There were four other midshipmen, taking things as easily as their surroundings would permit, and on our entry I was warmly greeted with a volley of remarks that were both good-natured and humorous. But my tour of the _Gannet_ was by no means finished, my mentor evidently meaning to make me thoroughly acquainted with the ship. Below the orlop deck we went, passing down a steep ladder to the flats, or part of the ship immediately above the ballast. The amidship portion of this space is termed the cockpit, and, though nearly empty, it did not require much imagination on my part to see the forms of mangled seamen dimly outlined in the feeble glimmer of the lantern, young Drake telling me of some of the ghastly sights of the cockpit during action in a highly-worded and realistic style. I could discern the heels of the fore and main masts, and the well of the ship’s pump, while farther away was a stack of imperishable ship’s stores, from which a number of rats darted, seemingly unmindful of our presence. When we gained the daylight once more I blinked like an owl, breathing in the fresh air with a relish that the stifling atmosphere of between decks had caused; but short was my respite, for my new friend asked me whether I would be bold enough to go to the foretopmast head. Not wishing to be thought a coward, and having had plenty of experience of tree-climbing, I assented; and Drake, kicking off his shoes, immediately sprang into the shrouds, making his way aloft with marvellous rapidity. I followed, clinging tenaciously to the shrouds with my hands, while my bare feet were tortured by the contact with the sharp ratlines. However, I stuck to it, followed Drake over the futtock shrouds, where for a space I felt like a fly on a ceiling, and at length gained the foretop. Without pausing for breath my guide literally jumped into the topmast shrouds, and before I had attempted to follow he was perched upon the crosstrees. Five minutes later I was by his side, and I must confess that on looking down I experienced a feeling of giddiness that required a strong effort on my part to overcome. Eighty feet below, the deck looked like a long, narrow strip of dazzling white planks, the crew appearing no larger than manikins. "You have pluck, Aubrey," remarked Drake. "I thought you would have shrunk from the task, or, in any case, have climbed no farther than the foretop. And you didn’t crawl through the lubber’s hole, either!" "The lubber’s hole! What’s that?" "Those openings on the tops. Greenhorns generally scramble through those instead of going over the futtock shrouds. I say, can you swim?" "No," I replied. "An old shipman whom I know, one Master Collings, of Gosport, used to say that swimming was a useless art, for when a man fell overboard his agony was only unduly prolonged."