My dispensary was off the steerage, and sister-cabin to the pantry. To it I gained access by a species of crab-walking, squeezing myself past a large brass pump, and edging my body in sideways. The sick came one by one to the dispensary door, and there I saw and treated each case as it arrived, dressed the wounds and bruises and putrefying sores, and bandaged the bad legs. There was no sick-berth attendant; to be sure the lieutenant-in-command, at my request, told off "a little cabin-boy" for my especial use. I had no cause for delectation on such an acquisition, by no means; he was not a model cabin-boy like what you see in theatres, and I believe will never become an admiral. He managed at times to wash out the dispensary, or gather cockroaches, and make the poultices--only in doing the first he broke the bottles, and in performing the last duty he either let the poultice burn or put salt in it; and, finally, he smashed my pot, and I kicked him forward, and demanded another. _He_ was slightly better, only he was seldom visible; and when I set him to do anything, he at once went off into a sweet slumber; so I kicked him forward too, and had in despair to become my own menial. In both dispensary and burrow it was quite a difficult business to prevent everything going to speedy destruction. The best portions of my uniform got eaten by cockroaches or moulded by damp, while my instruments required cleaning every morning, and even that did not keep rust at bay. Imagine yourself dear reader, in any of the following interesting positions:-- Very thirsty, and nothing but boiling hot newly distilled water to drink; or wishing a cool bath of a morning, and finding the water in your can only a little short of 212 degrees Fahrenheit. To find, when you awake, a couple of cockroaches, two inches in length, busy picking your teeth. To find one in a state of decay in the mustard-pot. To have to arrange all the droppings and eggs of these interesting creatures on the edge of your plate, previous to eating your soup. To have to beat out the dust and weevils from every square inch of biscuit before putting it in your mouth. To be looking for a book and put your hand on a full-grown scaly scorpion. Nice sensation--the animal twining round your finger, or running up your sleeve. _Denouement_--cracking him under foot-- full-flavoured bouquet--joy at escaping a sting. You are enjoying your dinner, but have been for some time sensible of a strange titillating feeling about the region of your ankle; you look down at last to find a centipede on your sock, with his fifty hind-legs--you thank God not his fore fifty--abutting on to your shin. _Tableau_-- green and red light from the eyes of the many-legged; horror of yourself as you wait till he thinks proper to "move on."