One
of his neighbours punched him in the ribs asking roughly:--"What's
the matter with your cheek? In fine weather there's no holding you,
youngster." Turning about with prudence he worked himself out of
his coat and threw it over the boy. The other man closed up,
muttering:--"'Twill make a bloomin' man of you, sonny." They flung their
arms over and pressed against him. Charley drew his feet up and his
eyelids dropped. Sighs were heard, as men, perceiving that they were not
to be "drowned in a hurry," tried easier positions. Mr. Creighton, who
had hurt his leg, lay amongst us with compressed lips. Some fellows
belonging to his watch set about securing him better. Without a word
or a glance he lifted his arms one after another to facilitate the
operation, and not a muscle moved in his stern, young face. They
asked him with solicitude:--"Easier now, sir?" He answered with a
curt:--"That'll do." He was a hard young officer, but many of his
watch used to say they liked him well enough because he had "such a
gentlemanly way of damning us up and down the deck." Others unable to
discern such fine shades of refinement, respected him for his smartness.
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