It is surprising how many people patronize the shabby little thing. But
then it waits right where those who leave the ferry may see it first as
though it were the most important car in town, and I have a fancy
the big cars humor it a bit and give it first place. Besides, it goes
anywhere in the city, Chinatown, the Hall of Justice, the Chamber of
Commerce, the Barbary Coast, St. Francis Church--sinners, saints and
merchants may travel its way--Portsmouth Square, Telegraph Hill, Little
Italy, Russian Hill, Automobile Row, Fillmore street, the Presidio and
I expect with a little coaxing it would switch about and run over to
the Mission. It has actually been known on stormy nights to take its
constituents up the side streets to their very doors.
It is a surprising little boat which looks like nothing more than a bug
crawling up the backs of the hills with its antenna of khaki-wound legs
sticking out fore and aft. Those who have traveled in Ireland tell
us that it is much like the jaunting cars, and it is not unlike the
Toomerville Trolley.
One night I set out to find the little thing to take me home. I was in
a strange part of the city and when my friends told me to get on and get
off and get on again I did as I was told. With blind faith I told the
conductors to put me off and they did. I continued in this way until
long after midnight when I found myself at a lonely corner with no one
in sight. I waited and waited and was getting nervous when I spied a
blue uniform. I looked sharply to see if he were a motorman, a fireman
or an officer from the Presidio. I am careful about these matters since
last summer when I was coming North on the President, and asked a naval
officer for some ice water. I rushed up to him and told him, which was
true, that it was the first time I had ever seen a policeman when I
wanted one. This led him into a defense of the San Francisco police,
which I told him was quite unnecessary with me for I thought them the
finest policemen in the world, probably because they are so Irish.
“Irish,” said he with a twinkle, “I’m not Irish.”
We chatted awhile until the Union street car came along, and then
that policeman who said he wasn’t Irish leaned over and whispered
confidentially, “If you miss this car, there’ll be another.” I suppose
they get lonesome.
You see how I am wandering away from my subject. That is because I
followed the Union street car. It switches from subject to subject just
like that. It begins with the wonderful retail markets of San Francisco,
and then changes abruptly to all sorts of sociological problems, then
before we know it gives us a beautiful marine view, and then drops us
down where the proletariat lives, then up to the homes of the rich and
mighty, and ends in the military.
Everyone should sight-see by the little Union street car.