“I don’t know much about San Francisco and the real men, miss,” I told
her, “for I’ve been in town only about five minutes. I reckon it makes
an Easterner dizzy to be rushed in and dropped here. I didn’t mean to
make trouble for you. Seeing that I’ve made it, I’ll unmake it if I
can. Do you want your father--saying it is your father--brought off that
turn-table?”
“No!” she snapped, still spiteful and all worked up. “I want you to
think up something else for him to do on there as soon as he gets tired
of doing what you suggested.”
Well, it was up to me to butt into that affair still farther--I could
see that. I couldn’t sneak off and leave that girl feeling that way
about me. I hopped on to the moving turn-table, took father by the arm,
and told him his daughter wanted him to come along. He braced himself
and shook loose.
“Nossir,” said he. “I’ve paid my money, and I’ll stay aboard till I get
to where I’m bound.”
“Look here, you are not getting anywhere, man. You are only riding
around and around, making a show of yourself, and there’s your nice
daughter waiting for you.”
“It’s no place for a daughter--going where I’m going. Daughter ought to
be in bed.” And then he braced himself back still farther, and--well, I
suppose I’ll have to call it “singing” in order to describe the sound:
“I’m bound for the foot of Telegraph Hill,
To the Barbary Coast so gay.