to his informer. "What about
the Parrott Building? It sounds like an aviary."

"Not exactly," he smiled. "It was made of granite blocks, cut and
dressed and marked in China and then shipped over and set up by the
'China Boys,' as the Orientals here called themselves."

"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