We swing ourself into our hammock (or berth, as it may happen), and are fast asleep in a minute.  But we have not been an hour in the Land of Nod, ere three heavy blows from a handspike are struck on the forecastle hatch, which is then slid back, and a hoarse voice bawls:  ‘All ha-ands a-ho-oy! tumble up to reef tops’ls!’ Out we bundle, and grope for our clothes (the forecastle being as dark as a dog’s mouth), get them on somehow, and hurry-scurry on deck.  We find the weather and sea altered much for the worse, and the Old Man (captain) himself on the quarter-deck, giving orders to the mates, who are tearing about, bawling and swearing like demons; while the ’idlers’—­that is to say, the carpenter, steward, cook, and boys, who keep no regular watch—­have all been roused up, to bear a hand, and ’pull their pound.’  Halliards are let go, reef-tackles hauled chock-a-block, and we lay aloft helter-skelter, best man up first, and bend over the yard, till the weather-earing is secured; and then comes the welcome cry:  ‘Haul to leeward!’ It is done, and then we all ‘knot-away’ with the reef-points.  The reef having been taken (or two, perchance), we shin down again to mast-head the topsails, and get all in sailing trim.  A grog is now served out, and we go below, to sleep out the rest of our four hours, one of which we have been deprived of by this reefing job.  Sometimes it happens, however, that we lose three, or all four, when there is absolute necessity for all hands on deck.

Here, we pause a moment, to say a word on the serving of grog—­a composition of rum and water.  The use of this stuff is of old date in the navy, and would seem to be considered essential to navigation.  In what are called temperance ships, no grog is served, neither after reefing topsails, nor at any other time; but what is very shameful, in many instances no substitute is allowed.  If sailors might have coffee instead of rum, they would thankfully accept the substitute, for coffee is incomparably a better stimulant.  The invigoration from rum is only momentary, and afterwards is perhaps rather pernicious; but the wholesome effect of coffee is felt for an hour.  So they very excusably observe, ‘Better grog than nothing!’

To resume the tenor of our narrative:  at eight bells (8 A.M.) we are summoned on duty again, and find that the squall has passed over, and that it is now a fine sunshiny morning, with all available sail set, and only a heavy swell of the sea to tell what the night has been.  We now get our breakfast (half an hour allowed for that), and the other watch, which has been eight hours up to our four, gets a forenoon watch below (8 A.M. to 12 A.M.) Alterations of sails and rigging, and no end of small jobs, keep us hard at work till eight bells (noon) once more strike, and we then get our luxurious dinner of a pound and a half of salt junk, with biscuits.  But junk is capital stuff for sheathing material, when it is good:  unfortunately, however, it too frequently is ‘old horse;’ and whatever its quality happens to be, all the nice juicy pieces are invariably picked out for the cabin table.  Anything will do for poor Jack.  His biscuits, too, are sometimes quite alive with weevils, especially on a long voyage in hot latitudes.