are a gentleman’s son, and taken Ben because he is poor, and has got nobody to say a word for him.’’ I knew that this was too true to be answered, but I excused myself from any blame, and told them that I had a right to go home, at all events.  This pacified them a little, but Jack had got a notion that a poor lad was to be imposed upon, and did not distinguish very clearly; and though I knew that I was in no fault, and, in fact, had barely escaped the grossest injustice, yet I felt that my berth was getting to be a disagreeable one.  The notion that I was not ``one of them,’’ which, by a participation in all their labor and hardships, and having no favor shown me, and never asserting myself among them, had been laid asleep, was beginning to revive.  But far stronger than any feeling for myself was the pity I felt for the poor lad.  He had depended upon going home in the ship; and from Boston was going immediately to Liverpool, to see his friends.  Besides this, having begun the voyage with very few clothes, he had taken up the greater part of his wages in the slop-chest, and it was every day a losing concern to him; and, like all the rest of the crew, he had a hearty hatred of California, and the prospect of eighteen months or two years more of hide droghing seemed completely to break down his spirit.  I had determined not to go myself, happen what would, and I knew that the captain would not dare to attempt to force me.  I knew, too, that the two captains had agreed together to get some one, and that unless I could prevail upon somebody to go voluntarily, there would be no help for Ben.  From this consideration, though I had said that I would have nothing to do with an exchange, I did my best to get some one to go voluntarily.  I offered to give an order upon the owners in Boston for six months’ wages, and also all the clothes, books, and other matters which I should not want upon the voyage home.  When this offer was published in the ship, and the case of poor Ben set forth in strong colors, several, who would not dream of going themselves, were busy in talking it up to others, who, they thought, might be tempted to accept it; and, at length, a Boston boy, a harum-scarum lad, a great favorite, Harry May, whom we called Harry Bluff, and who did not care what country or ship he was in, if he had clothes enough and money enough,—­ partly from pity for Ben, and partly from the thought he should have ``cruising money’’ for the rest of his stay,—­ came forward, and offered to go and ``sling his hammock in the bloody hooker.’’ Lest his purpose should cool, I signed an order for the sum upon the owners in Boston, gave him all the clothes I could spare, and sent him aft to the captain, to let him know what had been done.  The skipper accepted the exchange, and was, doubtless, glad to have it pass off so easily.  At the same time he cashed the order, which was indorsed to him,[2] and the next morning the lad went aboard the brig, apparently in good spirits, having shaken hands with each of us and wished us a pleasant passage home, jingling the money in his pockets, and calling out ``Never say die, while there’s a shot in the locker.’’ The same boat carried off Harris, my old watchmate, who had previously made an exchange with my friend Stimson.