been particularly struck by the
bold, rocky hill that shut off the view toward the north. Atop this hill
had been rigged a two-armed semaphore, which, one of the clerks told me,
was used to signal the sight of ships coming in the Golden Gate. The
arms were variously arranged according to the rig or kind of vessel.
Every man, every urchin, every Chinaman, even, knew the meaning of these
various signals. A year later, I was attending a theatrical performance
in the Jenny Lind Theatre on the Plaza. In the course of the play an
actor rushed on frantically holding his arms outstretched in a
particularly wooden fashion, and uttering the lines, "What means this,
my lord!"

"A side-wheel steamer!" piped up a boy's voice from the gallery.

Well, about three o'clock of this afternoon, as I was about delivering
my fifth load of goods, I happened to look up just as the semaphore arms
hovered on the rise. It seemed that every man on the street must have
been looking in the same direction, for instantly a great shout went up.

"A side-wheel steamer! The _Oregon_!"

At once the streets were alive with men hurrying from all directions
toward the black rocks at the foot of Telegraph Hill, where, it seems,
the steamer's boats were expected to land. Flags were run up on all
sides, firearms were let off, a warship in the harbour broke out her
bunting and fired a salute. The decks of the steamer, as she swept into
view, were black with men; her yards were gay with colour. Uptown some
devoted soul was ringing a bell; and turning it away over and over, to
judge by the sounds. I pulled up my mules and watched the vessel swing
down through the ranks of the shipping and come to anchor. We had beaten
out our comrades by a day!

At five o'clock a small boy boarded me.

"You're to drive the mules up to McGlynn's and unhitch them and leave
them," said he. "I'm to show you the way."

"Where's McGlynn?" I asked.

"He's getting his mail."

We drove to a corral and three well-pitched tents down in the southern
edge of town. Here a sluggish stream lost its way in a swamp of green
hummocky grass. I turned out the mules in the corral and hung up the
harness.

"McGlynn says you're to go to the post-office and he'll pay you there,"
my guide instructed me.

The post-office proved to be a low adobe one-story building, with the
narrow veranda typical of its kind. A line of men extended from its door
and down the street as far as the eye could reac