I suppose that Dallas had made money and did not care for a poor ox driver, and on my part I did not care very much for his friendship, so I walked away and left him without a word.
Every way I looked was a sea of black, sticky mud; dogs mired in the streets and died, and teams and animals had forsaken the usual route of travel.

The gambling houses and saloons were crowded, gum boots in demand, and the only way to get out of town was by water.

I took this way out, and on the same boat by which I came, going to San Francisco.
This was high and dry enough to be above the highest floods of Yuba, Sacramento or San Joaquin, but all business except the saloons was dull.
Fronting on Portsmouth Square was the Hall of Corruption.

Inside was a magnificently furnished bar, more than one keeper and various gambling tables, most of them with soiled doves in attendance.

The room was thronged with players and spectators, and coin and dust were plenty.