If you will imagine a long narrow room, only six feet high, you will know what a 'tweendecks is like. Only in a real 'tween-decks it is always rather dark, for the windows (if you care to call them so) are thick glass bull's-eyes which let in very little light. A glare of light comes down the hatchways. Away from the hatchways a few battle-lanterns are hung, to keep up some pretence of light in the darkest corners. At one end of this long narrow room in La Reina a wooden partition, running right across from side to side, made a biggish chamber called “the cabin,” where the officers took their meals. A little further along the room, one on each side of it, were two tiny partitioned cabins, about seven feet square, in which the officers slept, two in each cabin one above the other, in shelf-beds, or bunks. My hammock had been slung between these cabins, a little forward of them. When I turned out, I saw that the rest of the 'tweendecks was piled with stores of all kinds, lashed down firmly to ringbolts. Right forward, in the darkness of the ship's bows, I saw other hammocks where the sailors slept. I was wondering what I was to do about washing, when the rough man who had called me a few minutes before came down to ask me why I was not up on deck. I said that I was wondering where I could wash myself. “Wash yourself,” he said. “You haven't made yourself dirty yet. You don't wash at sea till your work's done for the day. Why, haven't you lashed your hammock yet?” “Please, sir,” I said, “I don't know how.” “Well, for once,” he said, “I'll show you how. Tomorrow you'll do it for yourself.” “There,” he said, when he had lashed up the hammock, by what seemed to me to be art-magic, “don't you say you don't know how to lash a 'ammick. I've showed you once. Now shove it in the rack there. Up on deck with you.” I ran up the ladder to the deck, thinking that this was not at all the kind of service which I had expected. When I got to the deck I felt happier; for it was a lovely bright morning. The schooner was under all sail, tearing along at what seemed to me to be great speed. We were out at sea now. England lay behind us, some miles away. I could see the windows gleaming in a little town on the shore. Ships were in sight, with rollers of foam whitening under them. Gulls dipped after fish. The clouds drove past. A fishing boat piled with fish was labouring up to London, her sails dark with spray. On the deck of the schooner some barefooted sailors were filling the wash-deck tubs at a hand-pump. One man was at work high aloft on the topsail yard, sitting across the yard with his legs dangling down, keeping his seat (as I thought) by balance. I found the scene so delightful that I gazed at it like a boy in a trance, was still staring, when the surly boor who had called me (he was the schooner's mate it seemed) came up behind me. “Well,” he said, in the rough, bullying speech of a sailor, “do ye see it?” “See what, sir?” “What you're looking at.”