I remember once, on the beach of Madras, witnessing an amusing scene between Sir Samuel Hood, then commander-in-chief in India, and the newly-promoted boatswain of a sloop-of-war belonging to the squadron.  The Admiral, who was one of the bravest, and kindest, and truest-hearted seamen that ever trod a ship’s decks, was a sworn foe to all trickery in dress.  The eye of the veteran officer was directed earnestly towards the yeast of waves, which in immense double rows of surf, fringe and guard the whole of that flat coast.  He was watching the progress of a Massullah boat, alternately lost in the foam, and raised in very uncertain balance across the swell, which, though just on the break, brought her swiftly towards the shore.  He felt more anxious than usual about the fate of this particular boat, from having ordered on shore the person alluded to, with whom he wished to have some conversation previous to their parting company.  This boatswain was a young man, who had been for some years a follower of the Admiral in different ships, and to whom he had just given a warrant.  The poor fellow, unexpectedly promoted from before the mast to the rank of a warrant-officer, was trigged out in his newly-bought, but marvellously ill-cut uniform, shining like a new dollar, and making its wearer, who for the first time in his life had put on a long coat, feel not a little awkward.

As soon as the boat was partly driven up the beach by the surf, and partly dragged beyond the dash of the breakers by the crowd on shore, this happiest of warrant-officers leaped out on the sand, and seeing the Admiral above him, standing on the crest of the natural glacis which lines the shore, he took off his hat, smoothed down the hair on his forehead, sailor fashion, and stood uncovered, in spite of the roasting sun flaming in the zenith.

The Admiral, of course, made a motion with his hand for the boatswain to put his hat on; but the other, not perceiving the signal, stood stock-still.

“I say, put on your hat!” called the commander-in-chief, in a tone which made the newly-created warrant start.  In his agitation he shook a bunch of well-trimmed ringlets a little on one side, and betrayed to the flashing eyes of the Admiral a pair of small round silver ear-rings, the parting gift, doubtless, of some favoured and favouring “Poll or Bess” of dear, old, blackguard Point Beach.  Be this as it may, the Admiral, first stepping on one side, and then holding his head forward, as if to re-establish the doubting evidence of his horrified senses, and forcibly keeping down the astonished seaman’s hat with his hand, roared out,—­

“Who the devil are you?”

“John Marline, sir!” replied the bewildered boatswain, beginning to suspect the scrape he had got himself into.

“Oh!” cried the flag-officer, with a scornful laugh.  “Oh!  I beg your pardon; I took you for a Portuguese.”

“No, sir!” instinctively faltered out the other, seeing the Admiral expected some reply.