The time passed pleasantly enough; all were disposed to be cheerful, and amongst so many men there are always some who afford amusement for the rest. Many found constant occupation in trading off their coats, hats, boots, trunks, or anything they possessed. I think scarcely any one went ashore in San Francisco with a single article of clothing which he possessed in Panama; and there was hardly an article of any man’s wardrobe, which, by the time our voyage was over, had not at one time been the property of every other man on board the ship. We had one cantankerous old Englishman on board, who used to roll out, most volubly, good round English oaths, greatly to the amusement of some of the American passengers, for the English style of cursing and swearing is very different from that which prevails in the States. This old fellow was made a butt for all manner of practical jokes. He had a way of going to sleep during the day in all sorts of places; and when the dinner-bell rang, he would find himself tied hand and foot. They sewed up the sleeves of his coat, and then bet him long odds he could not put it on, and take it off again, within a minute. They made up cigars for him with some powder in the inside; and in fact the jokes played off upon him were endless, the great fun being, apparently, to hear him swear, which he did most heartily. He always fancied himself ill, and said that quinine was the only thing that would save him; but the quinine, like everything else on board, was all used up. However, one man put up some papers of flour and salt, and gave them to him as quinine, saying he had just found them in looking over his trunk. Constant inquiries were then made after the old man’s health, when he declared the quinine was doing him a world of good, and that his appetite was much improved. He was so much teased at last that he used to go about with a naked bowie-knife in his hand, with which he threatened to do awful things to whoever interfered with him. But even this did not secure him much peace, and he was such a dreadfully crabbed old rascal that I thought the stirring-up he got was quite necessary to keep him sweet. After a wretchedly long passage, during which we experienced nothing but calms, light winds, and heavy contrary gales, we entered the Golden Gate of San Francisco harbor with the first and only fair wind we were favored with, and came to anchor before the city about eight o’clock in the evening. CHAPTER III A CITY IN THE MAKING The entrance to San Francisco harbor is between precipitous rocky headlands about a mile apart, which have received the name of the Golden Gate. The harbor itself is a large sheet of water, twelve miles across at its widest point, and in length forty or fifty miles, getting gradually narrower till at last it becomes a mere creek.