After a few days’ repose at the Soldier’s House, as the post at the Dalles is called, the three friends, who had again joined company, boated down the Columbia. This was a rather amusing part of their expedition. The boat was manned by a Maltese sailor and a man who had been a soldier in the American army. The only passenger besides themselves was a big officer of the Yankee Mounted Rifles, a regular “heavy,” and awful braggadocio, who boasted continually of himself, his corps, his army and its campaigns. What were the Peninsular campaigns to the Mexican war? Talk of Waterloo! Look at Chepultapec. Wellington could not shine in the same crowd with General Scott. All this vastly amused the Englishmen. What was less amusing was the utter ignorance of seamanship displayed by the soldier-skipper, who, as part owner of the boat, assumed the command. They were nearly swamped by his clumsiness, and Mr. Coke, who has served in the navy, was obliged to take the rudder. The rudder broke, the wind freshened, the river was rough, the boat drifted into the surf and narrowly escaped being dashed to splinters on the rocks. They drew her up high and dry on the beach, lit a fire and waited for the storm to blow over. Wrangling ensued. The Yankee, who had got drunk upon his passengers’ whisky, swore that, soldier though he was, he knew as much about boat-sailing as any midshipman or post-captain in the British navy. The “heavy” backed him, and the military skipper swore he would be taught by none, and wound up with the stereotyped Yankee brag, that “his nation could whip all creation.” “We had been laughing so much at his boasting that he doubtless thought himself safe in accompanying the remark with an insolent look of defiance. But what was his surprise when the parson, usually a most pacific giant, suggested that if Fred would take the Maltese, I the amphibious captain, he himself would with great pleasure thrash the mounted rifle, and so teach the trio to be more civil and submissive for the future. Whatever the other two might have thought, the ‘heavy’ was by no means inclined to make a target of his fat ribs for the sledge-hammer blows of Julius’s brawny arms; and with a few remarks upon the folly of quarreling in general, and of fighting on the present occasion in particular, not forgetting to remind us of ‘one original stock,’ ‘Saxon race,’ etc., the good-natured ‘plunger’ effected an armistice, which was sealed and ratified with the remains of the whisky-bottle.”