“You remember how you flattened out the curate, Pills? Couldn’t you give Grubbins something—something to make him leathery sick—eh?” A flash of inspiration crossed my mind. I went to the shop of the village apothecary. He knew me; I had often purchased vitriol, which I poured into Grubbins’s inkstand to corrode his pens and burn up his coat-tail, on which he was in the habit of wiping them. I boldly asked for an ounce of chloroform. The young apothecary winked and handed me the bottle. It was Grubbins’s custom to throw his handkerchief over his head, recline in his chair, and take a short nap during recess. Watching my opportunity, as he dozed, I managed to slip his handkerchief from his face and substitute my own, moistened with chloroform. In a few minutes he was insensible. Tom and I then quickly shaved his head, beard, and eyebrows, blackened his face with a mixture of vitriol and burnt cork, and fled. There was a row and scandal the next day. My father always excused me by asserting that Grubbins had got drunk,—but somehow found it convenient to procure me an appointment in her Majesty’s navy at an early day. CHAPTER II An official letter, with the Admiralty seal, informed me that I was expected to join H. M. ship Belcher, Captain Boltrope, at Portsmouth, without delay. In a few days I presented myself to a tall, stern-visaged man, who was slowly pacing the leeward side of the quarter-deck. As I touched my hat he eyed me sternly:— “So ho! Another young suckling. The service is going to the devil. Nothing but babes in the cockpit and grannies in the board. Boatswain’s mate, pass the word for Mr. Cheek!” Mr. Cheek, the steward, appeared and touched his hat. “Introduce Mr. Breezy to the young gentlemen. Stop! Where’s Mr. Swizzle?” “At the masthead, sir.” “Where’s Mr. Lankey?” “At the masthead, sir.” “Mr. Briggs?” “Masthead, too, sir.” “And the rest of the young gentlemen?” roared the enraged officer. “All masthead, sir.” “Ah!” said Captain Boltrope, as he smiled grimly, “under the circumstances, Mr. Breezy, you had better go to the masthead too.” CHAPTER III At the masthead I made the acquaintance of two youngsters of about my own age, one of whom informed me that he had been there three hundred and thirty-two days out of the year. “In rough weather, when the old cock is out of sorts, you know, we never come down,” added a young gentleman of nine years, with a dirk nearly as long as himself, who had been introduced to me as Mr. Briggs. “By the way, Pills,” he continued, “how did you come to omit giving the captain a naval salute?” “Why, I touched my hat,” I said innocently. “Yes, but that isn’t enough, you know. That will do very well at other times. He expects the naval salute when you first come on board—greeny!” I began to feel alarmed, and begged him to explain.