“I can lick the lubber who threw me out,” he shouted.

“Stop that talking,” came from the master-at-arms’ corner.  “Turn in and keep quiet about the decks.”

Potter grumbled something under his breath, then he made a careful search in the vicinity of his hammock.  It was worth a dollar admission to see him poke about with, the end of a broom.  He found nothing suspicious, and proceeded to try again.  Very gingerly he grasped the hooks, and he experimented with one foot before trusting his whole weight to the hammock.  The second he released his hold of the hooks he fell, and the fall was even greater than before.

“The blamed thing is spooky!” he howled, as he gathered himself together.  He made a quick run for the ladder leading on deck, but was stopped by the master-at-arms, who demanded an explanation.  While they were arguing, “Bill” and I quickly fixed the hammock, casting off the shell and concealing it behind a black bag.  We had barely finished when the chief petty officer came up and examined the clews.  He tested them by applying his own weight, then gave the crestfallen and astounded Potter a few terse words of advice about eating too much supper.  Five minutes later the deck was quiet.

The hard labor of the previous day—­such labor as hauling and pulling, handling heavy boxes and casks, and bales and barrels of provisions and ammunition—­had made me dead tired, and I slept like a log until reveille.  This unpleasant function occurred at three bells (half-past five o’clock), and it consisted of an infernal hubbub of drums and bugles and boatswains’ pipes, loud and discordant enough to awaken the seven sleepers.  We roused in a hurry, and, with eyes scarcely open, began to lash up our hammocks.

“Seven turns, no more, no less,” bawled the master-at-arms.  “Get just seven turns of the lashing around your hammocks, and get ’em quick.  If you can’t pass your hammock through a foot ring, you’ll go on the report.  Shake a leg there!”

The rumor had gone about that it was the custom to “swat” the last man with a club, and there was a great scramble.  We found the hammock stowers in the nettings, which were large boxes on the gun deck, and our queer canvas beds were soon stowed away for the day.  As the reveille hour is too early for breakfast, coffee and hard-tack is served out by each mess cook.  The coffee is minus milk, but it is hot and palatable, and really acts as a tonic.

The first order of the day is to scrub down decks and clean ship generally, but, as the “Yankee” was still in the throes of preparation, we were spared that disagreeable work and permitted to arrange our belongings for the long voyage before us.  In the service each man is allowed a black bag about three feet six inches high, and twelve inches in diameter, and a small wooden box, eighteen inches square, known as a “ditty box,” to keep his wardrobe in.  All clothing is rolled, and careful sailors