I heard the cook speaking with great excitement to his mate, and guessed that I should do well to keep quiet until he told me that he was ready. A few minutes later a soldier’s wife rose through the hatch near the cuddy-front--they called it the booby-hatch--and came forward. She had a shawl over her head, and was bringing a pudding to the cook to be baked. A sudden heave of the ship drove her against the lee bulwarks. I went to her help, took the dish from her, and put it into her hands again when we had reached the galley. She was the pretty young wife who had before taken notice of me with smiles. The cook spoke insolently to her--asked her if she thought he’d shipped to do nothing but look after such small mucking jobs of barracks pastry as that there. He wasn’t ‘no blushen’ soldiers’ cook.’ If it depended upon him there’d be no army. ‘What! Keep a scaldin’ lot o’ gutterpeckers in money, good wittles, and fine clothes at the expense of the nation, whose sailors has to do all the real fighting when it comes to it?’ He said much in this way, shouting loudly, and sticking and thrusting and gesticulating with a long, dangerous-looking fork used for bringing up the meat out of the coppers. The woman threatened to fetch the sergeant. The cook, with a horrid laugh, begged her to lose no time. His coppers were ready, he said, and he’d warrant the sergeant boiled to a turn before four bells. After more of this Mr. Cook took the dish from the woman, eyed and smelled it, with a sarcastic leer, and requested the woman to clear out. She stood at my side, breathing short, and very angry and flushed, and said if she told her husband of the cook’s behaviour he would kill him. I advised her to take no notice of the fellow. All sea cooks in a gale of wind were bad-tempered to a proverb. They had much to put up with. Only think of being forced to cook in a kitchen that was continually rolling about, saucepans sliding, sea-water bursting in, hungry sailors, with knives in their hands, full of threats and oaths if time was not punctually kept. I put the case humorously, and she began to laugh and to peep at me with her bright eyes. She asked me what I waited for, and, one thing leading to another, she seemed in no hurry to quit me. And, indeed, we stood very snug, warm, and sheltered under the lee of the galley. We got upon the subject of the quarters below. ‘What sort of barracks have you?’ said I. ‘Come down and see them when you can,’ said she. ‘Whom must I apply to for permission?’ said I. ‘You’ll want no permission, I believe,’ she answered. ‘You belong to the ship. But I’ll speak to my husband, and the sergeant’ll make no difficulty.’ ‘I should like to see the convicts’ quarters,’ said I. ‘You’ll be able to get a peep at them through the door in the steerage bulkhead. I may be able to manage that for you, too,’ said she. ‘Dick has sentry there for some time to-day. If you’ll stop here, I’ll find out at once, and come back and tell you the hour.’