W. C. Tuttle 
Bluffer’s luck 

Fog and rain, with the spluttering arclights shining like moons out of the drizzle and a mist; the rattle of wheels on cobbles, soughing of fog-horns down on San Francisco Bay; the far-off din of a cable car gong, and always the dismal patter of rain along the gutter.

A girl stopped at the entrance of a cheap boarding house, where a single electric bulb partly illuminated the faded sign. Her faded old raincoat glistened in the light, and her cheap felt hat leaked drops of water as she glanced up at the sign.

It was not because she was unfamiliar with that sign. Nan Whitlock had passed under it several times a day for a number of months, because it was her home. That is, it was the only home she had, and just now she was wondering how much longer she could call it home.

After a short period of reflection she went inside, passed the dining-room door and started up the stairs. Beneath the raincoat was a small parcel, and she quickly slipped it farther out of sight as a step sounded on the stairs above her.