“It’s a curious coincidence,” I ventured, “that the Hong Kong Bank now occupies the lower floor.  What a freak of the winds it was that swept the big fire around that and the Montgomery block, and left them both for posterity!”

“Your fire seemed to have had a special veneration for historic structures,” the Easterner commented.  “It respected the Mission in like manner.”

“Yes, somewhat,” returned the miner, “but it might have had a little more respect and spared the Tehama House and the What Cheer House.  I hated to see them go.”

“And the Niantic Hotel and Fort Gunnybags,” I added.

“Here!  Here!  I rise for a point of information,” cried the alien.  “Did the cheer inebriate and what is the technical difference between gunny-sacks and carpet bags?”

“Oh, that was our Vigilance Headquarters of fifty-six, where we hung Casey and Cora,” elucidated the Forty-niner.

“Help,” gasped the Bostonian, sinking upon the bench.

“Tell him,” I nodded to the miner.

“The Tehama House, on the waterfront at California and Sansome, was the swell hotel for army and navy people and all the Spanish rancheros when they came to town.  You couldn’t keep even your thoughts to yourself in that house, for it had thin board sidings and cloth and paper partitions, but it had lots of style, and Rafael set a great table.  They moved it over to Montgomery and Broadway to make room for the Bank of California, and the fire caught it there.  The What Cheer House,” the old man’s eyes brightened, “was on Sacramento and Leidesdorff, and that’s where we miners went, if we could get in.  Woodward was a queer chap.  Took you in whether you could pay or not.  But it was only a man’s hotel.  There wasn’t a woman allowed about the place.  He had the only library in town and everybody was welcome to use it.  I’ve often seen Mark Twain and Bret Harte reading at the table.”

“And the sacks?” queried the Bostonian.

But the old man had leaned back on the bench and his eyes wandered over the green grass and trees of the square.  “It’s much prettier than it used to be,” he admitted, “but nothing happens here now.  The Chinese children fly kites and the unemployed loaf on the benches and the grass, and I’m one of them.  I wish you could have seen it in the early days.”  His eyes kindled with excitement.  “It was only a barren hillside, but there was always something doing then.  All the town meetings were held here in the open air and all the parades ended here for the speeches.  The biggest celebration was in 1850, when the October steamer, flying all her flags, brought the news that California was admitted to the Union.  We went wild, for we had waited for that word for more than a year.  Every ship in the harbor displayed all her bunting and at night every house was as brilliant as candles and coal oil could make it.  Bonfires blazed on all the hills and the islands and we had music and dancing all over the town ’til morning.”