WHITEWASH
of yellow gaslight marking the illuminated windows. On the fences, sleep-sodden cats stretched and yawned, whisked a velvet paw over a drowsy face and started out upon the evening's wanderings. The clothes-lines sagged no longer above their wind-inflated loads. Now and again a jangling piano sent a shower of ill-tuned waltz-notes on the air, and somewhere in the distance a melancholy cornet wailed forth the familiar melody of the "Trompeter von Säkkingen," "Behüt, dich Gott, es war zu schön gewesen, behüt, dich Gott, es hat nicht sollen sein."
He shivered and turned once more to the whiskey-bottle.
Twilight settled into night, while smells of dinner cookery pervaded everything; sage, onions, a whiff of garlic swamped in a nameless vague sauce piquant aroma. From the restaurant on the first floor, noise and tumult arose. A busy clatter of dishes, knives and forks, as the first courses of the "fifty-cent-dinner,—wine-included," were being served. Then, animal appetites satisfied, a babel of tongues arose—louder and louder as the California claret began to take effect. Val-
