“On the harbor,” I replied.
“Don’t do it.”
“Why?”
“You are not familiar with our harbor. It is an unsafe one for an inexperienced boatman. Even some of the most skillful lose their lives. It may be calm and smooth as a river one moment; the next, the tide may change, the wind rise against it, and it may become so boisterous, all at once, that you might imagine it was ready to boil over. Don’t venture out in a small boat. We have a list of drownings to record every week, and should be most unhappy to place your name in our next week’s list. Don’t go!”
“I won’t,” I replied, fully impressed with the dangers of the harbor.
I meant it.
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.