With exemplary punctuality young Maitland presented himself at the shipping office at ten o'clock in the morning, and duly "signed on" as ordinary seaman in the good ship _Concordia_, bound for Natal; Mr Sutcliffe, the chief mate, privately congratulating Captain Roberts, the skipper of the ship, immediately afterwards, upon his good fortune in securing so "likely" a hand for the small sum of one shilling per month, and expressing his fixed determination to "make a man of him" before they reached the Line. At the private suggestion of the said chief mate, Dick lost no time in conveying his belongings to the ship and depositing his bedding in the best-sheltered bunk in the forecastle; after which he returned to Number 19 Paradise Street, where he spent the few hours of freedom remaining to him in assisting his friend the Doctor, and absorbing further knowledge from him. Finally, as the clocks in the immediate neighbourhood were striking the hour of eight in the evening, Dick stepped over the rail of the _Concordia_ and formally reported himself to the chief mate, thereafter repairing to the forecastle and making his preparations for the night. He was the first hand to join the ship, notwithstanding the fact that the entire crew had been ordered to be on board not later than eight o'clock that evening; and it was not until close upon midnight that the remainder found their way down from the neighbouring public houses, all of them as surly and quarrelsome as bears at the termination of their short period of liberty. Fortunately for Dick, all hands were too far gone in drink to admit of their quarrelsomeness going further than words, and eventually, by about one o'clock in the morning, he was able to compose himself to sleep, to the accompaniment of the snores and mutterings of his companions--thirteen in number. Many lads in Dick Maitland's position, and brought up amid refined surroundings, as he had been, would have regarded with horror and loathing such a situation as that in which he now found himself, and would have been overwhelmed with self-pity at the cruelly hard luck which forced them to herd with such uncongenial companions in such a pig sty of a place as the _Concordia's_ forecastle just then presented; but Dick was something of a philosopher, and was, moreover, full of "grit". He held the doctrine that a man can make what he chooses of his surroundings, and always find in them something of amusement or interest, if he cares to look for it; and now he consoled himself with the reminder that life in that forecastle, and among those men, whose highest ideal of happiness seemed to be helpless intoxication, would after all be but a brief experience, out of which it would be hard indeed if he could not learn some useful lesson. With this philosophic reflection, he curled himself up in his blankets and dropped into a sound, dreamless sleep.