"Oh, ah! I dessay you will," whined the boy; "I never said nothin' to you. Why don't you pull off your boots then, and not go a-knockin' me about?" Of course I hurried away with my boots half-cleaned, and so I have to hurry through life--a miserable man, suffering unheard-of torment, but with no one to pity me. Time back, people would ask what ailed me, but now they "pooh, pooh" my troubles, since it is only my corns. I would not care if people would tread upon me anywhere else, but they won't, and I feel now reduced to my last hope. Did not somebody once say, "Great oaks from little acorns grow--great aches from little toe-corns grow"? How true--how telling! But there, I give up, with the determination to bear my pains as I can, for I feel assured that no one will sympathise with me who does not suffer from corns. CHAPTER THREE. A GHASTLY DEED. In Portsmouth harbour the good ship lay, Her cruising ended for many a day, And gathered on deck while receiving their pay, The sailors most thickly were mustered. The Jews on the wharves were all eagerly bent On supplying poor Jack, while most likely by scent, There were sharks by the score On all parts of the shore. Both he sharks and she sharks enough, ay and more, To devour poor Jack, When they made their attack, And there on the land they all clustered. Only think; from a cruise of four years returned, And paid in clean money! No wonder it burned, And Jack's canvass pockets were ready to give. But, there: not so ready as Jack who would live To the top of his income--the very main truck, And when to the bottom of pocket, why luck, Would never turn back On poor happy-faced Jack, Who never said die In his life. And would try To face any storm if his officers spoke, Or the wildest of sights that the hurricane woke. Now Dick Sprit was a sailor, Tight and bold in a gale or A storm. He would cheer in a fight, 'Mid the bullets' flight, And sooner than hear any praise or flattery, Would have run his head in a "Rooshun" battery. Now Dick his pockets had ten times slapped, His fingers snapped, and his trousers clapped; He had thought of his home and the Christmas-time, The long shore days 'mid the frosty rime. He had gone on shore, run the gauntlet well, 'Scaped the Jews' oiled words and the grog-shops' smell. The night was cold and the way was dark, What mattered when Dick was free of his bark, And with kit on his back, and stick in his fist, His pay in his pocket, and cheek full of twist, He started off for his six miles' tramp To his native spot, spite of snow or damp.