There is no class of persons in His Majesty’s naval service who have such ravenous appetites as the younger class of middies—indeed their plates and platters leave the birth, generally, as clean as they were before the dinner entered. What may be the cause of this voracity it is needless to inquire—the fact of their prodigious appetites is universal. And it will easily be imagined that, in such a community, the Esquimaux maxim of first come, first served, would sometimes introduce itself into the practice of those polished young gentlemen. One day, after keeping the forenoon watch, I went down at half-past twelve to dinner, but found nothing left on the board but a morsel of the ship’s beef which we generally called salt junk, and sometimes believed to be salt horse, resembling very much a piece of mahogany, and often quite as sapless. To this was added a very small portion of suet pudding, called in our lingo, dough, or duff, and differing but little in aspect and weight from good honest pipe-clay. It has been very properly observed of a young midshipman, that, ‘although God may turn his heart, the devil cannot turn his stomach;’ and certainly, upon this occasion, I made no sort of objection to the victuals set before me—except as to the quantity. In five minutes, the dish and the plate had returned to that habitual state of purity, which would have rendered the office of scullion a complete sinecure, had we been honoured with such an attendant. While I was ruminating upon this meagre fare, one of the oldsters bawled out to me, “Come, youngster, you have done your dinner—march off! I want your place at the table to write my log up—so scull away with you!” And, in spite of Lord Chesterfield, which he was constantly reading, he instantly shovelled me right into the cock-pit. What with the indignity of my exit, which I cannot more particularly describe, without a greater breach of the graces than I choose to risk even at this long interval of time, and what with the empty state of my stomach, I mounted upon deck again, of course, in a precious bad humour, not a quarter of an hour from the time I had dived. “Hollo! Maister Saunders,” cried one of my Scotch friends, “what’s the matter with you? You look as black as your countryman when he was caught half-way through a hole in the orchard wall.” “Why,” said I, glad to find some vent for my disappointment, “to tell you the truth, I have not got my share of the pudding to-day.” “Oh! ho! that’s it—is it? Capital! Your share of the pudding?—excellent!” And away he shot down the ladder, to pass the joke amongst the rest below; so that, by and by, I was assailed at every turn with inquiries touching my ‘share of the pudding;’ and my unfortunate speech, translated into various dialects of what they all thought Scotch, merely because it was not like English, was sung out like a ballad, for the amusement of the whole fraternity, for the next week.