But—perfidious as it was—I afterward basely disregarded the advice of my excellent friend Foard, and justly came to grief. Five minutes after leaving the office of the “Golden City,” I met two fellow-passengers, named Gilmore and Brooker—both good fellows, and fond of fun—the latter a nephew of a celebrated “ornament of the stage,” then “drawing houses” in San Francisco. “Smith,” said Gilmore, “suppose we take a ride somewhere?” “Where?” I asked. “Any where,” said he. “Let us take a boat-ride,” suggested Brooker. “The very thing!” said Gilmore. “I have been told,” I interposed, “that the harbor here is rather dangerous, and——” “O, never mind! We can manage a boat in any harbor. I am some oarsman, myself.” “There can’t be much danger with three of us to run the craft,” remarked Brooker. “Let us go!” We went. The face of the harbor was as smooth and gentle as that of a “sleeping beauty,” and the three of us glided gracefully out from one of the piers—a pair of oars, in my skillful (?) hands, gently dipping into the unruffled waters at irregular intervals. The friendly warning of Foard was entirely forgotten. O, Foard! Thou best of friends! Though John Smith may be wandering thousands of miles from the happy spot where thy kind face first smiled a welcome to him in a strange land, yet fresh in his memory is that noble and pleasing face, as on the day thy warning voice said: “Don’t go out on the harbor, Smith!” The air is usually quiet in the morning, at San Francisco, but as the day advances, a stiff breeze springs up, and, on meeting the ebbing tide, stirs up the waters of the harbor, as though a young son of Neptune were just beneath the surface, lashing them with his toy-whip: the waterman must then exercise his utmost strength and skill to navigate with safety. We had not proceeded more than a mile, when the tide commenced to run out, the wind came sweeping in through the “Golden Gate,” and the waters began to evince their illest humor. The first trifling mishap that befel us was that a rough, ill-natured, foam-crested wave came slashing along, wrested an oar from my hand, and left it floating on the “briny deep.” The boat became unmanageable, turned with her side to the waves, and lay in a trough of the—harbor. In endeavoring to recover the truant oar, Gilmore pitched out into the “yeast of waves;” and, in endeavoring to recover _him_, by means of his coat-tail, _I_ pitched out; and, in endeavoring to save himself from the same fate, Brooker pitched out; and there, with “Nothing save the waves and”—us, and the boat, (half-full of water,) we commenced a manly and awkward struggle for existence. With this boon in view, Gilmore clung to the oar, and Brooker and I to the boat.