We instinctively looked across at the square, three-story, pressed-brick home of the Chinese Consulate and bank. "Every big fire took at least one side of the Plaza, and the sixth, in June of fifty-one, wiped out the whole square. That adobe was the last link between the Spanish village of Yerba Buena and its American successor, San Francisco," he regretted, "but it was a good thing for the city, for they began to build with stone and brick after that. Did you see the Parrott Building, as you came along, on California and Montgomery?" he asked. The Easterner turned to me. "You didn't show me that," he said, reprovingly. "No, why should I? It wasn't built until fifty-two." He ignored my insinuation and turned back 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.