Everywhere were the earmarks of a populace plunged suddenly from hard work and poverty into riches greater than they could conceive of, and with no time to make the necessary adjustments. There were some attempts at making social distinctions, but it was difficult under the circumstances. Mrs. So-and-so, who lived on Nob Hill, was probably only one generation removed from the washtubs of Cripple Creek, while I, a poor assistant salesman in a department store, was a graduate of Harvard College. The father of one young woman upon whom I used to call had been so busy counting his recent millions that he had not had time to build himself one of those mansions with a drawing-room, but still stuck to a “parlor,” and used to retire gracefully to the kitchen and allow his daughter to entertain me, uninterrupted, in the front room of the house. In fact, he never made his appearance, and I saw the mother only once, both evidently departing to the nether regions at the first ring of the doorbell. Such a situation would never have been allowed in New England unless the young couple were engaged, but out West the second generation held full sway. One home, now devoted, I think, to an art institute, had, in the front hallway, a terra-cotta dado with Greek heads running around it; and, lest there should be no mistake, the name of each hero was painted below. But the artist was no Greek scholar. Many words were misspelled, and in several cases (worse still) the feminine article η was placed, instead of ο, before a masculine name. What cared the lady of the house for a small thing like that, when she could take me up in an elevator (almost an unknown thing at that time) and show me, stowed away in her attic, fifteen bales of Oriental rugs? And I had tried to sell her _one_! Quite in contrast with this residence was that of David Colton—pure white marble of Greek architecture, with a beautiful lawn sloping down to a hedge of enormous calla lilies. Some months after leaving San Francisco, I heard of Mr. Colton away up in the Shasta Mountains. I was working out my poll tax by mending roads, when an Irishman, working with me for the same reason, stopped and, leaning on his shovel, asked me if I knew any of “the bloods” in San Francisco. Dave Colton had started when he did and far outstripped him, but had never ceased to be his friend.