found a waterman lately from London, who got a four-oared wherry and a couple of men, and with myself at the stroke oar, and my friend steering, and a Roman Catholic priest in the stern sheets, who had been weather-bound, we made a start. The river was in strong flood, but the first mile of our course was easy going, as we had the advantage of the stream of a tributary which flows into the Hokitika. Then came the tussle, half-a-mile of the river to be tackled; sheltering from the full force of it under the southern bank, we got up a long way before attempting to cross, for there was no small risk of being swept out to sea. On the further side the wharves were crowded with shipping, numbers of men watching our progress. Presently we made across, and had to put our backs into it with a will; shot past the vessels, just made the landing steps, and were hauled in safely by men waiting for us with boat hooks. "That was a tough job," said the Thames man, who was rowing just behind me; "Why, Master, you ain't sweatin' as much as I am." "It's the beer coming out in you," I said; "I expect you've done little but drink this last two days, and besides, I've just come off a long tramp." We went up the steps amongst a crowd of boatmen, and my man took me aside; "There's goin' to be a Regatta, New Year's day, and good money for a pair-oared race; suppose you and I enter for it, and keep it dark?" "No," I said, "it wouldn't do; get someone else, and I'll come and see you win." He did so, and won. Poor fellow, in a few months, at Greymouth, the river in flood, he fell off the wharf on a dark night, and was washed out to sea.
I have kept this for some time, thinking to add to it, as I have much to tell you.
