Shorty’s news stand is on a busy corner in the shadow of a skyscraper owned by ex-Senator Phelan, one of California’s most distinguished men, and there, under his patronage and protection, he stands on his stumps (“cut-down legs” he calls them), early and late, serving thousands with papers and periodicals. He hobnobs with doctors, lawyers, business men, and politicians. He finds lost children and dogs, and returns them to their owners. Shopgirls and strangers ask him which is the best show of the week. Men around town consult him about the chances of a horse in to-morrow’s race. He can borrow more money on his I.O.U. than many business men in his block and pays on the minute. He is no stranger at the banks on the opposite corners. His reputation for truth and veracity is such that if he were to tell me the water had all disappeared from the bay I wouldn’t go down to look. Traveling in search of adventure when young, he lost his legs under a train, but instead of despairing and sinking under this terrible misfortune, he braced himself and, picking out a bare corner on the street, built up, day by day, year by year, a business that has made him independent and respected. I stopped one day at his stand, and, looking at his massive chest, broad shoulders, and fine head, I saw him in fancy a splendid figure of a man towering ruggedly above his fellows. “Shorty,” I asked, “how tall were you before you lost your legs?” He flashed me a savage look; then remembering we were friends his eyes fell to his stumps and he said with a laugh, “Oh, I was taller by two feet.” That’s all one gets by asking questions that wake painful memories. From my position on the bench I could see every prisoner brought to the desk. About ten o’clock there was a stir in the hall and several policemen came in with Chinamen from a gambling-house raid. This was before they had cut off their queues, and instead of handcuffing their prisoners the cops came in driving the silent, stolid Chinese before them like charioteers. Each cop had the tails of three Chinamen’s queues in each hand. Ahead of the procession walked a white man with a heavy bag of gold in his hand which he put on the desk, and waited till the names of the prisoners had been taken. Then they all went back up the corridor out of my sight—the Chinamen back to Chinatown to their gambling, and the bag of gold into the bond-and-warrant clerk’s office to insure their appearance in court. Several times during the night men were brought in, questioned at great length, searched thoroughly, and led away to another part of the prison—felony cases. About midnight two young fellows about my age were brought in by a copper and stood up before the desk.