‘This way,’ said the steward; and I walked after him through the cuddy door. Here was a bright, cheerful interior. The _Childe Harold_ was a passenger ship, and her accommodation aft was rich and fine. She was a convict ship now, but they had made no change. The bulkheads, ceiling, and trunk of the mizzen-mast were beautiful with gilt carving and paintings; narrow lengths of brilliant mirrors flashed back the light that streamed through the skylights; the chairs and lounges were choicely upholstered. Whilst I gazed, my imagination figured the grimy, barricaded, sentinelled, ’tweendecks prison in which Tom was to live. I caught sight of myself in a looking-glass. I had omitted to pull off my cap when I entered the cuddy--an oversight that might have convicted me to a keen eye. I scarcely knew myself in the glass. Spite of the rub I had given my face in the forecastle, I was still dark with the dirt of the store-room. It was as good as a mask. No one would have suspected the delicate skin of a woman under the grime on my cheek. ‘This way!’ said the steward. He led me down some steps that fell from a small square of hatch close against the inside of the cuddy front. It was gloomy down here. A corridor ran fore and aft, and on either hand were two or three cabins. The steward put his hand upon the door of the first of these cabins. ‘Step in,’ said he. ‘Is this your first appearance in quod, youngster?’ I did not understand him. He leaned against a bunk, thrust his hand into his trousers’ pockets, and looked me over. ‘What’s brought you into this day’s mess?’ said he. ‘Wasn’t you ’appy at home?’ I resolved to answer the man civilly, trusting he would befriend me. ‘I have friends in Tasmania, and wish to join them. I’m willing to work for nothing if you’ll give me work I can do. I’m not strong, sir.’ He asked me where I had come aboard, if I had known before hiding that this was a convict ship, where I had hidden, and how I had managed for food. ‘You’re a young gent,’ said he; ‘that’s clear. Them ’ands have never done dirtier work than quill-driving in some office, I’ll swear. Hope for your soul’s sake you haven’t run away for wrong-doing, and that there’s no kind ’arts at home a-haching for you.’