202 MULE-HUNTING EXPEDITION. 
Under the shadow of these hills we are puffing 
towards an opening, as if cut purposely through 
a solid wall of rock. On the right stands an 
immense fortress, built of red brick. Alcatraz 
Island, right ahead, is dimly visible, like a grey 
spot in the line of water. The ripple, touched 
by the sunbeams that are slanting into the bay, 
seems converted into revolving cylinders of bril- 
liants. As we steam through this magnificent 
portal, the finest harbour in the world opens 
out to the southward and westward. On the 
curving shore of the bay, I can see the city of 
San Francisco, built on the slopes of three hills; 
to the left the island of Yerba Buena; farther to 
the right a forest of masts, from which flags 
representing every nation flutter in the breeze; 
ahead a long stretch of water, as far as eye could 
follow it—the continuation of the harbour. 
We ran alongside an immense pier at 6 a.m. 
I am mobbed by touters from every hotel in 
San Francisco, and have hard work to keep my 
luggage from being equally divided amongst 
them. Passengers appear, for the first time since 
leaving Vancouver Island, blanched like celery 
or seakale. By dint of strong arms and stronger 
language, I get my luggage fastened to a grating 
that lets down by machinery, at the end of an 
