“Now, see here,” said Evans, as the doctor retired in some alarm; “I want that leg to stay on. I need it. I will get well with that where it is, or not at all, and that’s the end of it. That leg does not come off. Do you understand what I mean?” The doctor was dismayed. But he understood perfectly, and Evans carried the day. The wounds were dressed and healed rapidly. In several months he was out again. But he limped then, and will as long as he lives. SIGSBEE AS A PRACTICAL JOKER Charles D. Sigsbee, writer, artist, hydrographic expert, mathematician, inventor, and incidentally the central figure, composed and dignified, in the greatest marine tragedy of modern times, is the kind of a man most people--men, women, and children,--like to see and know. His brow can be stern, and no one knows that better than the people who have sailed under him; but he loves peace better than war, and the twinkle behind his glasses never quite dies out. As a midshipman he was always the prime mover in any affair which could contribute to the gayety of existence; was a better judge of people than he was of test-tubes, and a practical joker of ability, which is saying much. The fascination which the ocean holds for all boys of sound mind gained an early sway over young Sigsbee. He received his appointment to the Naval Academy just before the Civil War, in 1859. He liked the practical work, but could never settle down to the desperate grind of the academic course. He found himself more often making caricatures of “Dom Roget,” the teacher of Spanish (a language he has since mastered), than in poring over the verbs and adverbs in the text-book. They were good caricatures, too, and when the other youngsters in the section saw them there was merriment which poor Dom Roget could not understand. But the professor solved the matter satisfactorily by marking all the delinquents on a low scale of credit, and, to be certain of the right culprit, Sigsbee lowest of all. The young artist used to make pictures of everything and everybody he saw, and write pieces about them,--sprightly literature which went from one end of the Academy to the other. And so when the end of the year came round he found that, instead of being enrolled on the academic scroll of fame, he was relegated to the lower half of the class, which they called the “wooden” half. He went back into the next class,--which entered in 1860,--and with the advantage of a year of experience he obtained a position in the new class which he held until graduation time. He never quite got over his propensities for making fun.