“I will assign you to a deck division for the present. Here are the numbers for your sea bags and hammocks. Here are your ditty boxes.” He handed to the lads two boxes each about a foot square, neatly made and varnished. A lock and key was attached to each, and on the top of each box was a number.
Sam took his box under his arm. He seemed to be doubtful as to just what he was expected to do with the box, but at the moment he had no opportunity to ask, for once more the master-at-arms was beckoning the boys to follow him.
“There he goes again. Another sprinting match,” muttered Hickey. “I shall have an appetite when I get through with this race.”
“You don’t need exercise to give you an appetite,” retorted Dan. “That’s one of the things you always have with you.”
They were going forward through the interior of the ship, though by this time Sam had lost his bearings entirely. He could not have told whether they were going forward or aft.
“Two recruits just come aboard, sir,” announced the master-at-arms.
This time it was to the boatswain’s mate that they were introduced.
“Come in, lads,” he said in a voice that Sam afterwards decided must have come from the boatswain’s boots. The voice was deep and hoarse and fearsome, but the smile that followed the words was entirely reassuring.
“He isn’t half as fierce as he looks,” muttered Hickey in a whisper so loud and plain as to reach the ears of the boatswain’s mate. The latter smiled broadly.
“No; you need not be afraid of me, my lads. The boatswain’s mate is supposed to be a sort of father and mother, all in one, to the raw recruit. I suppose you have learned everything there is to know since you have been at the Newport station, have you not?”