Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Young Tom Bowling The Boys of the British Navy By J.C. Hutcheson ________________________________________________________________________ This book fills a gap about just how boy seamen were trained at the end of the nineteenth century. From first to last it is very credible, and also very readable. It was not very easy to transcribe, because the boys we meet come from a variety of country places, and hence have a variety of dialects. In particular one of the boys has a strong Irish brogue, and another has an equally strong west Hampshire accent. It is this boy, `Ugly', that comes to a very sad and noble end. Our hero, Tom, is trained for a little over a year in "Saint Vincent", after which he moves on to various postings in the Fleet. There is an interesting period during which he is serving in a vessel that is taking part in the British efforts to capture and punish slave-traders on the African east coast. It all rings true to me, because your reviewer has been in the Royal Navy himself, and knows the way the Navy works. ________________________________________________________________________ YOUNG TOM BOWLING THE BOYS OF THE BRITISH NAVY BY J.C. HUTCHESON CHAPTER ONE. FATHER AND I "ARGUE THE POINT." "Hullo, father!" I sang out, when we had got a little way out from the pontoon and opened the mouth of the harbour, noticing, as I looked over my shoulder to see how we were steering, a string of flags being run up aboard the old _Saint Vincent_. "They're signalling away like mad this morning all over the shop! First, atop of the dockyard semaphore; and then the flagship and the old _Victory_, both of 'em, blaze out in bunting; while now the _Saint Vincent_ joins in at the game of `follow- my-leader.' I wonder what's up?" "Lor' bless you, Tom!" rejoined father, still steadily tugging on at his stroke oar as we pursued our course towards the middle of the stream, so that we might take advantage of the last of the flood, and allow the gradually slackening tide, which was nearly at the turn, to drift us down alongside the old _Victory_, whither we were bound to pick up a fare for the shore--"nothing in pertickler's up anyways uncommon that I sees, sonny; and as for the buntin' that you're making sich a fuss about, why, they've hauled all that down, and pretty near unbent all the signal flags, too, and stowed 'em away in their lockers by this time!" "But, father," I persisted, "they don't always go on like this for nothing, I know!" "In coorse they don't, stoopid!" said he, giving the water an angry splash as he reached forwards, the blade of his oar sending up a tidy sprinkle across my face. "Why, where's your wits, Tom, this mornin'?" "Where you put them, father," I replied with a laugh; "you know I'm your son, and mother says I'm `a chip of the old block' whenever she's a bit put out with me."