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within him, bigger, better bond issues than ever before seemed ridiculously easy of attainment.
Roger Winterslip had not been among those lured to suburban life down the peninsula; he resided in bachelor solitude on Nob Hill. It was an ancient, battered house viewed from without, but within, John Quincy found, were all known comforts. A bent old Chinaman showed him his room and his heart leaped up when he beheld, at last, a veritable bath.
At one o'clock he sought out the office where his relative carried on, with conspicuous success, his business as an engineer and builder. Roger proved a short florid man in his late fifties.
- 'Hello, son," he cried cordially. "How's Boston?"
"Every one is quite well," said John Quincy. "You're being extremely kind — "
"Nonsense. It's a pleasure to see you. Come along."
He took John Quincy to a famous club for lunch. In the grill he pointed out several well-known writers. The boy was not unduly impressed, for Longfellow, Whittier and Lowell were not among them. Nevertheless it was a pleasant place, the service perfect, the food of an ex- cellence rare on the codfish coast.
"And what," asked Roger presently, "do you think of San Francisco?"
I like it," John Quincy said simply. No? Do you really mean that?" Roger beamed. Well, it's the sort of place that ought to appeal to a New Englander. It's had a history, brief, but believe me, my boy, one crowded hour of glorious life. It's sophisti- cated, knowing, subtle. Contrast it with other cities — • for instance, take Los Angeles — "
He was off on a favorite topic and he talked well.
