The master-at-arms followed him at once, and several of us followed the master-at-arms to see the excitement.

We reached the quarter-deck just as the recruit came to a stop in front of the officer on watch.
[Illustration: "THAT FAT MAN IN THE CELLAR WANTS ME TO SLEEP IN A BAG----".] "What's the matter with you ?" demanded the latter, curtly.

"What's up ?" "Th-th-that m-m-man down in the--the cellar wants me to sleep in a bag, durn him," gasped the recruit, waving his lanky arms, "and I won't do it for him or no one else." "Cellar ?" Then the officer shouted with laughter.
The recruit was sent back to the "New Hampshire" next day, but it was long before the master-at-arms was known by any other name or title than "the man in the cellar." A few minutes before tattoo, "Bill" and "Stump" came up and intimated by signs that I was to accompany them to the forward part of the berth deck.

On reaching the extreme end, which was occupied by an immense hawser reel, "Bill" indicated a hammock which was swinging with the forward clews directly above the great spool, or reel.
"If young Potter doesn't think this old hooker is haunted I'll never play another joke," he chuckled.

"Get in and show him, 'Stump.'" The latter grasped two hooks, gave himself a swing, landed in the hammock, and in an instant struck the deck with a thump, the hammock under him.