The steamers call at North Corner, hard by the dockyard, where the grim streets of Devonport, rich in pawnbrokers’ shops and public-houses, dip down to the water, and dozens of naked boys splash about on summer days in a longshore mixture of sea water, mud, orange-peel, corks, and all the miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam of a great town. North Corner is a busy place, and from the steamer pontoon you look out upon all the activities of the Hamoaze, with perhaps a great modern battleship close inshore, come home, weather-stained, from a long commission, and flying, from her topmost truck, for all to notice, the paying-off pennon; a ribbon of amazing length, reaching to the waterline. Sailors, overjoyed to be home again, come ashore with kitbags like great bolsters on their shoulders, and look so bronzed, healthy and happy that you are struck with astonishment when, in some lowering, beetle-browed waterside tavern, you hear them grumbling and advising civilian and shore-going friends, with blazing emphatics, “Don’t you never wear three rows of tape round your neck,” which is a highly technical way of saying, “Don’t join the Navy,” the blue-jacket’s jumper being ornamented with three thin white lines. “A.B.’s no bloomin’ catch. All right for petty orf’cer or articifer, fine thing to be a snotty, or a lewtenant, an’ finer to be captain, or one o’ them admirals what ye see in the photograph shops, cuddlin’ their telescopes under their arms, and lookin’ as if they’d just come out o’ Sunday School; but—well, here’s yours, my sonny.” [Illustration: THE HAMOAZE.] Past North Corner and the steam-ferry across the Hamoaze to Torpoint in Cornwall, you come to Bull Point, where the explosives live, and to the poor discarded ships of the Navy. Here are tiers of vessels; steel-built cruisers, gunboats, torpedo craft, and what not, at their last moorings, and presently to be sold out of the navy for the price of an old tin kettle.