A City Tossed and Broken by Judy Blundell Read Free Book Online

Mr. Langley himself knocked on the back door and offered them double their salaries to leave. And they had no loyalty built up to Sump, you see. They’d only been here for two weeks, setting up the household. And in that time they saw what it would be like, working here, so they left. They didn’t like your boss much.”
    Nor do I, but I’ll keep that to myself.
    “Don’t worry, though, I’m sure he’s not as bad as all that,” he said, because I guess I looked worried.
    He asked me where I was from and I told him Philadelphia and then he whistled and said he’s a born and bred Californian and never been east of Oakland.
    I didn’t want to be seen standing there chatting with a delivery boy. But then I thought maybe I need him to help me. I do have a little bit of money Mama gave me back in Philadelphia, ten dollars, and with that I could buy a uniform I’m sure, it being so plain. I could buy a few things to tide me over. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to tell Mrs. Sump I lost my suitcase. I asked him if there was a seamstress nearby.
    “’Course there is, this is San Francisco, greatest city west of Chicago. Plenty of ’em. But why don’t you try a department store for ready-made things? First off there’s City of Paris down by Union Square. You don’t know where that is, do you?”
    “We passed it on the way. I haven’t seen much of the city.”
    “All right, then.” He plucked a package of carrots wrapped in brown paper out of the box and then fished a stubby pencil out of his pocket.
    “You’re here, see? On Sacramento Street.” He drew thick lines on the paper, sketching quickly. “This here is California Street — that’s where you might have seen the big mansions, Crocker and Huntington, and the new Fairmont Hotel. If you walk down that street, straight down, and then turn right on Powell, you’ll be at Union Square. Or you could catch the cable car from here for a corking ride down the hill. The Powell Street line will take you right to the square, and then if you look straight across you’ll see the City of Paris department store right here.” He grinned. “Might be too expensive for the likes of us, but there’s plenty of other stores. There’s a place on Mason Street for more working folk, I can give you the address.” He wrote it down on the paper.
    He gave me another look and unwrapped more clean space on the paper. “Look here, it’s not hard to get around once you get a few facts straight. San Francisco is all up and down, it’s true, but we’ve got water on nearly all sides, so you can almost always figure out where you are — if you climb to the top of the nearest hill,” he added, grinning.
    He drew more quick lines. “Here’s the ocean — that’s as far west as you can get. See this rectangle? That’s Golden Gate Park — runs all the way out to the Pacific. You can take the streetcar out there and wade in the ocean — jiminy, it’s cold. See this sort of squarish space? The Presidio, where the Army is. It goes down to the bay. You could walk it in a morning if you wanted to. This big wide street here is Van Ness. It starts at the bay and runs right up like this. Here’s City Hall, and here’s Chinatown. And this here’s the Barbary Coast, you don’t want to venture there. On this side is Telegraph Hill and here’s Russian Hill, where I live. Not too far from here.” He smiled at my confused face. “You’ll get it. On your days off, you can explore.”
    “I only have one day off.”
    “Me too. I work at Jennardi’s as a delivery boy most days after school, and then hauling crates of whiskey down at Hotaling’s on Saturdays. Say, you wouldn’t have a night off tonight, would you? Because down at Mechanics’ Pavilion they’re having a roller-skating contest. You wouldn’t be going just with me,” he said quickly, “if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m going with my sister and brother and cousins — a big group. You’ll be well chaperoned.