We ran down Channel at a rattling rate, the wind off shore, the sea smooth, the sun shining brightly. Young Master Richard soon got the name from his messmates of Dicky Plumb—a name which, of course, stuck to him. In spite of his airs of dignity, he soon showed that he was a plucky little fellow; and he was at once for going aloft with the other midshipmen and boys. The first time, he ran up the main rigging pretty smartly, till he got to the futtock-shrouds; go higher he could not, and go through the lubber’s hole he would not. He kept looking up, till at length he determined to go round by the futtock-shrouds into the top. He clambered along; I was aft, cleaning some brass-work, and could not help looking up, and watching him. Round into the top he could not get. More than once I thought he would lose his hold. The captain, who came on deck, thought so too. He made as if he would go aloft himself, when Ned Rawlings caught his eye.

“Go and look after the boy,” he said.

Ned sprang aloft, and in a twinkling had his arms round Dicky’s waist.

“Don’t struggle,” he said, “and I’ll have you down safe.”

In a few seconds, Dicky was all right on the deck. He was not contented, however; aloft he would go again, immediately.

“I will try once more, sir,” he said, turning to the captain—for he had learned to say “sir,” by this time, to everybody—and after three or four attempts—Ned Rawlings taking care to be in the top beforehand—round the shrouds he got, and safe into the top. He was not going to stop there, though; and up the top-mast rigging he went, and down again on the other side.

“If that boy does not break his neck, he will do well in the service,” I heard the captain observe. “The little fellow has got pluck and coolness.”

“They say in the berth, sir, that he is a most impudent little chap,” observed Mr Blunt.

“Very likely,” remarked the captain; “it takes some time to rub that sort of material out of a boy.”

Dicky often came forward to have a talk with me, and though he could be uppish enough with his equals and superiors, he was as kind and gentle to me as any one could be.

“I am very glad I came to sea, Jack,” he observed. “I am learning more about my work every day; and then the weather is so different to what I thought it was at sea. I always fancied we were tumbling and tossing about, except when the ship was in harbour; but here we have been gliding on for the last fortnight with the water as smooth as a mill-pond.”

I, in reply, said I was glad I came; but from what I heard, we must expect ups and downs at sea—sometimes smooth, and sometimes blowing hard.

“It is all the same to me,” I observed. “When I came to sea, I made up my mind to take the rough and the smooth together.”

“Jack, were you ever sea-sick?” asked Dicky.

“Not that I remember. Were you?”

“No; and I don’t intend to be,” he answered, drawing himself up somewhat proudly. “I am not going to be made the sport of my inside.”

“More likely of your messmates,” I answered.

We soon found, however, that this easy sort of life was not going to last for ever. One night we had to tumble out of our hammocks, in the middle watch, pretty fast, at the cry of—“All hands shorten sail!” The men were out of bed in a twinkling. It was wonderful how soon they slipped into their clothes. The sea was roaring, the wind howling and whistling, and the officers shouting—“Clew up! Haul down! Close reef topsails!” and similar cries. I was very glad not to have to go aloft just then, right up into the darkness, amid the slashing of ropes, and the flapping of sails, and the fierce whistling of the blast as it rushed through the rigging. So, I have an idea, was Dicky Plumb, though he had been boasting so boldly the previous afternoon. I remember being ordered aft with other boys, to man the mizen-topsail clew-line, which we did, and pulled, and hauled away, till we were ordered to belay. This is the only piece of service I recollect rendering to my country that night. When the ship was got under snug sail, the crew were piped down; and I, with the watch below, turned in. I was, however, by this time, feeling rather curious. I had hitherto been very well, and remarkably jolly; and was sure I was going to make a first-rate sailor. The ship, however, began to roll, and went on rolling more and more. Not only I, but most of the other boys, and many of the men, too, were looking very queer. I had a friend I have not mentioned before—Tommy Punchon by name—a fine little chap. He had never seen a ship before he came on board the Roarer; but he had read of ships, and foreign lands, and that made him come to sea, he told me. Now he had heard there was such a thing as sea-sickness, but he was not going to knock under to it—not he. I met Tommy coming along the lower deck (I am speaking now of the next morning), looking very green and yellow; indeed, all sorts of colours; perhaps I looked the same, I rather think I did. I asked him how he felt. “Very jolly, eh?”

“Oh, don’t! don’t!” he answered, with the corners of his mouth curling down. “It’s an awful reality; I must confess it.” Just then, I caught sight of Dicky Plumb, who had been sent along the deck on some duty, which he had evidently a difficulty in performing. I doubt if his mother would have owned him, so crest-fallen he looked. I dared not speak to him. He, indeed, cast an imploring look at me, as much as to say, “Don’t!” On he went, trying to reach the midshipmen’s berth, but overcome by his feelings—miserable I know they were, from experience—he stopped, and if Sergeant Turbot had not caught him in his arms, he would have sunk down on the deck. The sergeant, however, helped him along, till he got him stowed safely away in the berth, where there were probably several other young gentlemen in a like prostrate condition. Meantime, I grew worse and worse. Tommy and I were soon joined by other boys—a most miserable crew—and we all together went and stowed ourselves away in the fore part of the ship, thinking that no one would be troubled about such wretched creatures as we were. My grand idea was a hope that some one would come and throw me overboard. We lay thus for some time unnoticed, and began to hope that we should not be discovered. Still, I must say, I did not care what happened to us. I asked Tommy how he felt.

“Oh, Jack! Jack?” he groaned out, “Do take me by the head and heels, and heave me overboard, there’s a good fellow!”

“That’s just what I was going to ask you to do for me,” I answered, in the same dolorous tone, though I have an idea, that if any one had actually taken us at our word, the cold water would soon have restored us to health, and we should have wished ourselves on board again. Suddenly, we were all aroused by a gruff voice sounding in our ears, and, looking up, who should we see, but that hard-hearted individual, Bryan Knowles, the ship’s corporal, standing over us, cane in hand.

“What are all you boys idling here for?” he growled out. “Rouse up, every one of you; rouse up, you young villains, and go to your duty?”

Poor little wretches that we were; as if we could possibly do anything but just crawl from one place to another, and lie down, wishing to die. But it was not only the boys who were ill, but great hulking fellows, some seamen, but mostly marines; fully fifty of them, lying and rolling about the decks like logs of wood. I need not further describe the scene, or enter into too minute particulars.

At length, old Futtock, the boatswain—a friend of Sergeant Turbot’s—gave me leave to go and lie down in his cabin till I should get better. The very feeling that I had some one to care for me did me good.

In most ships there is a dirty Jem; we had one, a miserable fellow, with a skin which no amount of washing could cleanse. Now it happened that a party of tall marines had stolen down the fore cock-pit, and having found their way into the cable tier, had snugly stowed themselves on some spare sails and hawsers. There they lay, groaning and moaning, and making other noises significant of what was going on, when Mr Maconochie, a big, burly Scotchman, mate of the orlop deck, coming forward, heard them, and very soon began to peer about with his large goggle eyes into the recesses of the tier. I dreaded the consequences, as, slipping out of the cabin where I had been, I looked out to see what he was about.

“What are you sodgers doing there?” he roared out, in a furious passion at seeing what they had been about.

One of them, with a wicked leer, at once pointed to Dirty Jem, who lay fast asleep not far off. Now, whether Mr Maconochie thought he could not punish the marines, and was glad to get hold of some other individual on whom to vent his rage, I do not know; but, be that as it may, he roused up the poor boy, and having boxed his ears, ordered him to take one of the steerage, that is, a midshipman’s hammock—which had been left by the marine who ought to have lashed it up—and to carry it up and stow it in the poop nettings. Poor Jem poked his fingers into one of the turns, and began to drag the big hammock along, but so weak was he that he could scarcely move. I do not think he could ever have got up, even to the lower deck. Fortunately for Dirty Jem, Mr Blunt, who would allow no one but himself to bully, and that he never did, happened to come down, and inquiring why he was dragging the hammock, ordered him to put it down, and hauled Mr Maconochie pretty severely over the coals for his barbarity. The marines had meantime sneaked off, and thus escaped the mate’s rage. I had got nearly well by this time, and thought, as the ship was still tumbling about, that I was going to enjoy myself. The captain, however, having ascertained that we had got our sea legs and sea stomachs into order, ordered the ship’s corporal to turn us out of our hammocks at four o’clock next morning to muster at the lee gangway. We there had to answer to our number, and then came the pipe—

“Watch and idlers, holystone decks?”

We were sent on to the poop, and were employed for some time amidst the slashing and dashing of water, working away on our bare knees on the sanded decks, grinding them with the holystones. Then we had to scrub with hard brushes, while the captain of the mizen-top kept dashing buckets full of water round us, often sending one right into our faces. There were generally one or two of the midshipmen there, who had to paddle about, with their trousers tucked up and their feet and legs bare; however, as the first-lieutenant set them the example, they had no cause to complain.

For a whole day I had seen nothing of Dicky Plumb. At length, one morning, who should appear on deck but the young gentleman himself. He looked doubtingly at first at what was going forward, then off he slipped his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and began like the others running here and there, seeing that all hands worked away with a will. We had to muster for numerous purposes—to see that we were clean, and that our hammocks were lashed up properly. The latter was severe work; for, the hammocks being heavy and we little, when the ship was rolling it was as much as we could do, and sometimes more than we could do, to hold on to them, and keep ourselves from rolling away across the deck. Poor Jem (Dirty Jem, I mean) was often in trouble. The lieutenant made us tuck up our shirt-sleeves and trousers, and then lift our arms and legs to see that they were properly washed. Dirty Jem had really got his arms clean up to his elbows, and legs up to the knees.

“Turn up your shirt-sleeves higher, boy, and your trousers too,” said the lieutenant.

A dark rim of dirt was seen at each place.

“Corporal, give this boy twelve finnams!” exclaimed the lieutenant.

“Please, sir, I didn’t know that we were to muster there,” spluttered out Dirty Jem.

The excuse, however, did not save him. He got the finnams, and had to clean himself into the bargain. To the latter operation he objected even more than the first, and seemed to think it a very hard case of cruelty. However, I shall have no space for our adventures in the far East, if I go spinning my yarn in this style. We touched at Madeira, the chief object, I fancy, being to procure a cask or two of wine for the captain and the admiral on the station. Hearing one day that we were nearing the line, I, with Tommy Punchon and several other boys, were very anxious to know what that could mean. I promised to ask Sergeant Turbot. I did so. He looked very wise, and replied—“Why, you understand, Jack, that the line is what you don’t see, but it’s there, and runs right round the world, from east to west, or west to east, it’s all the same. And then it’s very hot there, because the sun is right overhead, and for the same cause it’s always summer, and the days are neither very long nor very short, and there are mostly calms. For this reason, and because he could not pick out a more comfortable part of the whole watery-world, the king of the ocean, Daddy Neptune, as we call him, once on a time used to live there. He does not now, that I know of, because I have heard say that all the heathen gods and goddesses have given up living at all on the earth; though, to be sure, I don’t say but what he and they may visit it now and then. Now, Jack, you understand all about the matter, or as much as I, a sergeant of the Royal Marines, do, and that surely must be quite enough for a second-class boy on board ship.”

Full of the lucid information I had received, I returned to my messmates, who told me that, in spite of what the sergeant had said, they heard, positively, that Neptune and all his court were coming on board, either the next day or the following. Sure enough, Daddy did come on board, in right fashion, when the opportunity was taken of giving Dirty Jem a thorough washing, and punishing three or four other individuals in a rather unpleasant way, by cramming their mouths full of grease and pitch, under the pretence of lathering them, before being shaved by Neptune’s barber. I should say, that a lower studding-sail had been fastened up, in the form of a long bag, in the main deck, on the starboard side, and filled with water. The skid gratings had been taken off, so that, looking down from the starboard gangway, nothing but water was to be seen. Neptune and his wife made their appearance from forward, sitting on what they said was their chariot, but which looked like a gun-carriage. They had two infants, who put me wonderfully in mind of two small boys in our mess, while his wife had very much the appearance of Ned Rawlings; and I thought, too, I recognised the features of his secretary, his coachman, and barber. They were followed by a number of courtiers, and twenty-four bears, and as many constables. The chief business of the latter was to catch the fellows who were to be shaved and ducked. We boys were tossed about from side to side of the tank by the bears, they crying out, “He’s none of my child!” and very fortunate we thought ourselves when we got out again. The side being smooth and steep as an earthen pan, we were very much like rats caught in one. Besides Dirty Jem, the smaller, we had a big, hulking fellow—Michael Clack, by name. He was a dirty, lazy, lubberly fellow, disliked and despised by all the ship’s company. He had, from the first, I doubt not, a pretty good notion that he would receive no very delicate treatment from Neptune’s ministers, so he went and hid himself away, thinking that he might, perhaps, escape notice. He had been marked, however, from the first.

“Michael Clack! Michael Clack!” was soon called out by the secretary, and “Michael Clack! Michael Clack!” resounded along the decks. The constables searched for him everywhere, along each deck, behind every chest, and each store-room, and in each corner into which he could possibly have crept. At last, it was believed that he must have gone overboard. Still, as he had been seen by more than one of the boys scudding along the decks faster than he had ever been known to move before, the fact that he had gone overboard was doubted by a great many. At length, the constables instituted another search along the orlop deck, and in the cable tier. A shout proclaimed that Clack was found. He was stowed away in the coil of a cable, and a piece of canvas drawn neatly over him. He was dragged up, and placed on the plank before Neptune.

“You are a big, lazy, idle, mischievous, do-nothing rascal,” began his Majesty. “You deserve no good from any one, and you will get it, too, my hearty! Give him Number 1.” That was the roughest razor in use. “Plenty of lather! Lay it on thick!” Neptune’s ministers of justice did not require a second bidding. The moment the unhappy Clack opened his mouth to plead his cause, the tar-brush was run almost down his throat. His face was next covered with it, and scraped with a jagged razor, till the blood ran out in all directions. In this state he was tossed into the tank, and bandied about among the bears, every one of whom owed him a grudge, till some one cried out that he was done for. He had fainted, or, like the Australian dingo, had pretended to faint, and looked, indeed, as if he were dead. The captain, seeing what had happened, was very angry, and ordering him to be taken to the doctor, forbade the sports to be continued. Neptune and his secretary begged pardon as well as they could for what had happened, and he and his followers waddled forward, and disappeared over the bows. We heard that evening that Michael Clack was very ill, and there was a general idea that he was going to die. What the doctor thought about the matter I do not know.

Clack hated work, but he disliked nasty physic still more. This the doctor knew; and by giving him all the most nauseous draughts he could think of he soon got him out of the sick list. Clack, though out of the sick list, was very soon in the black list; and being shortly afterwards detected in helping himself to the contents of another man’s bag, he was adjudged by the captain to be placed in irons, to be kept in solitary confinement, and otherwise punished.