Then it occurred to him that he had forgotten to call at his club that morning for his mail, as was his custom, on the way to the office.

He looked at his watch.

It was early yet, and his club was but two blocks' distance.

He decided that he would get his letters at the club, and read them on the way down to the wharf.
For Condy had joined a certain San Francisco club of artists, journalists, musicians, and professional men that is one of the institutions of the city, and, in fact, famous throughout the United States.

He was one of the younger members, but was popular and well liked, and on more than one occasion had materially contributed to the fun of the club's "low jinks." In his box this morning he found one letter that he told himself he must read upon the instant.