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“Yes, sir,” said I; “and are you a midshipman, please?”

“No,” he answered; “I’m third mate. What’s your name, again?”

“Master Rockafellar,” said I.

“Ha!” he exclaimed; “the right sort of name to go to sea with. Every ‘wave,’ as one’s grandmother calls it, would speak of itself as a ‘rock-a-fellow.’” He burst into a mighty laugh, and then said kindly, “Well, well; I’ve heard of even queerer names than ‘Rockafellar.’ Been below yet?”

“No, sir,” said I.

“Haven’t you seen your bedroom?”

“No, sir,” I answered again.

“Well, take my advice,” said he, “and jump below at once, and secure a bunk, and see that your chest is all right—I suppose you’ve brought one—or some of those ’tween-deck passengers down there will be borrowing your mattress and forgetting to return it, and rigging themselves out in your clothes.”

“My chest is locked, sir,” said I.

“And what of that?” he roared. “D’ye think there never was a handspike aboard a ship since the days of Nelson? Jump below, jump below, I tell ye!”

“Please, sir, which is the way?” said I, trembling.