Hammocks were piped down at seven bells (7:30 p.m.), and, as it was our first experience on board the “Yankee,” there was some confusion.  A number of new recruits had joined that afternoon, and their efforts to master the mysteries of the sailor’s sleeping outfit were amusing.  A naval hammock differs largely from those used ashore.  A hammock aboard ship is of canvas, seven feet long, with holes a few inches apart at each end, through which are reeved pieces of strong cord.  The latter are called clews, and they meet at an iron ring, which is attached to the hooks in the carline beams when the hammock is in position for use.  When a hammock is properly slung it hangs almost straight, with very little sagging.  To get in properly, one grasps two hoops near the head, and, with an agile spring, throws body and feet into the canvas bed.  This requires a knack, and is learned only after a more or less painful experience.  A three-inch mattress and two blankets go with each outfit.  For sheets a bag-like mattress cover is used, and, in lieu of the downy pillows of home, the sailor must be content with his shoes rolled up inside his trousers or flannel shirt.  With it all, however, the naval hammock is very comfortable.  There is the advantage of being able to not only wash your blankets and sheets, but your bed as well.  Once each month clean hammocks are issued and the old ones scrubbed.

While I was below, rigging up my clews, I saw a commotion on the other side of the deck.  The master-at-arms was expostulating with one of the new recruits who had reported that afternoon.  Suddenly the latter called out, angrily, “I’ll see if I have to, durn you!” and bolted for the upper deck.  The master-at-arms followed him at once, and several of us followed the master-at-arms to see the excitement.  We reached the quarter-deck just as the recruit came to a stop in front of the officer on watch.

[Illustration:  “That fat man in the cellar wants me to sleep in A bag——­“.]

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded the latter, curtly.  “What’s up?”

“Th-th-that m-m-man down in the—­the cellar wants me to sleep in a bag, durn him,” gasped the recruit, waving his lanky arms, “and I won’t do it for him or no one else.”

“Cellar?” Then the officer shouted with laughter.

The recruit was sent back to the “New Hampshire” next day, but it was long before the master-at-arms was known by any other name or title than “the man in the cellar.”

A few minutes before tattoo, “Bill” and “Stump” came up and intimated by signs that I was to accompany them to the forward part of the berth deck.  On reaching the extreme end, which was occupied by an immense hawser reel, “Bill” indicated a hammock which was swinging with the forward clews directly above the great spool, or reel.

“If young Potter doesn’t think this old hooker is haunted I’ll never play another joke,” he chuckled.  “Get in and show him, ‘Stump.’”