Hard,
their boats coming and going. But they are men-of-war, he is told, and
not the sort for him. Notwithstanding his ambitious hope of one day
becoming a naval hero, he does not quite relish the idea of being a
common sailor--at least on a man-of-war. It were too like enlisting in
the army to serve as a private soldier--a thing not to be thought of by
the son of a yeoman-farmer. Besides, he has heard of harsh discipline
on war-vessels, and that the navy tar, when in a foreign port, is
permitted to see little more of the country than may be viewed over the
rail or from the rigging of his ship. A merchantman is the craft he
inclines to--at least, to make a beginning with--especially one that
trades from port to port, visiting many lands; for, in truth, his
leaning toward a sea life has much to do with a desire to see the world
and its wonders. Above all, would a whaler be to his fancy, as among
the most interesting books of his reading have been some that described
the "Chase of Leviathan," and he longs to take a part in it.

But Portsmouth is not the place for whaling vessels, not one such being
there.

For the merchantmen he is directed to their special harbour, and
proceeding thither he finds several lying alongside the wharves, some
taking in cargo, some discharging it, with two or three fully freighted
and ready to set sail. These last claim his attention first, and,
screwing up courage, he boards one, and asks if he may speak with her
captain.

The captain being pointed out to him, he modestly and somewhat timidly
makes known his wishes. But he meets only with an offhand denial,
couched in words of scant courtesy.

Disconcerted, though not at all discouraged, he tries another ship; but
with _no_ better success. Then another, and another with like result,
until he has boarded nearly every vessel in the harbour having a
gangway-plank out. Some of the skippers receive him even rudely, and
one almost brutally, saying, "We don't want landlubbers on this craft.
So cut ashore--quick!"

Henry Chester's hopes, high-tide at noon, ere night are down to lowest
ebb, and, greatly humiliated, he almost wishes himself back on the old
farmstead by Godalming. He is even again considering whether it would
not be better to give it up and go back, when his eyes chance to stray
to a flag on whose corner is a cluster of stars on a blue ground, with a
field of red and white bands alternating. It droops over the taffrai