Pescadero Memories

Story from John Vonderlin

Email John ([email protected])

suffering   and   comfort   his   afflicted   family.;
At   bis   death   they   assumed   guardianship
over   the   widow   and   the   seven   orphaned
children.
During   Bob   Majors’   long   illness   Henry
C.   Cowell   and   his   two   sons,   Ernest   and
Harry,   called   several   times   each   week   to
ask   about   his   welfare.
When   the   funeral   was   over   Harry
Cowell   still   contiuued   his   visits   to   the
widow—and   here   was   the   beginning   of   the
end.
With   his   superior   business   judgment,
being   a   money-making   man   of   the   world,
he   advised   her   as   to   many   things,   sucb   as
the   building   of   fences,   roads   and   bridges,
and   various   ways   of   improving   the   rancho,
thereby   winning   her   confidence   and   friend –
ship,   and,   long   before   she   knew   it,   her
heart’s   affection   as   well.
Then   began   his   love-making   and   prom –
ises   of   marriage;   and   as   ‘he   never   made
any   secret   of   bis   preference   for  her   she
did   not   dream   of   doubting   bis   sincerity.
Together   they   walked   arm   in   arm   along
the   lane   leading   from   the   senior   Cowell’s
home   to   that   owned   by   Mrs,   Majors.
Together   they   drove   into   town   several
times   a   week;   In   fact,   they   were   seen   con –
tinually   in   each   others’   company,   and   the
public   had   grown   so   accustomed   to   seeing
them   thus   that   comments   were   seldom
passed   upon   the   subject.   She   says   he   had
said   to   her   many   times,   “I   love   you   and
will   make   you   my   wife   any   time   that   you
may   name,”   and   she,   happy   and   content
in   her   love   and   confidence   in   him,   waited
from   month   to   month   for   a   more   oppor –
tune   time.   Several   times   he   had   said:
“We   must   be   married   soon,   for   I   cannot
permit   people   to   say   unkind   things   of   the
moiher of   my   child.   l am   pleased   that   a
child   of   mine   should   be   the   first   heir   to   in –
herit   the   Cowell   millions,”   are   words   she
alleges   he   uttered.
He   even   insisted,   so   the   woman   declares,
on   bringing   a   minister   to   the   house   to   per –
form   the   marriage   ceremony.
But   a   young   son   of   Mrs.   Majors   had   been
brought home   a   short   time   before   with   a
badly   crushed   knee.   The   bouse   was   all   con –
fusion   and   disorder,   and   she   proposed   go –
ing   to   town   to   be   married.
Then   a   happy   thought   occurred   to   him.
He   had   received   a   letter   from   his   mother
and   sisters,   wbo   reside   in   an   elegant   home
at   413   Hyde   street,   in   this   city,   inviting
him   to   take   dinner   with   them.
The   fateful   to-morrow   being   Wednes –
day   he   said   he   would   go   to   the   city   and   re –
main   over   Thursday,   aud   on   Friday   morn –
ing’s   early   train   he   would   go   to   San   Jose,
where   she   should   meet   him   in   the   depot.
They   would   then   go   to   a   minister   and   be
married.
From   there   they   would   go   to   Salinas   on
a   wedding   tour,   and   rpturn   to   Santa   Cruz
whenever   it   should   best   suit   them.   This
arrangement   being   perfectly   satisfactory
he   slipped   the   plain   gold   ring   from   her
finger   that   her   dead   husband   had   given
her   for   a   wedding   ring,   saying   he   would
take   it   as   a   measure   for   a   diamond   ring
which   be   would   put   on   her   fiuger   at   San
Jose.
Then   after   repeatedly   cautioning   her
not   to   disappoint   him,   but   to   be   sure   and
meet   him   in   the   station   at   San   Jose   Fri –
day   morning,   he   took   his   departure,   and
from   that   day   to   this   Mary   Antonia   Castro
Majors   has   never   set   eyes   on   Harry   Cowell
or   the   plain   gold   ring.
Thanksgiving   morning   Mrs.   Majors   came
to   town   and   saw   Senator   Burk   and   L.   F.
Smith,   as   well   as   many   other   friends,   and
told   them   she   was   on   her   way   to   San   Jose,
where   she   would   be   married   to   Harry
Cowell   on   the   following   day.   They   all
congratulated   her   upon   her   apparent   good
fortune.
Being   short   of   money   she   went   to   Char –
lie   Clark,   the   jeweler,   and   got   £30,   telling
him   for   what   purpose   she   wanted   the
money.   All   of   these   witnesses   hare   been
subpenaed   to   testify   at   the   trial.
In   San   Jose   she   remained   over   night   at
the   St.   Charles   Hotel.   In   the   morning   she
went   to   the   station,   and   there,   in   the   cold
cheerless   waiting-room,   she   sat   all   day,
eagerly   scanning   the   face   of   each   new –
comer,   searching   in   vain   for   the   bride –
groom   that   never   came.
When   the   last   train   of   cars   in   the   even –
ing   pulled   out   for   Santa   Cruz   she   came
in   me,   cold,   lonely   nnd   deserted,   with
heart   and   brain   filled   with   strange   fore –
bodings   of   evil,   yet   never   for   a   moment
doubting   him.   She   kept   saying   over   and
over   to   herself,   “There   has   been   some   mis –
take,   something   dreadful   has   happened   to
him.”
On   reaching   Santa   Cruz   she   drove   out   to
the   senior   Cowell’s   place,   feeling   sure   that
some   massage   was   awaiting   her   there.
The   house   was   dark   and   the   sleepy   ser –
vants   declared   that   none   of   the   family
was   at   borne   and   that   there   was   no   mes –
saee   for   her.
Then,   for   the   first   time.   It   slowly   dawned
ucon   her   that   she   had   been   duped   and   de –
ceived   and   made   the   shame   and   laughing –
stock   of   the   community   in   which   she
lived,   and   her   fury   had   no   bounds,   and
well   it   was   for   faithless   Harry   Cowell   that
he   was   not   within   reach   of   those   slender
cruel   hands   that   night.
When   sufficiently   recovered   from   the
first   shock   of   mortification   and   disappoint –
ment   Mrs.   Majors   came   to   town   and   by
ber   attorney.   Senator   Bart   Burk,   filed   a
complaint   in   the   Superior   Court   of   the
county   of   Santa   Cruz,   charging   Harry
Cowell   with   breach   of   promise   of   mar –
riaee   and   asking   for   $50,000   damages.
•   After   having   resided   in   the   State   of
Washington   for   two   years   Cowell   returned
to   Santa   Cruz.   The   papers   in   the   case
were   immediately   served   upon   him,   and
lie   by   his   attorney,   £.   S.   Pillsbury,   filed
an   order   transferring   the   cause   from   the
Superior   Court   of   the   county   of   Santa
Cruz   to   the   Circuit   Court   In   this   city,   after
which   be   returned   to   the   State   of   Wash –
ington.
Miss   Cowell,   a   sister   of   the   defendant,
was   seen   at   the   family   residence   at   413
Hyde   street,   yesterday,   but   refused   to   dis.
cuss   the   case.   She   was   the   only   member
of   the   family   at   home   except   her   invalid
mother,   tier   father   and   brother,   she   said,
were   both   out   of   the   city.
“I   know   nothing   of   my   brother’s   affairs,
and   the   case   of   which   you   speak   has   never
been   mentioned   to   me.”   she   said.   “Mv
father   will   probably   return   In   a   few   days.”
When   asked   when   her   brother   would
return.   Miss   Cowell   said:
“I   don’t   know,   but   we   expeot   them   both
very   soon.”
Mr.   Pillsbury,   who   represents   young
Cowell,   Is   also   out   of   town.

——————-

**Please read the sequel below.

Story from John Vonderlin

Email John ([email protected])

Hi June,
While this brings to a close, at least as far as I can find in the old San Francisco newspapers, this sad dispute, there is the untold story of the Cowells’,  Majors’,  Coons’ and   the “love child’s” lives after this time.  I’ll relate some of that in my next posting on this matter. Enjoy. John

MARRIED   TO   A   DRUGGIST
Mrs.   Majors   Abandons   Her   Big
Suit   Against   Harry
CowelL.
The   Groom   Owns   Real   Estate   and
Was   Once   Chief   Clerk   in
the   Postofflce.
A   most   sensational   breach-of-promise
suit,   and   one   that   has   occupied   the   courts
and   the   newspapers   for   the   past   year   and
a   half,   was   brought   to   a   sudden   and   unex –
pected   close   by   the   marriage   of   Mrs.   Rob –
ert   Majors   of   Santa   Cruz,   plaintiff   in   the
$50,000   damage   suit   against   Harry   Cowell,
whose   father,   Henry   Cowell,   is   the   well –
known   San   Francisco   lime   king,   to   George
M.   Coon,   a   prominent   druggist   of   this
City.
The   marriage,   which   will   prove   a   great
surprise   to   the   many   friends   of   both   par –
ties,   took   place   on   the   27th   of   April   last   in
the   city   of   Oakland,   and   was   conducted   in
the   quietest   manner   possible   by   the
groom,   who   is   of   a   modest,   retiring   dispo –
sition   and   feared   the   newspaper   comments
likely   to   follow   the   announcement   of   his
marriage   to   Mrs.   Majors,   whose   big
breach-of-promise   suit   has   gained   for   her
much   unenviable   notoriety—a   fact   due,   no
doubt,   to   both   parties   being   so   well   known
throughout   the   State.
Mrs.   Majors   is   a   granddaughter   of   old
Rafael   Castro,   who   left   thousands   of   cattle
and   rich   Spanish   grants   to   his   descend –
ants.
Mrs.   Majors   was   first   married   to   her
cousin,   Robert   Majors,   who   was   also   a
Castro   and   a   wealthy   land-owner   in   Santa
Cruz.   Some   years   after   their   marriage   he
was   drinking   in   the   saloon   of   Jack   Merrill
in   Santa   Cruz,   when   some   words   passed
between   himself   and   his   friend   “Johnny”
Harris.   “Bob”   Majors   had   no   idea   of
fear   and   was   ever   ready   with   his   gun.
When   the   dispute   was   settled   Harris   had
six   bullet-holes   through   his   heart   and
Majors   had   three   or   four   scattered   about
through   his   body,   from   the   effects   of
which   he   died   one   year   after.
Before   and   after   the   death   of   Majors
young   Cowell   was   a   visitor   to   the   Majors’
home,   their   land   adjoining   that   of   his
father.   These   visits   resulted   in   the   bring –
ing   of   the   $50,000   damage   suit   some   time
after   Majors’   death.   Since   then   Mrs.
Majors   has   been   almost   constantly   before
the   public.   At   one   time   it   was   reported
and   believed   by   many   of   her   friends   that
she   had   been   abducted   or   in   some   manner
made   away   with   by   the   Cowells,   and   the
newspapers   teemed   with   her   portraits   and
startling   theories   of   the   abduction.   Mean –
while   she   was   in   this   city   lying   at   the
point   of   death   from   pneumonia,   and   being
tenderly   nursed   and   looked   after   by   the
gentleman   who   is   now   her   husband.”   Mr.
Coon   was   for   sir   years   chief   mailing   clerk
in   the   San   Francisco   Postoffioe.
He   is   also   a   wealthy   land-owner,   having
much   valuable   property   in   this   City.   He
will   soon   begin   the   building   of   a   splendid
City   home   on   his   property   near   the   new
French   Hospital.   His   wife’s   property   in
Santa   Cruz,   he   says,   will   be   fitted   up   as   a
summer   residence,   where   their   many
friends   will   be   royally   entertained   by   them.
In   regard   to   the   suit   against   Harry
Cowell,   Mr.   Coon   declares   that   the   public
will   hear   no   more   about   it   from   either   him –
self   or   his   wife,   and   that   they   will   do   all
they   can   to   banish   from   their   memory
an   incident   in   life   that   had   brought   only
sorrow   and   mortifying   publicity   to   his
wife.

Story from John Vonderlin

Email John ([email protected])

Hi June,

SAN   MATEO   GOLD.
The   Black   Sand   Said   to   Yield   In   Paylng
Quantities.
That   San   Mateo   County   should   come   for –
ward   at   this   late   day   as   an   exporter   of   gold
is   something   astonishing,   yet   that   is   what
has   now   come   to   pass     Calvin   Sweet   seems
to   be   solving   the   problem   of   how   to   get   a
fortune   out   of   black   sand,   which,   in   this   red –
wood   and   cheese   country,   is   astonishing.
That black sand  should   be   found   here   in   such
quantities   is   somewhat   surprising;   that   a
process   for   its   successful   treatment,   which
his   eluded   the   vigilance   of   the   best   experts
of   the   mining   camps   lor   years,   should   be
inaugurated   among   us   Is   equally   so;   that   a
man   who   has   spent   nearly   the   whole   of   a
long   life   in   the   carpentry   business   should
prove   the   lucky   inventor   of   a   successful
process   is   more   so.   The   black   sand   re –
ferred   to   is   found   at   the   mouth   of   Bean
Hollow,   three   miles   from   the   Swanton
House,   Pescadero,   and   within   a   stone’s
throw   of   the   surf.   Yon   can   dig   it   up   by   the
shovelful.   Not   a   hundred   yards   away   Mr.
Sweet’s   little   girl   was   picking   wild   straw –
berries   from   among   the   daisies   as   the   Times-
Gazette   man   quizzed   the   boys   working   the
machine   and   watched   their   father   retort   a
clean-up   showing   pretty   gold   worth   $18   the
ounce.
A   canvas   hose   from   a   reservoir   of   pure
spring   water   delivers   a   gentle   stream   into   a
trough,   Into   which   the   sand   is   shoveled,   and
which   empties   it   onto   a   series   of   board   sur –
faces,   one   foot   by   two,   set   out   from   a   center
post   as   the   threads   of   a   screw,   aud   inclined
inwardly   a   very   little.   Below   them   is   a
round   table   constructed   about   the   central
post,   six   feet   in   diameter   and   beveled   a   little
outwardly.   These   surfaces   are   covered   with
Brussels   carpet.   The   post   is   four   feet   high,
six   inches   square,   and   is   mounted   on   two
metal   wheels   free   to   move,   as   the   casters
of   a   bedpost.   A   pin   in   the   center   of
the   post   is   inserted   in   the   middle   of   a   steel
plate,   whose   surface   is   corrugated.   On   this
surface   the   wheels   travel   and   the   corruga –
tions   give   a   gentle   vertical   oscillation   to   the
post   and   its   attached   platforms   wben   in
motion.   Motion   is   by   hand-power   and   av –
erages   thirty   revolutions   per   minute,   the
boy   who   runs   it   being   six   feet   away.   The
centrifugal   force   of   the   revolving   post
throws   most   of   the   black   sand   off   the   edge
of   tbe   circular   platform.   What   remains
caught   in   the   carpet   surface   is   washed   out
The   gold   is   then   separated   in   the   usual   min –
ing   method   oy   means   of   a   miner’s   horn,
it   is   then   amalgamated,   retorted   aud   cleanedolO
with   acetic   acid.—Times-Gazette.

Story by June Morrall

Email June ([email protected])

Gold is the seductress that weaves a spell over those who become obsessed with finding her.

Pulses raced when the official 1888 “Report of the State Mineralogist” listed the discovery of a ledge of quartz, said to contain silver and gold on Ote Durham’s Tunitas Creek ranch.

Speculators were also panning for gold on the glittering black sands of the Denniston Ranch, located about one mile north of Amesport Landing in Miramar. Prospector interest in this beach was maintained for two years when W.R. Welch announced his plans to use a new invention that tested the gold richness of sand. Evidently the gold detector was  worth the investment: Welch supposedly found enough of the precioius metal “to yield a good margin of profit.”

A later edition of the “State Mineralogist” tells us that the source of “the fine gold that trickled down Denniston Creek could probably be traced to the quart veins found in “Montara granite rock.”

In the early 1950s three ounces of gold, one ounce of silver and a small quanity of platinum were said “to have been produced fro placers in the vicinity of Pescadero Beach by small-scale methods.”

In 1913, inquiries swamped the San Mateo County Clerk’s office regarding an alleged cache of gold, said to be worth $300,000, that had been buried somewhere on the old Herling ranch in Half Moon Bay. The Herlings were described as a wealthy, distinguished family from Austria who left their country “under mysterious circumstances.”

The Herlings gold (if it ever actually existed) was never found.

These images are from the South Coast, Franklin Point

To enjoy Joel Bratman’s photos, please click here

or check out these links

Folks,

I’ve made a few updates to my PBase photo gallery.

Graffiti of Point Bonita
http://www.pbase.com/trut_maluglist/graffiti_of_point_bonita

Franklin Point
http://www.pbase.com/trut_maluglist/fp

Montreal
http://www.pbase.com/trut_maluglist/montreal

San Felipe, Mexico
http://www.pbase.com/trut_maluglist/san_felipe

San Jose Giants vs. Rancho Cucamonga Quakes
http://www.pbase.com/trut_maluglist/sjgiantsrcquakes

To see a list of all galleries:
http://www.pbase.com/trut_maluglist/root&view=tree

– Joel

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Joel Bratman
PO Box 7171
San Jose, CA  95150
408-242-4055
[email protected]
http://www.pbase.com/trut_maluglist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fatty Arbuckle’s Nephew Gains a Lap on the Old San Jose Velodrome and the Los Angeles Six

By Erich von Neff

Vince Gatto Slammed up against the Goodyear Tire sign stapled to the fencing encircling the track. Part of the sign peeled off. Vince’s back wheel rose momentarily from the track, and he was still pedaling. The cardboard sign became enmeshed between his chain and front sprocket, and Vince was flailing the pedals, shredding up the sign. He hung there for a split second, then he began tumbling down the banking. The sign was still caught in his chainwheel, and I heard the sign tearing as he came down. All this seemed to take place in slow motion, but really it took one or two seconds at most.

Fortunately by now the field was heading toward the opposite banking and the relief riders were safely strung out away from the spill. Even before Vince hit the bottom warm up of the track his trainers were rushing toward the banking. They pulled him out of the way of the oncoming field, because at full jam the field could swing around the 10 lap to the mile Velodrome in 10 seconds.

Harry Guidi looked at me. He didn’t say anything. But I knew Vince was finished not only for the race, but for a hell of a long while. I sat there with Harry’s army blanket draped over my shoulders. I had my racing tights and jersey on, but my partner, former six day biker, Oscar Juner, had gotten the flu, so there I was watching the race.

I heard an ambulance siren in the distance. Suddenly Harry grabbed the blanket off me. In the infield I could see Gus Gatto’s trainers refitting my Durkopp track bike with a pair of Vince’s extra track wheels, which he had mounted with Continental Holzbahn tyres. Harry gave me a push and I started down the grandstands towards my bike which was now upright and waiting on the warm up side of the track. Gus’s trainers looked and talked like trigger men in “The Godfather.” They were both about 5’9” and barrel chested with matty hair protruding over, around the neck of their sweat-stained T-shirts. As soon as I reached my machine they lifted me onto it like a rag doll. Then they pulled off my jersey and put on one of Vince’s jerseys. It was blue and said “U.S.I.” — which stood for “Unione Sportiva Italiana.” Then they pushed me into the fray. At the same time they shouted, “Kid, you gotta help Gussie out.”

I started climbing up the outer lip of the track to the top of the 55’ banking. As I said I had been given an extra pair of Vince’s track wheels. Vince always filled his tires with helium. They were “bombed to 140-150 psi and sometimes when they overheated during a race, they would burst like a cannon. Filling your tires like that is called dynamiting them. And as I rode up to the top of the banking I had the feeling I was riding something strangely alive and highly dangerous. And that’s how they made me feel. I swung past the torn Goodyear Tire sign and was looking over my shoulder for the oncoming field. Jim Arbuckle, Fatty Arbuckle’s nephew, was leading the field; we used to rib him about his uncle and he was sensitive about Fatty Arbuckle’s affair with Virginia Rapp.

I saw Gus neatly tucked in the middle of the pack. Now a board track constructed in the old six day style has a tendency to give and sway slightly. As the pack approached I could feel a rippled through the boards preceding the pack, and it was exciting to my muscles and at the same time frightening. I spotted where Gus was in the pack and dove down the banking to intercept him. Jim Arbuckle shot by followed by the Lauracella brothers, and the field, then finally my partner Gus. He grabbed me by my jamming tool tucked in my racing tights (basically a rolled piece of cloth your partner can grab hold of), and shouted, “Set me up for the next sprint.” I felt like I was being pushed by an express train when he shoved me into the field.

******

This was a team race with twelve two-man teams. In a team race one man rides the field, the other rides relief, circling slowly above the relief line halfway up the track. Riding slowly on a 55’ banking can be a bit of an art and damn hairy. Classically the teams exchange each time the field rider intercepts the relief rider. This may be occurring every 20 seconds* on a 10 lap to the mile track, and with 12 teams, 24 men exchanging, you’d better be a damn good bike handler. Especially in those days when foul rules were almost non-existent.

There was plenty of elbowing and cutting in and out. But in spite of this there were very few spills, for, by tacit agreement, riders often helped each other out to prevent the field from spilling. In a way Vince had been lucky. At least the whole damn field hadn’t run over him. He had been the unfortunate victim of crowding. When occasionally the field and relief riders bunch together on the banking crowding the highest man on the banking into the railing, simply because there is no more room. Usually you can see this coming or lean down on the next man. But sometimes it’s unavoidable.

******

The race became a blur of flashing cranks, sparks when pedals collided, jerseys darting in and out, oaths shouted when exchanges were missed, accompanied by the background cheers of the crowd and the bell whenever there was a sprint. It was a pleasure to set Gus up for the springs. (He was the sprinter and I was the jammer.) He could come through any sort of pocket and could nip the field on the line. My friend Henry McWhirter who’d raced against Major Taylor, the black World spring champion (1899), told me that Gus raced like Major Taylor did. And I know that was a hell of a compliment coming from Henry, as he had beaten World Champion Frank L. Kramer in his prime at the Sacramento Velodrome, but was always left in the dust by the “Black Whirlwind.”

So far the field was on even laps. But I could tell Jim Arbuckle wanted to go for a lap on the field. I tried to stick to Jim’s wheel like glue, but it was like trying to stay behind a motorcycle. Finally Arbuckle’s partner, von Angel, the Marine, shot around Gus just after the spring. Gus and the field started trailing behind. I tore down the banking and Gus gave me a hell of a hand sling and I tucked onto Arbuckle’s wheel just as he and von Angel had made their exchange. We were clear of the field. Jim was going so fast I could not even trade pace with him. But he didn’t seem to give a damn. He thundered around the track. After eight laps of blistering pace, with exchanges, we gained three-quarters of a lap. Gus and I were ahead on points so I thought we had the race in the bag.

I could hear the crowd roar. The announcer kept calling out the prize money being collected from the crowd for the first team to gain a lap. It was now up to $200, and as I heard the bell for the spring I thought: Just 10 more minutes and our win will be history.

Suddenly I heard what sounded like one of the 105 Howitzers I had fired in the Marines. Then my front wheel collapsed. Disintegrated is more like it. Vince not only bombed his tyres, he used 28 hole rims instead of 36, and they were laced tight. The spokes sounded like a harp as they spun through the air. Before I could regain my senses Gus’s goons had a new wheel on my machine, and had me mounted on the bike and strapped in. I looked up to see Jim Arbuckle sprint into the back of the pack, he had gained his lap. Gus’s handlers shoved me just ahead of the oncoming field and shouted their chorus, “Come on, kid, you gotta help Gussie out.” But I’d had it. It was all I could do to stay with the field the rest of the race.

The gun went off and Arbuckle and von Angel were circling the track waving to the cheering crowd. They’d deserved their win. I couldn’t complain. We’d taken second place, and won good money in the sprints. I looked up at Arbuckle, smiling. He’d gotten back at us for the ribbing we’d given him about his uncle, Fatty Arbuckle.
*Because the relief rider is also circling slowly on the track. But he cannot ride too slowly on the 55 degree banking, otherwise he will fall.

Author Erich Von Neff is a San Francisco Longshoreman.

———————————-

Hi June,
I just finished the cycling web page I mentioned earlier.  It took place near San Gregorio in 1964 and there are photos of Erich and Steve Lubin.  It’s at: http://www.velovecchio.com/sangregtt/sgtt.html
Best wishes, Don Martinich

From John Vonderlin
Email John ([email protected])

Harry F. Terrill and Captain Theo C. Dodge, the two Bay City wheelmen who started last Tuesday for a wheeling trip along the coast, have met with seveal setbacks, according to a letter the writer received from Terrill yesterday. He says:
We had a fine ride until we struck the Alpine road, when my sprocket broke. Dodge pushed me from there clear into Pescadero, and just as we reached here we had a collision and wrecked my wheel and also did some damage to Theo’s. Will wait here–Pescadero–for two days to get some parts from the City, but as Pescadero has four pretty girls to one homely fellow–and as Theo and I are both handsome fellows–well, you can guess the rest. We met Will Searles, an old-time Bay City, who works in the Bank of Califonria, about ten miles from here fishing in the Pescadero Creek. Regards to all the boys.