By this time, the wind was blowing with actual fierceness, and the waves swept clear over our heads every second. There can be little doubt that we would all have found an eternal _nest_ among the slimy _harbor_-weed, with only the monsters of the _shallow_ to drop a (crocodile) tear upon our “moist, uncomfortable bodies,” but for certain timely “succor” that appeared on the scene at this critical juncture. The said “succor” comprised two skillful oarsmen, who owned the boat, and, having seen that we managed it poorly, and fearing the loss of their property, had put out to our assistance some minutes prior to the startling accident—arriving just in time to save their boat (and us) from an aqueous tomb. They hauled us and the lost oar aboard their own boat, like so many packages of damaged goods, (_flotsam_ Blackstone would have styled us,) took the other boat in tow, and started for shore,—giving us a good round cursing for our awkwardness in so nearly sacrificing their property. I never told Foard of this adventure till about two months had elapsed, and it had got a little “old.” Then, having first exacted a promise from him that he would not scold me for what I was about to tell him, frankly confessed the whole affair, bringing out all the little extenuating points, such as, “The morning was _so_ fine,” “The harbor was _so_ smooth,” “We thought that three of us could surely manage one boat.” “We had partaken of fluid refreshments,” “We hadn’t seen each other for several days, and felt so jolly glad,” _et cetera_. He did not break his promise: but—— “Smith,” said he, “if I had not promised not to scold you, I would give you the (blank)est blackguarding any man ever got in San Francisco! To think that, in the very face of the good, healthy advice I gave you, you should have the unparalleled audacity to—Well, never mind: I promised not to scold: but if you ever do such a thing again—I wonder what time it is? I feel dry.” _I_ didn’t, the day I pitched out of the boat. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE DOCTOR. DEAR reader, before bidding adieu to San Francisco, let your one-legged friend introduce you to a noble citizen of that cosmopolitan city, whom, for the sake of a name, shall be styled Dr. Charles Rowell of Kearny street. Let us call this chapter an imaginary sketch of what might be, what has been, and what will be. Let us suppose your friend John Smith on a crutch to be only mortal: let us suppose him, after all, an ordinary object for— “The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” as well as subject to— “The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks  That flesh is heir to:”