All Corbett’s beating did for me was to make me a little more careful. I got a boat to San Francisco, not knowing just what to do, but with a notion of killing time till old Foot-and-a-half George finished his time in Utah, and meeting him. I dug up the hotel keys Sanc and I had planted and experimented a little in hotel prowling. I hadn’t the sure touch that came in later years with experience, and didn’t do much good. One night in the Baldwin Hotel Annex I got a roll of bills that rather surprised me, and I was still more surprised when I read in the next evening’s paper that George Dixon, the little colored champion fighter, had lost his money to a burglar. At the Baldwin bar the next night somebody asked him what he would have done had he been awakened by the burglar. Dixon, always a good loser, smiled. “I’d ’a’ done just what you’d ’a’ done. I’d ’a’ gone right back to sleep till that man went on out.” CHAPTER XV During my stay in San Francisco I lived at the Reno House, a small workingman’s lodgings in Sacramento Street. It was owned by a man named Rolkin, a carpenter, who invested his small savings in it knowing nothing about the hotel business. He had a “crazy notion” that he could put clean linen on every bed every day in this cheap place and survive. His competitors said he was insane. He persisted, however, and on that “crazy idea” he built a string of fine hotels that he counts to-day like a barefoot Franciscan counting his beads. I brought a terrible cold out of the Seattle jail that hung on for months. I got worried about it and went to a doctor. After looking me over carefully he pronounced one of my lungs bad and said I was in a fair way to fall into consumption. He advised me to go to a different climate, not to worry and get into a panic about it, and to take cod-liver oil. “Not the emulsion,” he said, “but the raw oil. It’s nasty stuff to take, but it will save you. Take it for a year if you can stomach it that long.” I followed his advice. The cold was gone in a week, and in a month I gained ten pounds. I stuck to the nauseating raw oil for a year, and to-day I firmly believe that if I hadn’t I would have long ago succumbed to the dreaded prison scourge, T.B.