A down-town car happening to stop to let off passengers, he stepped aboard and ensconced himself in an outside corner seat.

The next thing he was aware of, the car was swinging around on its turn-table and he was hastily scrambling off.

The big ferry building stood before him.

Seeing and hearing nothing, he had been carried through the heart of the business section of San Francisco.
He glanced up at the tower clock on top of the ferry building.

It was ten minutes after one--time enough to catch the quarter-past-one boat.
That decided him, and without the least idea in the world as to where he was going, he paid ten cents for a ticket, passed through the gate, and was soon speeding across the bay to the pretty city of Oakland.
In the same aimless and unwitting fashion, he found himself, an hour later, sitting on the string-piece of the Oakland city wharf and leaning his aching head against a friendly timber.