Tom, however, looked very melancholy, and some time afterwards Chaffey observed to me that he was sure something was amiss with Tom, as he was completely off his feed. While we were allowed to go on shore our life was pleasant enough, but when confined on board it was somewhat dreary work, and we all longed for a change of some sort. A climate with the thermometer at ninety doesn't conduce to high spirits. We were aroused one evening as most of us were below, by Sinnet rushing into the berth, and exclaiming-- "The _Glasgow_ is on fire, and the boats are ordered away to her assistance." The _Glasgow_ was a frigate, lying at no great distance from us, and was to have sailed with the land breeze with a company of troops to the westward. We hurried on deck. Our boats were being lowered, as were those of the other ships in the harbour. Smoke in dense volumes was rising from the hatchways of the _Glasgow_, and more was pouring out of her ports. Her crew were at their stations, hauling up buckets of water, and labouring like brave men to quench the rising flames; but all their efforts, as far as I could see, were ineffectual. Nettleship and some of the older midshipmen went off in the boats. "I hope that they'll draw the charges of their guns, or we shall have some of their shot rattling on board us," said Tom. "There are plenty of boats, so I don't suppose any of the crew will be lost." "I should think not, unless the magazine catches fire," I answered. "They'll drown that the first thing, if they can," remarked Tom. "I wish we could have gone in one of the boats. I don't like to see people in danger and be unable to try and help them." CHAPTER TWELVE. THE HURRICANE.