Leander and I had nothing better to do that evening so we went around with Cluness, and watched him as he gave a month’s rent to an infirm old lady on Stockton street, a bundle of magazines to a whining old rascal at the top of a nigger tenement, and some good advice to a Chinese girl who didn’t want to go to the Presbyterian Mission House. "That’s my motto," says he, as we came away from the Chinese girl, "alleviate misery wherever you see it and try and make some poor fellow happy for a few moments." "Ah, yes," exclaimed this farceur Leander, sanctimoniously, while I stared, "that’s the only thing worth while," and he sighed and wagged his head. Cluness went on to tell us about a deserving case he had—we were going there next—in fact, innocently enough, he described the Seven Houses to us, never suspecting they were the beggar’s headquarters. He said there was a poor old paralytic woman lived there, who had developed an appetite for creamed oysters. "It’s the only thing," said Cluness, "that she can keep on her stomach." "She told you so?" asked Leander. "Yes, yes." "Well, she ought to know." We arrived at the Seven Houses and Cluness paused before the tallest and dirtiest. "Here’s where she lives; I’m going up for a few moments." "Have a drink first," suggested Leander, fixing his eyes upon the saloon under the brick house. We three went in and sat down at one of the little round zinc tables—painted to imitate marble—and the Kanaka woman herself brought us our drinks. While we were drinking, one of the beggars came in. He was an Indian, totally blind, and in the day time played a mouth-organ on Grant Avenue near a fashionable department store. "Tut, tut," said Cluness, "poor fellow, blind, you see, what a pity, I’ll give him a quarter." "No, let me," exclaimed Leander. As he spoke the door opened again and another blind man groped in. This fellow I had seen often. He sold lavender in little envelopes on one of the corners of Kearny street. He was a stout, smooth-faced chap and always kept his chin in the air. "What misery there is in this world," sighed Cluness as his eye fell upon this latter, "one half the world don’t know how—" "Look, they know each other," said Leander. The lavender man had groped his way to the Indian’s table—evidently it was their especial table—and the two had fallen a-talking. They ordered a sandwich apiece and a small mug of beer. "Let’s do something for ’em," exclaimed Cluness, with a burst of generosity. "Let’s make ’em remember this night for years to come. Look at ’em trying to be happy over a bit of dry bread and a pint of flat beer. I’m going to give ’em a dollar each." "No, no," protested Leander. "Let me fix it, I’ve more money than you. Let me do a little good now and then. You don’t want to hog all the philanthropy, Cluness, _I’ll_ give ’em something.