CHAPTER IX.
OF THE POCKETS THAT WERE IN THE JACKET.
I MUST make some further mention of that white jacket of mine.
And here be it known--by way of introduction to what is to follow--that to a common sailor, the living on board a man-of-war is like living in a market; where you dress on the door-steps, and sleep in the cellar.
No privacy can you have; hardly one moment's seclusion.

It is almost a physical impossibility, that you can ever be alone.

You dine at a vast _table d'hote_; sleep in commons, and make your toilet where and when you can.

There is no calling for a mutton chop and a pint of claret by yourself; no selecting of chambers for the night; no hanging of pantaloons over the back of a chair; no ringing your bell of a rainy morning, to take your coffee in bed.

It is something like life in a large manufactory.