Yet there was something vaguely wrong about the wondrous fitness of Ruef's plan. Mary Godwin Shelley's tale of "Frankenstein" came to Francisco's mind. * * * * * That evening Frank said to his father, with a wink at Jeanne, "Want to go slumming with me tonight, father? I'm going to do my first signed story: 'The Night-Life of This Town'." "Do you think I ought to, Jeanne?" asked her husband whimsically. He glanced at his son. "This younger generation is a trifle--er--vehement for old fogies like me." Jeanne came over and sat on the arm of his chair. "Nonsense," she said, "you are just as young as ever, Francisco.... Yes, go with the boy, by all means. I'll run up to Maizie's for the evening. She's making a dress for Alice's birthday party. She will be sixteen next month." * * * * * Francisco and his son went gaily forth to see their city after dark. Truth to tell, the father knew more of it than the lad, who acted as conductor. Francisco's wanderings in search of 'local color' had included some nocturnal quests. However, he kept this to himself and let Frank do the guiding. They went, first, to a large circular building called the Olympia, at Eddy and Mason streets. It was the heart of what was called the Tenderloin, a gay and hectic region frequented by half-world folk, but not unknown to travelers nor to members of society, Slumming parties were both fashionable and frequent. Two girls were capering and carolling behind the footlights. "They are Darlton and Boice," explained young Stanley. "The one with the perpetual smile is a great favorite. She's Boice. She's got a daughter old as I, they say." They visited the Thalia, a basement "dive" of lower order, and returned to the comparative respectability of the Oberon beer hall on O'Farrell street, where a plump orchestra of German females played sprightly airs; thence back to Market street and the Midway. "Little Egypt," tiny, graceful, sensually pretty, performed a "danse du ventre," at the conclusion of a long program of crude and often ribald "turns." When "off-stage" the performers, mostly girls, drank with the audience in a tier of curtained boxes which lined the sides of the auditorium. At intervals the curtains parted for a moment and faces peered down. A drunken sailor in a forward box was tossing silver coins to a dancer. They made their exit, Francisco frankly weary and the young reporter bored by the unrelieved crudity of it all. A smart equipage, with champing horses, stood before the entrance. They paused to glance at it. "Looks like Harry Bear's carriage," Frank commented. "You know the young society blood who's had so many larks." He turned back. "Wait a minute, father, I'm going in. If Bear has a party upstairs in those boxes it'll make good copy." "It'll make a scandal, you mean," returned Francisco rather crisply. "You can't print the women's names."