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Numerical Methods and Optimization An Introduction 1st
Edition Pardalos Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Pardalos, Panos M.; Butenko, Sergiy
ISBN(s): 9781466577770, 1466577770
Edition: 1
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Year: 2014
Language: english
NUMERICAL METHODS
AND OPTIMIZATION
An Introduction
CHAPMAN & HALL/CRC
Numerical Analysis and Scientific Computing

Aims and scope:

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This page intentionally left blank
NUMERICAL METHODS
AND OPTIMIZATION
An Introduction

Sergiy Butenko
Texas A&M University
college Station, USA

Panos M. Pardalos
University of Florida
Gainesville, USA
MATLAB® is a trademark of The MathWorks, Inc. and is used with permission. The MathWorks does
not warrant the accuracy of the text or exercises in this book. This book’s use or discussion of MAT-
LAB® software or related products does not constitute endorsement or sponsorship by The MathWorks
of a particular pedagogical approach or particular use of the MATLAB® software.

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Dedicated to the memory of our grandmothers,
Uliana and Sophia,
who taught us how to count.
This page intentionally left blank
Preface

This text provides a basic introduction to numerical methods and optimiza-

tion for undergraduate and beginning graduate students in engineering and
operations research. It is based on the materials used by the authors during
many years of teaching undergraduate and introductory graduate courses in
industrial and systems engineering at Texas A&M University and the Uni-
versity of Florida. The book is intended for use as a text or supplement for
introductory one-semester courses on numerical methods, optimization, and
deterministic operations research.
Combining the topics from entry-level numerical methods and optimiza-
tion courses into a single text aims to serve a dual purpose. On the one hand,
this allows us to enrich a standard numerical methods syllabus with addi-
tional chapters on optimization, and on the other hand, students taking an
introductory optimization or operations research course may appreciate hav-
ing numerical methods basics (typically assumed as a background) handy. In
particular, the fact that students in engineering and operations research rep-
resent diverse educational backgrounds, some with no previous coursework
related to numerical methods, served as a motivation for this work.
In presenting the material, we assumed minimum to no previous experi-
ence of a reader with the subjects of discussion. Some mathematical proofs
are included as samples of rigorous analysis; however, in many cases the pre-
sentation of facts and concepts is restricted to examples illustrating them.
While the content of the text is not tied to any particular software, the book
is accompanied by MATLAB notes and codes available for download from
the publisher’s website, which also contains other supporting materials.
We would like to thank the numerous students who have taken our courses
throughout the years for their valuable feedback on preliminary versions of
parts of this text. This work would not have been possible without the love
and support of our families. Finally, we would like to thank our publisher,
Sunil Nair, for his patient assistance and encouragement.

Sergiy Butenko
Panos Pardalos

ix
This page intentionally left blank
Contents

I Basics 1
1 Preliminaries 3
1.1 Sets and Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
1.2 Fundamental Theorem of Algebra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
1.3 Vectors and Linear (Vector) Spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
1.3.1 Vector norms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
1.4 Matrices and Their Properties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
1.4.1 Matrix addition and scalar multiplication . . . . . . . 12
1.4.2 Matrix multiplication . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
1.4.3 The transpose of a matrix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
1.4.4 Triangular and diagonal matrices . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
1.4.5 Determinants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
1.4.6 Trace of a matrix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
1.4.7 Rank of a matrix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
1.4.8 The inverse of a nonsingular matrix . . . . . . . . . . 18
1.4.9 Eigenvalues and eigenvectors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
1.4.10 Quadratic forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
1.4.11 Matrix norms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
1.5 Preliminaries from Real and Functional Analysis . . . . . . . 25
1.5.1 Closed and open sets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
1.5.2 Sequences . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
1.5.3 Continuity and differentiability . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
1.5.4 Big O and little o notations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
1.5.5 Taylor’s theorem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

2 Numbers and Errors 37

2.1 Conversion between Different Number Systems . . . . . . . . 39
2.1.1 Conversion of integers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
2.1.2 Conversion of fractions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
2.2 Floating Point Representation of Numbers . . . . . . . . . . 44
2.3 Definitions of Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
2.4 Round-off Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
2.4.1 Rounding and chopping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
2.4.2 Arithmetic operations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
2.4.3 Subtractive cancellation and error propagation . . . . 49

xi
xii

II Numerical Methods for Standard Problems 53

3 Elements of Numerical Linear Algebra 55
3.1 Direct Methods for Solving Systems of Linear Equations . . 57
3.1.1 Solution of triangular systems of linear equations . . . 57
3.1.2 Gaussian elimination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
3.1.2.1 Pivoting strategies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
3.1.3 Gauss-Jordan method and matrix inversion . . . . . . 63
3.1.4 Triangular factorization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
3.2 Iterative Methods for Solving Systems of Linear Equations . 69
3.2.1 Jacobi method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
3.2.2 Gauss-Seidel method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
3.2.3 Application: input-output models in economics . . . . 74
3.3 Overdetermined Systems and Least Squares Solution . . . . 75
3.3.1 Application: linear regression . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
3.4 Stability of a Problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
3.5 Computing Eigenvalues and Eigenvectors . . . . . . . . . . . 78
3.5.1 The power method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
3.5.2 Application: ranking methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80

4 Solving Equations 87
4.1 Fixed Point Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
4.2 Bracketing Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
4.2.1 Bisection method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
4.2.1.1 Convergence of the bisection method . . . . 93
4.2.1.2 Intervals with multiple roots . . . . . . . . . 95
4.2.2 Regula-falsi method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
4.2.3 Modified regula-falsi method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
4.3 Newton’s Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
4.3.1 Convergence rate of Newton’s method . . . . . . . . . 103
4.4 Secant Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
4.5 Solution of Nonlinear Systems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
4.5.1 Fixed point method for systems . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
4.5.2 Newton’s method for systems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107

5 Polynomial Interpolation 113

5.1 Forms of Polynomials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
5.2 Polynomial Interpolation Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
5.2.1 Lagrange method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
5.2.2 The method of undetermined coefficients . . . . . . . 118
5.2.3 Newton’s method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
5.3 Theoretical Error of Interpolation and Chebyshev Polynomials 120
5.3.1 Properties of Chebyshev polynomials . . . . . . . . . . 122
 xiii

6 Numerical Integration 127

6.1 Trapezoidal Rule . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
6.2 Simpson’s Rule . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
6.3 Precision and Error of Approximation . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
6.4 Composite Rules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
6.4.1 The composite trapezoidal rule . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
6.4.2 Composite Simpson’s rule . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
6.5 Using Integrals to Approximate Sums . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137

7 Numerical Solution of Differential Equations 141

7.1 Solution of a Differential Equation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
7.2 Taylor Series and Picard’s Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
7.3 Euler’s Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
7.3.1 Discretization errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
7.4 Runge-Kutta Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
7.4.1 Second-order Runge-Kutta methods . . . . . . . . . . 148
7.4.2 Fourth-order Runge-Kutta methods . . . . . . . . . . 151
7.5 Systems of Differential Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
7.6 Higher-Order Differential Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155

III Introduction to Optimization 159

8 Basic Concepts 161
8.1 Formulating an Optimization Problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
8.2 Mathematical Description . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
8.3 Local and Global Optimality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
8.4 Existence of an Optimal Solution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
8.5 Level Sets and Gradients . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
8.6 Convex Sets, Functions, and Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173
8.6.1 First-order characterization of a convex function . . . 177
8.6.2 Second-order characterization of a convex function . . 179

9 Complexity Issues 185

9.1 Algorithms and Complexity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
9.2 Average Running Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
9.3 Randomized Algorithms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190
9.4 Basics of Computational Complexity Theory . . . . . . . . . 191
9.4.1 Class N P . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
9.4.2 P vs. N P . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
9.4.3 Polynomial time reducibility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
9.4.4 N P-complete and N P-hard problems . . . . . . . . . 195
9.5 Complexity of Local Optimization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
9.6 Optimal Methods for Nonlinear Optimization . . . . . . . . . 203
9.6.1 Classes of methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
9.6.2 Establishing lower complexity bounds for a class of
methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204
xiv

9.6.3 Defining an optimal method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206

10 Introduction to Linear Programming 211

10.1 Formulating a Linear Programming Model . . . . . . . . . . 211
10.1.1 Defining the decision variables . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211
10.1.2 Formulating the objective function . . . . . . . . . . . 212
10.1.3 Specifying the constraints . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212
10.1.4 The complete linear programming formulation . . . . 213
10.2 Examples of LP Models . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
10.2.1 A diet problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
10.2.2 A resource allocation problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
10.2.3 A scheduling problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215
10.2.4 A mixing problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217
10.2.5 A transportation problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
10.2.6 A production planning problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220
10.3 Practical Implications of Using LP Models . . . . . . . . . . 221
10.4 Solving Two-Variable LPs Graphically . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222
10.5 Classification of LPs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229

11 The Simplex Method for Linear Programming 235

11.1 The Standard Form of LP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
11.2 The Simplex Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237
11.2.1 Step 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
11.2.2 Step 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242
11.2.3 Recognizing optimality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244
11.2.4 Recognizing unbounded LPs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244
11.2.5 Degeneracy and cycling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245
11.2.6 Properties of LP dictionaries and the simplex method 249
11.3 Geometry of the Simplex Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
11.4 The Simplex Method for a General LP . . . . . . . . . . . . 254
11.4.1 The two-phase simplex method . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259
11.4.2 The big-M method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 264
11.5 The Fundamental Theorem of LP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
11.6 The Revised Simplex Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
11.7 Complexity of the Simplex Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276

12 Duality and Sensitivity Analysis in Linear Programming 281

12.1 Defining the Dual LP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281
12.1.1 Forming the dual of a general LP . . . . . . . . . . . . 284
12.2 Weak Duality and the Duality Theorem . . . . . . . . . . . . 287
12.3 Extracting an Optimal Solution of the Dual LP from an
Optimal Tableau of the Primal LP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
12.4 Correspondence between the Primal and Dual LP Types . . 290
12.5 Complementary Slackness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291
12.6 Economic Interpretation of the Dual LP . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
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and all the rest of the spiel. And me feeling as comfortable as a lost
heifer in a blizzard—forty kinds of a fool.
She came down the aisle, looking red and white by turns, with all
the people necking her way. Before I’d got time to explain why I did
it, her mother got nervous, thinking there must be some trouble,
and came trailing out after her. Then her kid sister couldn’t stand the
strain, and followed suit.
That family reunion on the porch spoiled all the chance that I had to
see Susie alone, because when they heard why I came, and how I
was going to be Striped Rock’s hero, they were for giving me a Red
Cross reception then and there. Only two hours more until train
time, and the old lady had to rush me down to the house for lunch—
and me with the rest of my life to eat in!
But I shook her and the kid sister at last, and got Susie alone. I tried
to tell her—and I couldn’t. I could say that I was going to do my
best and maybe die for my country, and there I stalled and balked,
her looking the other way all pretty and pink, and giving me not a
word either way to bless myself with. Says I finally:
“And if I come back, I suppose that you’ll be married, Susie?” and
she says:
“No, I don’t think that I’ll be married when you come back; I don’t
think that I’ll ever marry unless he’s a man that I can be proud of.”
Then she looked at me, her big eyes filling—her big eyes, coloured
like the edge of the mountains after sunset. I’ve figured it out since
that she was more than half proud of me already—me, in a clean,
blue suit, and the buttons shiny; me, a ten-cent, camp volunteer.
And then the old woman broke in with a bottle of Eilman’s
Embrocation for use in camp.
Never another chance had I that side of the station. Of course, she
kissed good-by, but that’s only politeness for soldiers. They all did
that. So, although it was just like heaven, I knew that it didn’t mean
anything particular from her, because her mother did it and her
sister, and pretty darned near every other girl in Striped Rock, seeing
that the news about having a real hero in town had spread.
Only, when we pulled away and I was leaning out of the window
blowing kisses, being afraid to blow at Susie in special because I
didn’t like to give myself away, she ran out of the crowd a ways and
held up her little finger to show me something over the knuckle, and
pulled her hand in quick as if nothing had happened. It was the play
kid-ring that I gave her out of the grab-bag, to show that I was
going to marry her when I grew up.
That was the last sight of Striped Rock that I got—Susie waving at
the station as far as I could see her. It made you feel queer to ride
past the fences and the bunch-grass and the foot-hills getting
grayey-green with sage-brush, and the mountains away off, all
snowy on top, and know that chances were you’d never see them
again grayey. And I won’t, I won’t—never again.
Muster at Denver, and the train, and away we went, packed like a
herd around salt, and the towns just black, like a steer in fly-time,
with people coming out to see us pass, and Red Cross lunches every
time the train had to stop for water; next ’Frisco and Camp Merritt.
The first time that I saw this town, gray all over like a sage-hill,
made out of crazy bay-window houses with fancy-work down the
front, I knew that something was going skewgee.
The night before we went up for our final medical examination by
the regular army surgeon, Captain Fletcher called me into his tent.
“Drake, how about your eyes?” says he.
I hadn’t thought of that, supposing that it could be fixed the same
as it was at Range City. I told him so, and he said it couldn’t, not
with the regular army surgeons. But says he:
“You’re a good soldier, and I got you to raise my reserves. They
won’t let you in if you can’t pass the eye-test, glasses or no glasses.
If it should happen that you learned a little formula that tallies with
the eye-card, you wouldn’t let on that I gave it to you, I suppose?”
“I’m good at forgetting,” I says.
“Burn it when you’ve learned it,” he says, and he gave me a paper
with long strings of letter on it. I learned it backward and forward,
and so on that I could begin in the middle and go both ways. I lay
awake half the night saying it over.
Naked as I was born, I floated in on the examiners for my physicals.
Lungs, as they make them in the cow-country; weight, first-class;
hearing, O. K. They whirled me and began to point. Taking a tight
squint—you see better that way—I ripped through the formula: P V X
C L M N H—I can see it yet. I could just see what line on the card he
was pointing at, and never a darned bit more.
They make that sort of a doctor in hell. He saw me squint—and he
began skipping from letter to letter all over the card. No use—I
guessed and guessed dead wrong. “Rejected!” just businesslike, as if
it was a little matter like a job on a hay-press. I went out and sat all
naked on my soldier-clothes—my soldier-clothes that I was never
going to wear any more—and covered up my head. It was the
hardest jolt that I ever got—except one.
Captain Fletcher hadn’t any pull; he couldn’t do anything. Some of
the twenty that I rounded into Range City talked about striking, they
were so mad, but that wouldn’t do any good. I watched them sworn
in next day, shuffling into the armory in new overall clothes. I stood
around camp and saw them drill. I saw them go down the streets to
the transport—flowers in their gun-barrels, wreaths on their hats,
and the people just whooping. I sneaked after them onto the
transport, and there I broke out and cussed the regular army and
everything else. Old Fletcher saw it. He wasn’t sore; he understood.
But I wish I had killed him before I let him do what he did next. He
said:
“He can’t be with us, boys, and it ain’t his fault. But Striped Rock is
going to have its hero. I am going to be correspondent for the
Striped Rock Leader. If we have the luck to get into a fight, he’ll be
the hero in my piece in the paper, and the man that gives away the
snap ain’t square with Company N. Here’s three cheers for Admeh
Drake, the hero of Company N!” he said. When they pulled out,
people were cheering them and they cheering me. It heartened me
up considerably, or else I couldn’t have stood to see them sliding
past Telegraph Hill into the stream and me not there with them.
First, I was for writing to Susie and telling her all about it, but I just
couldn’t. I put it off, saying that I’d go back and tell her all about it
myself, and I went to mooning around camp like a ghost. And then
along came a copy of the Leader that settled it. All about the big
feed that they gave the regiment at Honolulu, and how Admeh
Drake had responded for the men of Company N. Captain Fletcher
was getting in his deadly work. It said that I was justly popular, and
my engagement to one of Striped Rock’s fairest daughters was
whispered. It treated me like I was running for Congress on the
Leader ticket. I began to wonder if I saw a way to Susie.
After they got to the Islands, I dragged the cascos through the surf
and rescued a squad of Company N from drowning. All that was in
the Leader. The night they scrapped in front of the town, I stood
and cheered on a detachment when they faltered before the foe.
After they got to Manila and did nothing but lay around, Captain
Fletcher had me rescue a man from a fire.
After that, I began to get next to myself, knowing that I’d have done
best to stop it at the start and go straight back to Striped Rock. I’d
been a darned fool to put it off so long. Now I could never go back
and face the joshing. I wrote the captain a letter about it, and he
never paid any attention. Instead of that, he sent me back a bunch
of her letters. Knowing how things stood, what I was doing and
what she thought that I was doing, I could hardly open them. They
made me feel as small as buckshot in a barrel. They hinted about
being proud of me—and prayed that I’d come home alive—and I
knew, in spite of being ashamed, that I had her.
Next thing, the natives got off the reservation. There’s where
Captain Fletcher went clean, plumb loco. One day the Leader came
out with circus scare-heads about the “Hero of Pago Bridge.” They
printed my biography and a picture of me. It didn’t look like me, but
it was a nice picture. I’d broke through a withering fire and carried a
Kansas lieutenant across to safety after he had been helplessly
wounded—and never turned a hair.
What was I doing all that time? Laying pretty low. I was afraid to
leave town because I wanted to keep an eye on the Leader, which
was coming regularly to the Public Library, and afraid to get a
regular daylight job for fear that somebody from Striped Rock would
come along and see me. I was nearly busted when I ran onto old
Doctor Morgan, the Indian Root Specialist. He gave me a job as his
outside man. All I had to do was to hang around watching for sick-
looking strays from the country. You know the lay. I told them how
Doctor Morgan had cured me of the same lingering disease and how
I was a well man, thanks to his secrets, babying them along kind of
easy until they went to the doctor. He did the rest, and I collected
twenty-five per cent.
Striped Rock acted as though I was the mayor. They named their
new boulevard Drake Way. Come Fourth of July, they set me up
alongside of Lincoln. They talked about running me for the
Assembly. There came another bunch of her letters—I had answered
the last lot that Cap sent, mailed them all the way to the Philippines,
to be forwarded just to gain time—they were heaven mixed with
hell.
The regiment was coming back in a week, and then I began to think
it over and cuss myself harder than ever for a natural-born fool that
didn’t have enough sand to throw up the game at first and go home
and face the music. It was too late then, and I couldn’t go back to
Striped Rock and take all the glory that was coming to me and face
Susie knowing that I was a fake. Besides, I knew the boys from
Range City were liable to go up to Striped Rock any time and tell the
whole story, and it froze me, inside. I didn’t know what to do, but
the first thing that I had on hand was to catch them at the dock and
tell them all that it meant to me and get them to promise that they
wouldn’t tell. Whether I’d dare to go back and try to get Susie, I
couldn’t even think.
I threw up my job with the doctor and went down to the transport
office to see just when they expected the boys. Little house on the
dock; little hole rooms that you could scarcely turn around in. They
said that the boss transport man was in the next room. I walked in.
There—face to face—was Susie—Susie, pinky and whitey, her eyes
just growing and growing. I couldn’t turn, I couldn’t run, I could just
hang tight onto the door-knob and study the floor. The transport
man went out and left us alone.
And she said:
“Admeh Drake, what are you?”
My inwards, me saying nothing all the time, said that I was a fool
and a thief and a liar. I could have lied, told her that I came home
ahead of the regiment, if it had been anyone but Susie. But I told
her the truth, bellowed it out,—because my soul was burned paper.
“I came out to see you come back,” she said, and then:
“I thought that I could be proud of you.” Never another word she
said, and she never looked at me again, but she threw out her hand
all of a sudden and something dropped. It was the play kid-ring I
gave her the night that I wish I had died.
I tried to talk; I tried to hold the door; I might as well have tried to
talk to the wall. The last I saw of her, the last that ever I will see,
was her molassesy-gold hair going out of the big gate.
I spilled out over the transport man and—O God—how I cried! I ain’t
ashamed of it. You’d have cried, too. After that—I don’t know what I
did. I walked over a bigger patch of hell than any man ever did
alone. But the regiment’s come and gone and never found me, and I
don’t know why I ain’t dead along with my insides.
And they mustered out at Denver, and the boys split up and went
home. Company N went back to Range City—cottonwoods shedding
along the creeks, ranges all white on top, sagey smell off the foot-
hills, people riding and driving in from the ranches by hundreds to
see them and cheer them and feed them and hug them—but there
wasn’t any hero for Striped Rock, because he had bad eyes and was
a darn fool—a darn fool!
 CHAPTER V
THE DIMES OF COFFEE JOHN

“W ell,” said the Harvard Freshman, after the last tale was told,
“I’m dead broke, and my brain seems to have gone out of
business.”
“I’m broke, and my heart’s broke, too,” said the Hero of Pago Bridge.
“I’m broke, similar,” said the ex-medium, “and my nerves is a-
sufferin’ from a severe disruption.”
Coffee John thumped his red fist upon the table.
“Bryce up, gents!” he exclaimed. “Remember there’s nothink in the
ryce but the finish, as the dark ’orse says, w’en ’e led ’em up to the
wire! They’s many a man ’as went broke in this ’ere tarn, an’ ’as
lived to build a four-story ’ouse in the Western Addition; an’ they’s
plenty more as will go broke afore the trams stop runnin’ on Market
Street! This ’ere is a city o’ hextremes, you tyke me word for thet! It
ain’t on’y that Chinatarn is a stone’s throw from the haristocracy o’
Nob Hill, an’ they’s a corner grocery with a side entrance alongside
of every Methody chapel. It ain’t on’y that the gals here is prettier
an’ homblier, an’ stryter an’ wickeder than anyw’eres else in
Christendom, but things go up an’ darn every other wye a man can
nyme. It’s corffee an’ sinkers to-dye an’ champyne an’ terrapin to-
morrer for ’arf the people what hits the village. They’s washwomen’s
darters wot’s wearin’ of their dimonds art on Pacific Avenoo, an’
they’s larst year’s millionaires wot’s livin’ in two rooms darn on
Minnie Street. It’s the wye o’ life in a new country, gents, but they’s
plums a-gettin’ ripe yet, just the syme, every bleedin’ dye, I give yer
my word! Good Lawd! Look at me, myself! Lemme tell yer wot’s
happened to me in my time!”
And with this philosophic introduction, Coffee John began
 THE STORY OF BIG BECKY

W hen I fust struck this ’ere port, I was an yble seaman on the
British bark Four Winds art o’ Iquique, with nitrytes, an’ I was
abart as green a lad as ever was plucked. When I drored the nine
dollars that was a-comin’ to me, I went ashore an’ took a look at the
tarn, an’ I decided right then that this was the plyce for me. So I
calmly deserts the bark, an’ I ain’t set me foot to a bloomin’ gang-
plank from that dye to this, syvin’ to tyke the ferry to Oakland.
Me money larsted abart four dyes. The bleedin’ sharks at the sylor
boardin’-’ouse charged five, a femile in a box at the “Golden West”
darnce-hall got awye with three more, an’ the rest was throwed into
drinks promiscus. The fourth dye in I ’adn’t a bloomin’ penny to me
nyme, an’ I was as wretched as a cow in a cherry-tree. After abart
twelve hours in “’Ell’s Arf-Acre” I drifted into a dive, darn on Pacific
Street, below Kearney, on the Barbary Coast, as was the Barbary
Coast in them dyes! It was a well-known plyce then, an’ not like
anythink else wot ever done business that I ever seen, “Bottle
Myer’s” it was; per’aps yer may have heard of it? No?
Yer went in through a swing door with a brarss sign on, darn a
’allwye as turned into a corner into a wider plyce w’ere the bar was,
an’ beyond that to a ’all that might ’ave ’eld, I should sye, some sixty
men or thereabart. The walls was pynted in a blue distemper, but for
a matter of a foot or so above the floor there was wot yer might call
a dydo o’ terbacker juice, like a bloomin’ coat o’ brarn pynte. The ’all
smelled full strong o’ fresh spruce sawdust on the floor, an’ the rest
was whiffs o’ kerosene ile, an’ sylor’s shag terbacker an’ style beer,
an’ the combination was jolly narsty! Every man ’ad ’is mug o’ beer
on a shelf in front of ’is bench, an’ the parndink of ’em after a song
was somethink awful. On a bit of a styge was a row of performers in
farncy dress like a nigger minstrel show, an’ a beery little bloke sat
darn in front, bangin’ a tin-pan pianner, reachin’ for ’is drink with one
’and occysional, withart leavin’ off plyin’ with the other.
Well, after a guy ’ad sung “All through a lydy wot was false an’ fyre,”
an’ one o’ the ’ens ’ad cracked art “Darn the lyne to Myry,” or
somethink like that, Old Bottle Myer, ’e got up, with a ’ed like a
cannon-ball an’ cock eyes an’ eyebrars like bits o’ thatch, an’ a
farncy flannel shirt, an’ ’e says:
“If any gent present wants to sing a song, he can; an’ if ’e don’t
want to, ’e don’t ’ave to!”
Nar, I wa’n’t no singer myself, though I ’ad piped occysional, to me
mytes on shipboard, but I thought if I couldn’t do as well as them as
’ad myde us suffer, I ought to be jolly well ashymed o’ meself. Wot
was more to the point, I didn’t ’ave the price of a pot o’ beer to bless
myself with, an’ thinks I, this might be a charnst to pinch a bit of a
’aul. So I ups an’ walks darn to the styge, gives the bloke at the
pianner a tip on the chune, an’ starts off on old “Ben Bobstye.” They
was shellbacks in the audience quite numerous as I seen, an’ it done
me good to ’ear ’em parnd their mugs after I’d gort through. W’en I
picked up the abalone shell like the rest of ’em done, an’ parssed
through the ’all, wot with dimes an’ two-bit pieces I ’ad considerable,
an’ I was natchurly prard o’ me luck.
Old Bottle Myer come up an’ says, “’Ow much did you myke, me
friend? Five fifteen, eh? Well, me charge will be on’y a dollar this
time, but if yer want to come rarnd to-morrow night, yer can. If yer
do all right, I’ll tyke yer on reg’lar.”
Well, I joined the comp’ny sure enough, an’ sung every night, pickin’
up a feerly decent livin’ at the gyme, for it was boom times then, an’
money was easier to come by. I had me grub with all the other
hartists in a room they called the “Cabin,” darn below the styge,
connected to a side dressin’-room by a narrer styre. Nar, one o’ the
lydies in the comp’ny was the feature o’ the show, an’ she were a bit
out o’ the ord’n’ry, I give you my word!
She was a reg’lar whyle of a great big trouncin’ Jew woman as ever I
see. Twenty stone if she were an arnce, an’ all o’ six foot two, with
legs like a bloomin’ grand pianner w’en she put on a short petticoat
to do a comic song. She was billed as “Big Becky,” an’ by thet time
she was pretty well known abart tarn.
She ’ad started in business in San Francisco at the hextreme top o’
the ’Ebrew haristocracy of the Western Addition, ’avin ’parssed ’erself
off for a member o’ one o’ the swellest families o’ St. Louis, an’ she
did cut a jolly wide swath here, an’ no dart abart thet! She was
myde puffickly at ’ome everyw’eres, an’ flashed ’er sparklers an’ ’er
silk garns with the best o’ ’em. Lord, it must ’ave took yards o’ cloth
to cover ’er body! Well, she gort all the nobs into line, an’ ’ad
everythink ’er own wye for abart two months, as a reg’lar full-blowed
society favoryte. Day an’ night she ’ad a string o’ men after ’er, or ’er
money, w’ich was quite two things, seein’ she ’ad to graft for every
penny she bloomin’ well ’ad.
W’ile she were at the top notch of the social w’irl, as you might sye,
along come another Jewess from the East, reckernized ’er, an’ spoils
Big Becky’s gyme, like a kiddie pricks a ’ole in a pink balloon. She
was showed up for a hadventuress, story-book style, wot ’ad
’oodwinked all St. Louis a year back, an’ then ’er swell pals dropped
awye from ’er like she was a pest-’ouse. Them wot ’ad accepted ’er
invites, an’ ’ad ’er to dinner an’ the theatre an’ wot-not, didn’t myke
no bones abart it—they just natchully broke an’ run. Then all sorts o’
stories come art, ’ow she borrowed money ’ere, there an’
everyw’ere, put ’er nyme to bad checks, an’ fleeced abart every
bloomin’ ’Ebrew in tarn. She’d a bin plyin’ it on the grand, an’ on the
little bit too grand.
She was on trial for abart two dyes, an’ the city pypers was so full o’
the scandal that the swells she ’oodwinked ’ad to leave tarn till it
blew over, an’ San Francisco quit larfin at ’em. I give yer me word
the reporters did give art some precious rycy tyles, an’ every ’Ebrew
wot ’ad ’ad Big Becky at a five o’clock tea didn’t dyre go art o’ doors
dye-times.
Well, for the syke o’ ’ushin’ matters up, her cyse were compromised
an’ the prosecution withdrawed, she bein’ arsked in return to git art
o’ tarn. Instead o’ thet, not ’avin’ any money, she went an’ accepted
an offer from a dime museum here, an’ begun fer to exhibit of ’erself
in short skirts every afternoon an’ evenink reg’lar, to the gryte an’
grand delight of every chappie who ’adn’t been fooled ’imself. After
that she done “Mazeppa” at the Bella Union Theatre in a costume
wot was positively ’orrid. It was so rude that the police interfered,
an’ thet was back ten year ago, w’en they wa’n’t so partickler on the
Barbary Coast as they be naradyes. Then she dropped darn to Bottle
Myer’s an’ did serios in tights. She was as funny as a bloomin’
helephant on stilts, if so yer didn’t see the plyntive side of it, an’ we
turned men awye from the door every night.
I don’t expect Becky ever ’ad more’n a spoonful o’ conscience. But
with all ’er roguery, she was as big a baby inside as she were a giant
outside, w’en yer onct knew ’ow to tyke ’er, was Big Becky. ’Ard as
brarss she was w’en yer guyed ’er, but soft as butter w’en yer took
’er part, w’ich were somethink as she weren’t much used to, for
most treated ’er brutle. Some’ow I couldn’t help likin’ ’er a bit, in
spite o’ meself. I put in a good deal o’ talk with ’er, one wye an’
another, till I ’ad ’er confidence, an’ could get most anythink art of
’er I wanted. She told me ’er whole story, bit by bit, an’ it were a
reg’lar shillin’ shocker, I give yer my word!
Amongst other things, she told me that a Johnnie in tarn nymed
Ikey Behn ’ad gort precious balmy over ’er, before she was showed
up, an’ ’ad went so far as to tyke art a marriage license in ’opes,
when she seen ’e meant biz, she’d marry ’im. ’E’d even been
bloomin’ arss enough to give it to ’er, and she ’ad it yet, an’ was
’oldin’ it over ’is ’ed for blackmyle, if wust come to wust. She
proposed for to ’ave a parson’s nyme forged into the marriage
certificate that comes printed on the other side from the license.
Nar, things bein’ like this, one night I come up the styre from the
“Cabin” w’ere I’d been lyte to dinner, an’ went into the room w’ere
Becky was a-gettin’ ready to dress for ’er turn. There was a toff
there, in a topper, an’ a long black coat, an’ ’e was havin’ it art, ’ot
an’ ’eavy, with Becky. Just as I come up, ’e broke it off, cursink ’er
something awful, an’ she was as red as a bleedin’ ’am, an’ shykin’ a
herthquyke with ’er ’air darn, an’ ’er breath comin’ like a smith’s
bellus. The gentleman slum the door, an’ she says to me, “’Ere, Jock,
old man, will yer do me a fyvor? Just ’old this purse o’ mine an’ keep
it good an’ syfe till I get through my song, for that’s Ikey Behn wot
just went art, an’ ’e’ll get my license sure, if I leave it abart. I carn’t
trust nobody in this ’ole but you. It’s in there,” an’ she showed me
the pyper, shovin’ the purse into me ’and. I left an’ went darn front
w’ile she put on ’er rig an’ done ’er turn.
Art in the bar, there was the toff, talkin’ to one o’ the wyters, an’ I
knew ’e was tryin’ to tip somebody to frisk Big Becky’s pockets. W’en
I come up, ’e says, “’Ow de do, me man? I sye, ’ave a glarss with
me, won’t yer? Wot’ll yer ’ave?”
I marked ’is gyme then an’ there, an’ I sat darn to see ’ow ’e’d act.
’E done it ’andsome, ’e did; ’e was a thoroughbred, an’ no mistake
abart thet! ’E wan’t the bloke to drive a bargain like most would ’ave
done under the syme irritytin’ circumstances.
“See ’ere,” ’e says, affable, an’ ’e opens ’is wallet an’ tykes art a pack
o’ bills. “’Ere’s a tharsand in ’undred-dollar greenbacks. You get me
that pyper Big Becky’s got in ’er purse!”
There I was, sittin’ right in front of ’im, with the license in me
pocket, an’ there was a fortune in front o’ me as would ’ave set me
up in biz for the rest o’ me life. Wot’s more, if they’s anythink I do
admire, it’s a thoroughbred toff, for I was brought up to reckernize
clarss, an’ I seen at a wink that this ’ere Johnnie was a dead sport. I
knew wot it meant to ’im to get possession o’ thet pyper, for Becky
could myke it jolly ’ot for ’im with it. I confess, gents, thet for abart
’alf a mo I hesityted. But I couldn’t go back on the woman, seem’
she ’ad trusted me partickler, an’ so I shook me ’ed mournful, an’
refused the wad.
’E was a bit darn in the mouth at thet, not lookin’ to run up agin
such, in a plyce like Bottle Myer’s, I expeck. “See ’ere, me man,” ’e
says, “I just gort to ’ave thet pyper. I’ll tell yer wot, w’en I gort art
thet license, I swyre I thought the woman was stryte an’ all she
pretended to be. We was all of us took in. I wa’n’t after ’er money, I
was plum balmy on ’er, sure, an’ nar I’m engyged to the nicest little
gal as ever lived, an’ it’ll queer the whole thing if this ’ere foolishness
gets art!”
With my respeck for the haristocracy, I was jolly sorry for the chap,
but I wa’n’t a-goin’ to sell Becky art, not thet wye. I wa’n’t no holy
Willie, but I stuck at that. So I arsked, “Wot’s the gal’s nyme?”
“That’s none of your biz,” says Behn, gettin’ ’ot in the scuppers, “an’
that little gyme won’t do yer no good, nohow, for the gal knows all
abart this matter, ’an yer can’t trip me up there. Not much. I’ll pye
yer all the docyment’s worth, if yer’ll get it for me.”
“Yer won’t get it art o’ Becky not at no price,” I says, “an’ yer won’t
get it art o’ me, unless yer answer my questing. If yer want me to
conduck this ’ere affyre, I got to know all abart it, an’ yer gal won’t
be put to no bother, neither.”
’E looked me over a bit, an’ then ’e says, low, so that nobody
couldn’t ’ear, “It’s Miss Bertha Wolfstein.” Then ’e give me ’is
address, ’an left the matter for me to do wot I could.
I thought if anybody could work Becky, it would be me, an’ I
expected the gal’s nyme might come in ’andy, though I ’ad no idea
then how strong it would pull. So I goes up to the big woman after
she was dressed, and tykes ’er up to the “Poodle Dog” for supper.
She ’ad gort over the worry by this time, an’ was feelink as chipper
as a brig in a west wind.
“Did ever yer ’ear tell of a Bertha Wolfstein?” I says, off-hand.
Then wot does she do but begins to bryke darn an’ blubber. “She
was the on’y one in tarn as come to see me after I was pulled,” she
says. “I done all kinds o’ fyvors for lots of ’em, but Miss Wolfstein
was the on’y one who ’ad called me friend, as ever remembered it.
She was a lydy, was Miss Wolfstein; she treated me angel w’ite, she
did, Gawd bless ’er pretty fyce!”
Then I knowed I ’ad ’er w’ere I wanted ’er, ’an I give it to ’er tender
an’ soft, with all the sugar an’ cream she could stand. I let art Ikey
Behn’s story, hinch by hinch, an’ I pynted the feelinks o’ thet Bertha
Wolfstein with all the tack I knew how, till I gort Becky on the run
an’ she boohooed again, right art loud, an’ I see I ’ad win ’er over.
My word! she did look a sight for spectytors after she’d wiped a ’arf
parnd o’ pynte off’n ’er fyce with ’er napkin, sobbink awye, like ’er
’eart was as soft as a slug in a mud-puddle. She parssed over the
pyper art of ’er purse an’ she says, “Yer can give it to Ikey an’ get
the money. I don’t want to ’urt a ’air o’ thet gal’s ’ead.”
Seein’ she was so easy worked, I thought it was on’y right I should
be pyde for me trouble, for it ’ad stood me somethink for a private
room an’ drinks an’ such to get her into proper condition.
So I says, “Thet’s all right, Becky, an’ it’s jolly ’andsome o’ yer to be
willin’ to let go of the docky-ment, but I’ll be blowed if I see ’ow yer
can tyke ’is money, w’en yer feel that wye. If yer sell art the pyper,
w’ere does the bloomin’ gratitude to the gal come in, anywye?”
At this, Becky looked all wyes for a Sunday, an’ I perceeded to rub it
in. “Nar, see here, Becky, w’ich would yer rather do—get five ’undred
dollars for the license from Ikey, or let Miss Wolfstein know yer’d
made a present of it to ’er, for wot she done to yer?”
That was a ’ard conundrum for a woman like that, who ’ad fleeced
abart every pal she ever ’ad, an’ the money was a snug bit for
anybody who was as ’ard up as she was then. I thought I’d mark the
price darn a bit so’s to myke the sacrifice easier for ’er. I didn’t dyre
to trust her with a offer of the tharsand Ikey ’ad flashed at me.
Besides, I thought I see a charnst to myke a bit meself withart lyin’.
Sure enough, I ’ad read the weather in ’er fyce all right, an’ she was
gyme to lose five ’underd just to sye “thank you,” as yer might sye. I
farncy I’d found abart the only spot in ’er ’eart as wa’n’t rotten.
“I guess I’d rather ’ave ’er know I ain’t quite so bad as they think,”
she says, an’ she gulluped an’ rubbed ’er eyes. “You go to Ikey, an’
you tell ’im ’e’s a—” Well, I won’t sye wot she called ’im. “But Bertha
Wolfstein is the on’y lydy in tarn, an’ it’s on’y for ’er syke I’m givin’
up the license.”
Then she kerflummuxed again, an’ if yer think I left her time to think
it over, yer don’t know old John. I took the pyper before the words
was feerly art of ’er marth, an’ in ’arf an’ ’our I was pullin’ Ikey
Behn’s door-bell. When ’e seen me, ’e grinned like a cat in a cream-
jug, an’ ’e arsked me into the li’bry like I was a rich uncle just ’ome
from the di’mond fields.
Nar, yer might think as I was a-goin’ to try to sell ’im the pyper on
me own account, leavin’ ’im to think that Becky was gettin’ the price
of it, an’ me a percentage. Not much I wa’n’t; not on yer blessed
life! I was too clever for thet! I’ve seen reel toffs before, an’ I knew
Ikey for best clarss when I piped ’im off. ’Ave yer ever watched the
bootblacks in Piccadilly Circus? D’yer think they has a trades-union
price for a shine? Nar! W’en a bleedin’ swell comes along an’ gits a
polish an’ arsks ’ow much, it’s “Wot yer please, sir,” an’ “I leave it to
you, sir,” an’ the blackie gits abart four times wot ’e’d a-dared to
arsk, specially if the toff’s a bit squeegee. That’s the on’y wye to
treat a gentleman born, an’ I knew it. So I tipped ’im off the stryte
story, leavin’ nothing art to speak of, an’ ’e listens affable. I ’ands ’im
over the license at the end.
W’en ’e’d stuck the pyper in a candle ’andy, an’ ’ad lighted a big
cigar with it, offerink the syme an’ a drink to me, ’e says, as cool as
a pig before Christmas, says ’e, “Nar, me man, wot d’yer want for
yer trouble? Yer done me a fyvor, an’ no dart abart thet!”
“No trouble at all,” I says. “I’m proud to oblige such a perfeck
gentleman as you be,” an’ with that I picks up me ’at an’ walks
toward the door.
“Wyte a bit,” ’e says, “I’ll see if I ain’t gort a dollar on me,” an’ ’e
smiles cordial. But ’e watches me fyce sharp, too, as I seen in the
lookin-glarss. Then ’e goes to a writin’-desk an’ looks in a dror. “If
happen yer don’t want any o’ this yerself, yer can give it to Becky,”
he says, an’ ’e seals up a packet an’ gives it to me like ’e was the
bloomin’ Prince o’ Wyles. Sure, ’e was toff, clean darn to ’is boot-
pegs, I give yer my word!
When I gort out o’ doors an’ opened the packet, I near fynted awye.
They was a wad o’ hundreds as come to a cool four tharsand dollars.
I walked back on the bloomin’ hatmosphere!
I come into Bottle Myer’s, just as Big Becky was a-singin’ “Sweet
Vylets,” in a long w’ite baby rig an’ a bunnit as big as a ’ogshead.
Lord, old Myer did myke a guy o’ thet woman somethink awful! W’en
she come off, I was wytin’ in the dressin’-room for ’er.
“My Lawd, Jock!” she says, w’en she seen me, “yer didn’t give up
the pyper, did yer? Yer knew I was on’y foolin’, didn’t yer? Don’t sye
yer let Ikey get a-hold of it! It was good for a hunderd to me any
dye I needed the money, if I wanted to give it to the pypers.”
Well, that myde me sick, though I’d expecked as much. I was thet
disgusted thet she couldn’t stand by ’er word for a hour, thet I
couldn’t ’elp syin’, “An’ ’ow abart Miss Wolfstein, as was a friend to
yer, w’en all the other women in tarn went back on yer, Becky? Yer
know wot she’ll think of yer, don’t yer?”
Right then I seen abart as plucky a fight between good an’ bad
worked art on ’er fyce, as I ever seen in the ring, London Prize rules
to a finish. An’ if you’ll believe it, gents, the big woman’s gratitude to
the Wolfstein gal come art on top, an’ the stingy part of ’er was
knocked art flat.
It were a tough battle, though, I give yer my word, before I got the
decision. She bit ’er lip till the blood come through the rouge,
standin’ there, a great whoopin’ big mounting o’ flesh with baby
clothes an’ a pink sash on, an’ a wig an’ bunnit like a bloomin’ Drury
Lyne Christmas Pantymime. I just stood an’ looked at ’er! I’m blowed
if she didn’t git almost pretty for ’alf a mo, w’en she says:
“I’m glad yer did give it up, Jock; I’m glad, nar it’s all over. But thet
five hundred would ’ave syved me life, for old Myer ’as give me the
sack to-dye, an’ I don’t know wot’ll become o’ me.”
Wot did I do? I done wot the dirtiest sneak in the Pen would a did,
an’ ’anded art the envelope an’ split the pile with ’er.

Coffee John fetched a deep sigh. “Well, gents, thet’s w’ere I got me
start. The wad didn’t larst long, for I was green an’ unused to
money, but I syved art enough to set me up here, an’ ’ere I am yet.
I never seen Big Becky sinct.
“Nar you see wot a man might ’appen to strike in a tarn like this.
Every bloomin’ dye they’s somebody up an’ somebody darn. I
started withart a penny, an’ I pulled art a small but helegant fortune
in a week’s time. So can any man.
“Gents, I give you this stryte: Life in San Francisco is a bloomin’
fayry tyle if a man knows ’is wye abart, an’ a bloke can bloomin’ well
blyme ’is own liver if ’e carn’t find a bit of everythink ’ere ’e wants,
from the Californy gal, w’ich is the noblest work o’ Gawd, to the
’Frisco flea, w’ich is a bleedin’ cousin to the Old Nick ’isself! They
ain’t no tarn like it, they ain’t never been none, an’ they ain’t never
goin’ to be. It ain’t got neither turf nor trees nor kebs, but it’s bloody
well gort a climate as mykes a man’s ’eart darnce in ’is bussum, an’
cable-cars wot’ll tyke a guy uphill to ’eaven or rarnd the bloomin’
next corner to ’ell’s cellar! They’s every sin ’ere except ’ypocrisy, for
that ain’t needed, an’ they’s people wot would ’ave been synted if
they’d lived in ancient times.
“An’ nar, I want to egspress somethink of wot I thinks o’ you bums.
As fur as I can see every one o’ yer is a ’ard cyse, ’avin’ indulged in
wot yer might call questingable practices, withart yet bein’, so to
speak, of the criminal clarss. It don’t go to myke a man particklerly
prard o’ ’umanity to keep a dime restaurant; ’arrivver, ’Evving knows
wot I’d do if I couldn’t sometimes indulge in the bloomin’ glow of
’ope. Vango, I allar you’ll be a bad ’un, and I don’t expeck to make a
Sunday-school superintendent o’ yer. Coffin uses such lengwidge as
mykes a man wonder if ’e ain’t a bleedin’ street fakir on a ’arf-’oliday,
so I gives ’im up frankly an’ freely an’ simply ’opes for the best. But
you, Dryke, is just a plyne ornery lad as ’as ’ad ’is eart broke, an’ you
’as me sympathy, as a man with feelinks an’ a conscience.
“Nar, I’ll tell yer wot I’ll do. I’ll styke the three of yer a dime apiece,
an’ yer git art o’ ’ere with the firm intentions o’ gettin’ rich honest.
Mybe yer won’t myke it, an’ then again mybe yer will, but it’s a good
gamble an’ I’d like to have it tried art. Anywye, come back ’ere to-
morrow at nine, an’ ’ave dinner on me, ’an tell me all abart it. Wot
d’yer sye?”
It was a psychological moment. The proposition, fantastic as it was,
seemed, under the spell of Coffee John’s enthusiasm, to promise
something mysteriously new, something grotesquely romantic. It
was a chance to turn a new leaf. The three vagabonds were each
stranded at a turn of the tide. The medium, with his nerves
unstrung, was only too willing to cast on Fate the responsibility of
the next move. The Harvard Freshman, with no nerves at all, one
might say, hailed the adventure as a Quixotic quest that would be
amusing to put to the hazard of chance. The hero of Pago Bridge
had little spirit left, but, like Vango, he welcomed any fortuitous hint
that would tell him which way to turn in his misery. All three were
well worked upon by the solace of the moment, and a full stomach
makes every man brave. Coffee John’s appeal went home, and from
the sordid little shop three beggars went forth as men. One after the
other accepted the lucky dime and fared into the night, to pursue
the firefly of Fortune.
In ten minutes the restaurant was dark and empty, and Coffee John
was snoring in a back room. Three Picaroons were busy at the
Romance of Roguery.
 CHAPTER VI
THE HARVARD FRESHMAN’S ADVENTURE: THE
FORTY PANATELAS

J ames Wiswell Coffin, 3d, was the first of the three adventurers to
leave the restaurant, and as he turned up Kearney Street he had
a new but fully fledged philosophy buzzing in his brain.
Enlightenment had come in a hint dropped by Coffee John himself. It
took a Harvard man and a Bostonian of Puritan stock to hatch that
chick of thought, but, by the time the coffee was finished, the
mental egg broke and an idea burst upon him. It was this:
“Facts show that good luck is stable for a while and is then followed
by a run of misfortune. The mathematical ideal of alternate favorable
and unfavorable combinations does not often occur. There is where
the great Law of Probabilities falls down hard. The curve of fortune
is like a wave. It should then be played heavily while it ascends, and
lightly on the decline. Mine is undoubtedly rising. Go to! I shall
proceed to gamble!”
But how gamble at midnight with a capital of but one dime? In no
other city in the world is it so easy as in San Francisco, that quaint
rendezvous of saloons and cigar stands. There the goddess Fortuna
has a shrine on every street corner and the offerings of her devotees
produce a rattle as characteristic of the town as the slap of the cable
pulley in the conduit of the car lines. The cigar slot-machine or
“hard-luck-box” is a nickel lottery played by good and bad alike; for
it has a reputation no shadier than the church-raffle or the juvenile
grab-bag, and is tolerated as a harmless safety-valve for the lust of
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