Well, now for my story.  There was one Tom Johnson on board, a fok’sell man, as they called him, who was very kind to me; he tried to teach me to turn a quid, and generously helped me to drink my grog.  As I was unmercifully quizzed in the cockpit, I grew more partial to the society of Tom than to that of my brother middies.  Tom always addressed me,’Sir,’ and they named me Puddinghead; till at last we might be called friends.  During many a night-watch, when I have sneaked away for a snooze among the hen-coops, has Tom saved me from detection, and the consequent pleasant occupation of carrying about a bucket of water on the end of a capstan bar.

I had been on board about a month—­perhaps two—­when the order came down from the Admiralty, for the men to cut off their tails.  Lord, what a scene was there!  I wonder it didn’t cause a mutiny!  I think it would have done so, but half the crew were laid up with colds in their heads, from the suddenness of the change, though an extra allowance of rum was served out to rub them with to prevent such consequences; but the purser not giving any definite directions, whether the application was to be external or internal, the liquor, I regret to say, for the honour of the British navy, was applied much lower down.  For some weeks the men seemed half-crazed, and were almost as unmanageable as ships that had lost their rudders.  Well, so they had!  It was a melancholy sight to see piles of beautiful tails with little labels tied to them, like the instructions on a physic-bottle; each directed to some favoured relative or sweetheart of the curtailed seamen.  What a strange appearance must Portsmouth, and Falmouth, and Plymouth, and all the other mouths that are filled with sea-stores, have presented, when the precious remembrances were distributed!  I wish some artist would consider it; for I think it’s a shame that there should be no record of such an interesting circumstance.

One night, shortly after this visitation, it blew great guns.  Large black clouds, like chimney-sweepers’ feather-beds, scudded over our heads, and the rain came pouring down like—­like winking.  Tom had been promoted, and was sent up aloft to reef a sail, when one of the horses giving way, down came Tom Johnson, and snap went a leg and an arm.  I was ordered to see him carried below, an office which I readily performed, for I liked the man—­and they don’t allow umbrellas in the navy.

“What’s the matter?” said the surgeon.

“Nothing particular, sir; on’y Tom’s broke his legs and his arms by a fall from the yard,” replied a seaman.

Tom groaned, as though he did consider it something very particular.