Our faithful porter, John
Williams, whose name is worthy of mention in these pages, as I stepped
from the Pullman car, said, "Good-bye, Colonel!" He always addressed
me as "Colonel." The porters on all the western roads and on the
Mexican railways are polite and obliging, and a word of commendation
must be said for them as a class.
The Rev. Dr. James W. Ashton, of Olean, N.Y., my fellow-traveller, and
I were soon in the ferry house. We ascended a wide staircase and then
found ourselves in a large waiting room, through whose windows I
looked out on the Bay of San Francisco for the first time. Off in the
distance, in the morning light, I could catch a glimpse of the Golden
City of the West. Near by was a departing ferryboat bound for San
Francisco. Just then a young man, evidently a stranger, accompanied by
a young woman, apparently a bride, accosted me and asked the question,
"Sir, do you think we can get on from up here?" Looking at the
bay-steamer fast receding, I assured him, somewhat pensively, that I
thought we could. In a few moments another steamer appeared in view
and speedily entered the dock.
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