Before the winter set in, Glanville and I determined to entertain Mr. Ned Neal to a dinner at a respectable house called the Castle Tavern, Holborn, kept by Mr. Thomas Winter, better known in the pugilistic world as “Tom Spring.” I think we sat down twenty-two: nothing could be more decorous. The “whips” exceeded the pugilists in number, but harmony prevailed. Glanville had Faulkner, of the Rocket, and Tom Spring, on his right and left, while I had Ned Neal, and the more magnificent Mr. Scarlett, who was dressed in his usual drab breeches and white stockings, neat shoes--I suppose he thought tops looked too shoppy--buff vest, a voluminous white choker over a large plaited frill. In addition, a flower-garden in the capacious breast of a blue frock--all for the honour of the Portsmouth “Regulator.” There was nothing to come near him. Mr. Neal was similar in the lower dress, but wore a blue tie with small white spots--his own colours. I brought a great favourite in T. P. Cooke. The company for some time was very decorous. Ale enough to float a jolly-boat, topped up with port wine for loyal toasts. Comic songs finished the evening. Later, the idea of a naval entertainment drew a cheery crowd outside the Castle Tavern. [Sidenote: Sept. 10.] _Galatea_ returned from Lisbon. [Sidenote: Sept. 14.] The Right Hon. John Wilson Croker visited the ship and inspected paddles. [Sidenote: Oct. 4.] A garbled account of an accident which befell Lieutenant A. Cotton and myself, prior to our departure for the West Indies, was published on October 4 in the local paper. What really happened was this: Cotton and self, leave up, had to return on board. He had just taken leave of his parents at the George Hotel. It was blowing fresh from the south; ebb-tide. We had hired one of the Isle of Wight wherries. The Poole Packet, a large sailing cutter bound same way, caught us at entrance of the harbour. There being no room to spare, our helms were put down at the same time. The end of the packet’s bowsprit, catching our wherry’s stern, lifted her end over end. Being the lightest, I was sent farthest, which enabled me to clasp the end of the cutter’s bowsprit as she dipped. I held on like grim death, the wind preventing my voice being heard. Every plunge in the necessarily short tacks ducked me under water. [Illustration: _The Poole Packet._] It was only when outside, and clear of the strength of the tide, that one of the crew discovered and hauled me in. Well outside, we hailed a man-of-war cutter; I got landed at the Point to look after my friend. Boats having been at hand, no lives were lost. I found Billy spread out on a table in a public-house, but, having imbibed something more to his taste than salt water, he did not recognise me. I hurried off to let his parents know he was safe. They had, however, left for Cambridge, comfortably seated behind two pairs of posters. We sailed that afternoon for Dover, returning to Spithead on the 10th.