"Lord, no! Rebuilding was a habit with us early San Franciscans. We didn't begin to feel sorry for a man 'til he'd lost everything he owned three times. The Jenny Lind Theatre went down six times and the seventh building was sold for the City Hall. It stood right there"--he pointed to the handsome new Hall of Justice--"until it went up in the last fire." "You are sure it wasn't the earthquake that finished it?" inquired the skeptic. "Certainly not," I flared. "The Relief Committee met there that morning to lay their plans while the fires were raging south of Market Street." He acknowledged defeat by changing the subject. "Was the old Spanish Custom House here?" he asked, pointing to the western side of the diagram. "Yes," assented the miner, and he traced an oblong on the northern end, "and just behind it, on Washington Street, was Sam Brannan's house. He was the Mormon leader, you know, and brought a shipload of his followers to establish a settlement in forty-six. He published our first newspaper, the 'California Star,' in his house." "Was it where that little green Chinese building with the bracketed columns and turned-up eaves is?" I interposed. "The telephone exchange, you mean? Exact spot. They used to ring a hand bell in the Plaza on Sunday mornings to call the Mormons to hear Brannan preach in the Casa Grande." "Richardson's house!" My companion sent me an appreciative glance. "Sure, but that was before most of 'em, including Sam, went back on their faith. Next to the Custom House on the south," he continued, "was the Public Institute. It wasn't much to look at--just pine boards--but it was considerable useful. They held the Public School there and had preaching on Sundays 'til the teacher, the preacher and all the audience went off to the mines. They tried the Hounds there, too." "The Hounds?" my friend looked dazed. "Yes, the Sidney Coves that lived in Sidneyville, along there on Kearny near Pacific." Light had failed to dawn. "Here on the corner of Kearny," continued the Forty-niner, "was an old adobe building with a red-tiled roof and a veranda around it." "The City Hotel!" I exclaimed delightedly. "How did you know?" He eyed me curiously. "My grandfather was a near-forty-niner," I reminded him. "Oh yes. Too bad! Too bad!" he added sympathetically. "It was the house and store of a fellow named Leidesdorff," he continued, "who did a lot of trading with the Yankee skippers in Mexican days, and it was turned into a hotel in the gold rush. It was always the swell place for blowouts. They had a big banquet and ball there for Governor Stockton, I'm told, after the procession and speeches in the Plaza, and another the next year for Governor Kearny; the first Relief Committee met here, called by Brannan, Howard and Vallejo, to send rescuers to the Sierras for the survivors of the Donner Party. There wasn't much of any importance in the way of gathering that didn't happen there."