"Six bells, sir, please," remarks your man, laying his hand on your elbow, and giving you a gentle shake to insure your resuscitation, and which will generally have the effect of causing you to spring at once from your cot, perhaps in your hurry nearly upsetting the cup of delicious ship's cocoa which he has kindly saved to you from his own breakfast--a no small sacrifice either, if you bear in mind that his own allowance is by no means very large, and that his breakfast consists of cocoa and biscuits alone--these last too often containing more weevils than flour. As you hurry into your bath, your servant coolly informs you-- "Plenty of time, sir. Doctor himself hain't turned out yet." "Then," you inquire, "it isn't six bells?" "Not a bit on it, sir," he replies; "wants the quarter." The rogue has lied to get you up. At seven o'clock exactly you make your way forward to the sick-bay, on the lower deck at the ship's bows. Now, this making your way forward isn't by any means such an easy task as one might imagine; for at that hour the deck is swarming with the men at their toilet, stripped to the waist, every man at his tub, lathering, splashing, scrubbing and rubbing, talking, laughing, joking, singing, sweating, and swearing. Finding your way obstructed, you venture to touch one mildly on the bare back, as a hint to move aside and let you pass; the man immediately damns your eyes, then begs pardon, and says he thought it was Bill "at his lark again." Another who is bending down over his tub you touch more firmly on the _os innominatum_, and ask him in a free and easy sort of tone to "slue round there." He "slues round," very quickly too, but unfortunately in the wrong direction, and ten to one capsizes you in a tub of dirty soapsuds. Having picked yourself up, you pursue your journey, and sing out as a general sort of warning-- For the benefit of those happy individuals who never saw, or had to eat, weevils, I may here state that they are small beetles of the exact size and shape of the common woodlouse, and that the taste is rather insipid, with a slight flavour of boiled beans. Never have tasted the woodlouse, but should think the flavour would be quite similar. "Gangway there, lads," which causes at least a dozen of these worthies to pass such ironical remarks to their companions as-- "Out of the doctor's way there, Tom." "Let the gentleman pass, can't you, Jack?" "Port your helm, Mat; the doctor wants you to." "Round with your stern, Bill; the surgeon's _mate_ is a passing." "Kick that donkey Jones out of the doctor's road,"--while at the same time it is always the speaker himself who is in the way.