"Great heavens!" he cried, "what a city!"
We passed through the shopping district and lingered for a moment at the edge of Portsmouth Square. My eyes rested affectionately on the clean-cut lawns and blossoming shrubs. Then I turned to the skeptic, but before I could speak, he had dismissed it with a nod.
"Too modern," he commented. "Looks as if it had been planted yesterday.
Now the Boston Common—"
A rasping discordant sound burst from a near-by store and the Easterner sent me a questioning glance.
"A Chinese orchestra," I replied. "We are in Oriental San Francisco."
"That park was doubtless made as a breathing place for this congested Chinese quarter," he glanced back at the green square. "A good civic improvement."
"That park is a relic of old Spanish days and one of the most historic spots in San Francisco," I said severely.
He stopped short. "You don't mean—I didn't suppose there was anything old in commercial San Francisco."
"Portsmouth Square was once the Plaza of the little Spanish town of Yerba Buena, and the public meeting place of the community when there were not half a dozen houses in San Francisco."
"Let's go back." He wheeled about abruptly and started in the direction of the square, but I protested.