The voyage down the coast was made safely. Darrell had managed to keep away from his fellow-travelers, to think of home unmolested.
It was a bright morning of January, 1872, when he stood far forward, watching the course of the steamer Orizaba, as she made her way around Point Loma, then between Ballast Point and the sandy peninsula, and passing by La Playa, came in sight of San Diego city.
“Here we are,” said John Gasbang; “how do you like the looks of our little city, Mr. Darrell?”
“Very well; it is larger than I supposed, and the site of it seems very pleasant.”
“Pleasant! I should say it was. A perfect slope, sir, as gentle and regular as if made to order. The best drained city in the world, sir, when we put in sewers. Too poor for that, yet, sir, but we are coming to it, sir, growing, growing, sir.”
“When we get the railroad,” added Mathews, with a mouth full of tobacco, spitting profusely on the deck.
“Exactly, and we'll soon have that. Our news from Washington is very encouraging. Tom Scott will visit us this summer,” Gasbang said.
“I like a town with plenty of trees,” said Darrell, with his gaze fixed on the approaching panorama, thinking that his wife would be pleased with the place, she being so fond of trees. “I had no idea you had so many trees about you. Many are small, yet, but all seem healthy.”
“And health-giving trees, they are, too. Most of them are eucalyptus and pepper trees, the healthiest in the world. You never hear of any malarial fevers in San Diego, sir, never. Our perfect climate, the fine sloping ground of our town site, our eucalyptus trees, sea breezes and mountain air, make San Diego a most healthy little city,” said Gasbang.
“That is an excellent recommendation, as life is not worth having without health,” Darrell observed.