"Comeon,—I'llshowyoutherealdirt," Brissendensaidtohim, oneeveninginJanuary.

TheyhaddinedtogetherinSanFrancisco, andwereattheFerryBuilding, returningtoOakland, whenthewhimcametohimtoshowMartinthe "realdirt." Heturnedandfledacrossthewater-front, ameagreshadowinaflappingovercoat, -demijohnsofoldport, andwithoneineachhandboardedaMissionStreetcar, Martinathisheelsburdenedwithseveralquart-bottlesofwhiskey.

IfRuthcouldseemenow, washisthought, whilehewonderedastowhatconstitutedtherealdirt.

"Maybenobodywillbethere," Brissendensaid, whentheydismountedandplungedofftotherightintotheheartoftheworking-classghetto, southofMarketStreet."Inwhichcaseyou'llmisswhatyou'vebeenlookingforsolong."

"Andwhatthedeuceisthat?" Martinasked.

"Men, intelligentmen, andnotthegibberingnonentitiesIfoundyouconsortingwithinthattrader', I'mgoingtoshowyouto-nightsomeothermenwho'vereadthebooks, sothatyouwon'tbelonelyanymore."

"NotthatIbothermyheadabouttheireverlastingdiscussions," hesaidattheendofablock."I'', they'lltalkanarmoffofyouonanysubjectunderthesun."

"HopeNorton'sthere," hepantedalittlelater, resistingMartin'sefforttorelievehimofthetwodemijohns."Norton'sanidealist—, 'sarailroadpresidentandmanytimesmillionnaire, buttheson'sstarvingin 'Frisco, editingananarchistsheetfortwenty-fiveamonth."

MartinwaslittleacquaintedinSanFrancisco, andnotatallsouthofMarket; sohehadnoideaofwherehewasbeingled.

"Goahead," hesaid; "? Howdotheyhappentobehere?"