"Central Wharf!" The name had caught his interest.
"Yes, it was called that from the one you have in Bost."
"Bost?" he repeated, mystified. "Bost?"
"Yes, Bost!" I answered. "You called our, city 'Frisco, not five minutes ago, so why shouldn't I—"
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I will never offend in that way again."
"But the building of the wharves and the filling in of the waterfront belong to a later time and we are back in Spanish days. When Vancouver landed he tells us that he cast anchor within a small inlet surrounded by green hills, on which herds and cattle were grazing. Historians say that his ship lay about where the Ferry Building now stands and that the crew put off for the shore in small boats. This place was a waste of sand-dunes and chaparral but the Englishmen were refreshed by the cool waters of the arroyo and spent a pleasant morning shooting quail and grouse."
"Quail, grouse and chaparral," he repeated, as his eyes traveled up and down the solidly built blocks and rested on the pedestrians hurrying in and out of the buildings. "Let's take a look at the bed of the arroyo."
We paused at the corner and for a moment watched the car laboriously climb the Sacramento Street hill and disappear over the crest; then we turned for another look at the mass of buildings now resting on the solid ground which had taken the place of the shining waters of Yerba Buena Cove.
"It was about here," I announced, "that the arroyo opened out into the Laguna Dulce, a little fresh water pool where Richardson's Indians delighted to take a cold plunge on leaving their steaming temescal."
"Richardson? Hardly a Spanish name!"