneth Cuttle thought regretfully of the days of gold, sixty years ago, and of those other days thirty and forty years later, when fleets of fourmasted ships crowded to San Francisco bay, until the wharves were a forest of masts.

"Plenty of local color in those days," he murmured, regretfully. "But the sailing ships are gone now, or nearly gone. Commerce is carried on in the ocean tramp or tanker, and they are the same the world over. When I land in the city, I bet I'll feel as though I were in New York, for all the novelty I'll see."

By this time they had reached the San Francisco shore. The paddles stopped turning, the steamer drifted onward, and slid into its slip. The captain pulled a cord; a bell clanged in the engine room. The great wheels

churned the water for a moment as their motion was reversed, and with a gentle bump the boat came to the landing.

Cuttle joined the rush across the gang plank and out through the ferry building. He heard the clang and clatter of electric cars, the sirens of automobiles, and all the other customary city noises. He glanced up at the great clock in the tower, and saw that it marked ten minutes to one.

"I'd better telephone," he thought. "I'll let Chill know I'm here before I start up town," and he turned toward the telephone booth, where he called. up Heather & Company in the Balboa Building.

"Hello: is Mr. Chill in ?"
"Just a moment, please."

He heard the connections rattle, and then he heard Chill's familiar voice.

"This is Mr. Chill."

"Hello, Chill. This is Kenneth Cuttle, from the Boston office. You had my letter, I suppose. I've just arrived. I'm at the ferry building, and I'm on my way to the office.”

"Well, I'm glad you called me up," was the answer, after a few perfunctory inquires regarding Cuttle's journey. "I take lunch about this time, and should have made my escape before you got here. What do you say to meeting me at the lunch place, instead of here?"

"Very good. I haven't lunched yet."

"Fine," and Chill went on to give the address.

"It's right on the street leading up from the ferry. Take almost any car, get off at Third and Market, and look for the number. If you don't see me when you get there, go ahead, and I'll join you when I come in."

Cuttle left the car at the right block, but he turned toward the wrong sidewalk. He stood on the pavement for a moment, studying the numbers on the buildings as a first step in finding the address Chill had given him.

"But what have we here?" he thought. "This looks like local color."

The party who had caught Cuttle's attention was a man of more than average size and of very dark complexion; apparently an Italian. But his costume was what attracted the eye.

He was dressed in a suit of rich red velvet and the velvet was ornamented with horizontal stripes or slashes of golden yellow. Above it he wore a sleeveless leather coat, fastened in front with straps and buckles. His leggins were of yellow leather. Over his drab slouch hat there drooped a gray plume. The broad brim was caught by a scarlet rosette. With his brilliant medieval dress and his dark complexion, which seemed to rival the leather of his coat, he was a striking picture. Romantic enough he looked, but his occupation was very prosaic.

He carried a placard announcing that an Italian restaurant was located

within the building. As Cuttle eyed him, he thought:

"What a picture that fellow makes, with his drooping dove-colored hat, his close-fitting coat of leather, and his suit of red and yellow. If he had a halberd in his hand, instead of that absurd placard, he'd be sublime. Now, he's only ridiculous."

But the advertisement reminded Cuttle that somewhere he had read of a type of restaurant very popular on the Pacific Coast-the cafeteria, and he decided to look for one as he walked along.

The block was in the very center of San Francisco's retail district. The way was lined with shops of all sorts, between which yawned the entrances to tall office buildings. Every fifty yards there was a moving picture show -its presence announced by gaudy posters, by photographs of recent

events, and by the clanging chords of gigantic music boxes built on the plan of a pipe organ. And then Cuttle saw a sign which read "Quaker Cafeteria." "More local color," he thought.

At the entrance there stood a portly gentleman of rosy countenance and well-fed appearance. His long overcoat was of Quaker drab, his hair was covered with a gray wig-such a wig as the author of Robinson Crusoe might have worn. He supported a leather banner, announcing the hours during which the place was open. It also gave the further information that "Tourists and families were welcome."

"He looks more like an Irishman than a Quaker," thought Cuttle, as he studied the man, and then he remembered that there are Quakers in Ireland.

"I wonder if there are any more such places in this block," he meditated, and he crossed the way to where he saw the entrance to a very large business building. Sure enough, there was the name of another cafeteria.

On one side of the door he saw the sign, "Lunch Now Ready-11 a. m. to 2 p. m." On the other side, the bill of fare was displayed: "Split pea soup, roast spring chicken, steamed rice, hot chocolate, etc." And then Cuttle noticed that the address was the one for which he was looking.

"Good. If I take lunch here, I'll get the lunch and a lot of local color, too," and he descended the marble staircase leading to the basement of the building.

The room which he entered was so large that the ceiling seemed low, although a full twelve feet above the floor. Cuttle noted the long rows of little square tables for four, all set obliquely, their corners pointing to the wall. Upon them the diffused daylight descended through skylights set in the sidewalk. The wavy glass showed dim outlines of the passersby, tramping above, a succession of moving shadows. He scanned the room for a glimpse of his friend, but there was no sign of Chill.

The counter on Cuttle's right now

claimed his attention. At that counter lunch was being served. He saw a line of diners helping themselves each to a tray from a high pile, and filing before a line of attendants-men in white jackets and long white aprons, women in white dresses, who were dealing out the orders. Cuttle joined the line, taking a tray and napkin in which the necessary knife, fork and spoon seemed to be wrapped.

He now saw that at this counter only hot dishes-soups, meats, vegetableswere being served. Ahead, running at right angles to the first, he saw a second counter, set with an array of cold dishes-salads, pies, etc.

As he faced the first attendant, she rattled off a list. Cuttle named an order, which was promptly dished from a steaming pan. In such fashion he edged his way past the two counters, filling his tray as he went. At the extreme end of the second he came to a cash register.

Here a dark-haired young lady sat on a high stool. As Cuttle approached, she cast an eagle eye over his tray, and then twisted a crank attached to the register. It printed and spat out a ticket. This she placed among the dishes. It indicated the sum which he must "please pay the cashier." Cuttle noted that it amounted to thirty-one cents.

Leaving the cash register, he headed toward the tables. But, before reaching them, he must pass a marble drinking fountain. Here an array of glasses were set for the convenience of the guests.

Cuttle, while stopping to draw a glass of water, observed that the ceiling was supported by a long line of rectangular columns. These were surrounded with mirrors for a distance of about three feet above the tables. Above each table was a row of hooks. Above these hooks the upper part of each column was very tastefully decorated with strings of artificial vines, leaves and roses. It was on a table placed against a column that he put his tray.

He hung his hat and overcoat on one