As the captain walks aft, along the lower deck, he comes to the midshipmen’s berth, or room, in which the youngsters mess.  It is the foremost and largest of a range of cabins built up on each side, and reaching as far aft as the gun-room, or mess-place of the commissioned officers.  It is only in line-of-battle ships that the mids mess in the cockpit; while in frigates they not merely mess but sleep in the part of the lower deck called, I know not why, the steerage.  I ought to have mentioned that before the cabins of the officers, and abaft those of the sailors, lie the berths of the marines; but, of course, those mess-places of the men are not partitioned off, being merely denoted by the tables and shelves.  The boatswain, gunner, and carpenter, have their cabins in the steerage.

The captain peeps into each of these dens as he moves along.  In that of the midshipmen he may probably find a youth with the quarantine-flag up; that is, in the sick-list.  His cue, we may suppose, is always to look as miserable and woe-begone as possible.  If he have had a tussle with a messmate, and one or both his eyes are bunged up in consequence, it costs him no small trouble to conceal his disorderly misdeeds.  It would be just as easy, in fact, to stop the winds as to stop the use of fisty-cuffs amongst a parcel of hot-blooded lads between thirteen and nineteen, although, of course, such rencontres are held to be contrary to the laws and customs used at sea, and are punishable accordingly.  The captain, pretending ignorance, however, merely grins; and, without exposing the boy to the necessity of getting up a story, remarks:—­

“I suppose, Master Peppercorn, you fell down the after-hatchway ladder, and struck your eye against the corner of a chest?  Didn’t you?  And, what is odd enough, I dare say, when I cross to the starboard berth, I shall find Mr. Mustardseed, who has met with exactly the same accident about the same time.  What do yo think?  Eh?”

“I don’t know, sir,” answers the badgered youngster; “Mr. Mustardseed and I are not on speaking terms.”

“Very likely not,” chuckles the skipper, as he proceeds to thrust his nose curiously into the warrant officers’ little boxes.  On arriving at the gun-room, he merely glances, with a well-bred air of assumed indifference, at the apartment of the officers, with whose habits and arrangements he scarcely ever ventures to meddle.  He next dives into the cockpit, which in a frigate is used only for the purser’s store-room, leading to the bread-room, both of which he examines carefully.  The spirit-room hatchway, too, is lifted up for his inspection, as well as that of the after-hold.  He then takes a survey of the cable tiers, which are lighted up for the occasion; as also different store-rooms of the boatswain, gunner, and carpenter; all of which ought to be objects of his particular care, for it is of great consequence that every article they contain should not only have