We hailed a car marked “Exposition” and were soon climbing the hills to the west.  Between the houses, we had fleeting glances of the bay with its freight of vessels.  Here waved the tri-color of France, while next to it the black, white and red flag of Germany was flung to the breeze, and within a stone’s throw, Johnny Bull had cast out his insignia.  At a little distance the ships of Austria and Russia rested side by side, and between the vessels the bustling little ferry-boats were churning up the blue water.

“It is difficult to picture this bay as it was in early Spanish days,” I said, “destitute of boats and so full of otter that when the Russians and Alaskan Aleuts began plundering these waters, they had only to lean from the canoes and kill hundreds with their oars.”

“But what right had the Russian here?  Why didn’t the Spaniards stop them?  Otter must have brought a good price in those days.”  There was a ring of indignation in his voice, that told his interest had been aroused.

“San Francisco was helpless.  There was not a boat on the bay, except the rude tule canoes of the Indians—­’boats of straw’—­Vancouver called them, and these were no match for the swift darting bidarkas of the Alaskan natives.”

“And Luis Argueello in command!”

“I saw my idol falling, and hastened to assure him that the Comandante had built a boat a short time before, but the result was so disastrous that he never tried it again.  The Presidio was in great need of repair and the government at Mexico had paid no heed to the constant requests for assistance, so Comandante Argueello had determined to take matters into his own hands.  The peninsula was destitute of large timber, but ten miles across the bay were abundant forests, if he could but reach them.  He, therefore, secured the services of an English carpenter to construct a boat, while his men traveled two hundred miles by land, down the peninsula to San Jose, along the contra costa, across the straits of Carquinez and touching at the present location of Petaluma and San Rafael, finally arrived at the spot selected.  In the meantime the soldiers were taught to sail the craft, and the first ferryboat, at length started across the bay.  But a squall was encountered, the land-loving men lost their heads, and it was only through Argueello’s presence of mind that the boat finally reached its destination.  For the return trip, the services of an Indian chief were secured, a native who had been seen so often on the bay in his raft of rushes, that the Spaniards called him ‘El Marino,’ the Sailor, and this name, corrupted into Marin, still clings to the land where he lived.  Many trips were made in this ferry, but the comandante’s subordinates were less successful than he, for one, being swept out to sea, drifted about for a day or two until a more favorable wind and tide brought him back to San Francisco.  The Spaniards called the land where the trees were felled ‘Corte Madera,’ the place of hewn-wood, and a little town on the site still bears the name.”