an 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. As he rolled out I rubbed my eyes. The hammock had swiftly
returned to its former position!

"It isn't hoodooed," grinned "Bill." "Just look here."

He hauled up on the head clews and presently a five-inch shell appeared
above the top of the reel. The shell was fastened to the end of the
hammock lashing, at the other end of which was attached the ring. The
lashing led over the hook, and the weight of the shell was just
sufficient to keep the hammock in its place. As I finished inspecting
the clever contrivance, the boatswain's mate piped tattoo.

We hurried away to watch from a distance. Laughing and singing, the
fellows trooped down to prepare for turning in; the hard labor of the
day had not dampened their spirits. The deck soon presented an animated
scene. A number of us had slept long enough on board the "New Hampshire"
to become accustomed to man-o'-war style, but the new recruits were like
so many cats in a strange garret. They stood about, glancing doubtfully
at their hammocks and then at their clothes. They did not know just what
to do with either.

"How do you get into the thing, I wonder?" asked the fellow from Harlem,
eyeing his suspended bed.

"Borrow the navigator's step-ladder," suggested the coxs'n of the gig.
"He keeps it in the chart room."

The greatest difficulty was the disposal of our clothes. There were no
wardrobes nor closets nor convenient hooks, and it was strictly against
the rule to leave anything lying around