Before H.M.S. _Queen_ left the Mediterranean, one morning a treble-reefed topsail broke loose in a gale of wind, and the mass of canvas, flapping with violence, daunted the topsail yardmen, who feared they would be knocked off the yard, on which they hesitated to venture, till the Captain reached them from the deck, and “laying out,” passed a rope round the sail and secured it. A few days after I joined, when we were weighing anchor from St. Helen’s, Isle of Wight, and had got the stock of our best bower anchor awash, the forecastle man,[9] whose duty it was to shin down the cable and pass a rope through the ring on the stock, to run a hawser in order to “cat” the anchor, twice went half-way down and then climbed back, fearing to be washed off the stock, for the ship’s bow rising and falling quickly, gave but little time to pass the rope, and each time the bow fell, the stock went out of sight under water. The Captain, who was as usual dressed in loose frock coat and gold-band cap, cursing the sailor for “a lubberly coward,” slid down the chain cable with the rope in his hand on to the stock, and went with it right under water, but when he reappeared he had passed the rope end through the ring. On the 24th May 1852, H.M.S. _Queen_ was lying moored to the Dockyard wall. Now, some fifty years later, attendant tugs are in readiness for outgoing ships, and in those days Captains preferred to have the assistance of a steamer when passing through the narrow exit of the harbour. Our man, however, disdained all such aid. Due honours to the Sovereign’s birthday having been paid, at high tide we set sail, and, casting off, proceeded to Spithead, where, as was then the custom, all the heavy guns, and water for the cruise, were shipped. The _Queen_ passed so close to the northern shore that it was necessary to run in our flying-jib boom to save the windows of the “Quebec Hotel,” which has since disappeared. Most Captains would have been sufficiently preoccupied with the ship’s safety to disregard a small boy. Not so, however, was our Chief. His eye rested on me, standing with hands in both pockets. “What are you doing, sir, with hands in pockets? Aft here, sail-maker’s mate, with needle and tar.” A big hairy seaman came aft, with his needle and tar bucket. “Sew this young gentleman’s hands up in his pockets.” I was seized, but as the first stitch was put in the Captain said, “Not this time, but if I see your hands there again, there they’ll be for a week.” Ten days later, when we were lying inside Plymouth Breakwater, I was ordered to the Captain’s cabin. He was writing when the Marine sentry ushered me in, and did not look up. Presently he glanced at me, and said, “Youngster, your uncle, Captain Michell, writes asking me to see after you,” and then went on writing. I stood silent, respectful, cap in hand, till raising his head he shouted, “Well, get out of the cabin.”