straight ahead and they all come
out right. It's the only city where it's done with such abandon. They
never stop for anything except taxis--not even fire engines.

The secret of it is, I think, that no one ever hesitates. This is
understood by all San Franciscans--that, no one is ever going to
hesitate. That's why there are no accidents. It's the unexpected in
people that makes disasters and creates a demand for traffic cops.

I try to cross the street as others cross. I choose a chalk mark and,
pretending I am a native daughter, launch out. I get on fine--suddenly
a monster machine is on me. Or would be if I did not jump back. I
shouldn't have jumped back it seems. But how was I to know? In the jaws
of death you don't reason, you jump. In jumping back I hit another
machine and it stops. And that stops a street car. That stops something
else. And in a minute Market street, the famous Market street, is all
balled up because I jumped back. Drivers, red in the face, swear at me,
not because they are cross, but scared-more scared than I.

Next time I am more careful. I look to the traffic cop for attention
but, being a handsome man, he thinks I'm trying to flirt. Policemen
should be homely. So I wait until the street is entirely empty. I wait a
long time--it is empty--I run like a steer--and suddenly out of
nowhere a machine is yelling at me individually and I know no more
until, breathless and red, I reach the haven of the sidewalk.

Once I heard a horrible story of a man who lost control of his machine
and ran up on to the sidewalk.

Port O' Missing Men

They say that San Francisco is known all over as the Port o' Missing
Men. That it is a city where a man may lose himself if he chooses, and
that by the same token it is a good place to look for "my wandering boy
tonight." I can believe all this especially on Third street. Third
street should be called by some other name or it should have a nickname.
If it were in Seattle it would be known as "skid row." Third street
doesn't describe it at all.

When I see a lot of men like that, wanderers, family men out of work,
vagabonds, nobodies, somebodies, "rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief;
doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief," I always get to thinking how once each
one was a tiny baby in a thin white dress, and how before that each one
of them was born of a woman. If I could ever forget that, I could
perhaps sometimes call men "a lot of cattle." Come to think of it