Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy. William Henry Giles Kingston

as he was called, did his best, though often unsuccessfully, to please his numerous masters.

      “Why do you stand there, staring like a stuffed pig?” exclaimed Devereux, who was near the door. “It is the beef, not your calf’s head we want. Away now, be smart about it.”

      The sally produced a hoarse laugh from all those sufficiently sober to understand a joke.

      “The beef, sir; what beef?” asked boy Gerrard in a tone of alarm.

      “Our beef,” shouted old Noakes, heaving a biscuit at the boy’s head. It was fortunate that no heavy missile was in his hand. “Take that to sharpen your wits.”

      Devereux laughed with others at the old mate’s roughness. The boy gave an angry glance at him as he hurried off to the midshipmen’s larder to execute the order.

      Before long, boy Gerrard was seen staggering along the deck towards the berth with a huge piece of salt beef in his hands, and endeavouring to keep his legs as the frigate gave a heavy lurch or pitched forward, as she forced her way over the tumultuous seas. Boy Gerrard gazed at the berth of his many masters. He thought that he could reach it in another run. He made the attempt, but it was down hill, and before he could save himself he had shot the beef, though not the dish, into the very centre of the table, whence it bounded off and hit O’Grady, the Irish midshipman, a blow on the eye, which knocked him backward. Poor Gerrard stood gazing into the berth, and prepared for the speedy punishment which his past experience had taught him would follow.

      “By the piper, but I’ll teach you to keep a taughter gripe of the beef for the future, you spalpeen,” exclaimed O’Grady, recovering himself, and about to hurl back the joint at the head of the unfortunate boy, when his arm was grasped by Devereux, who cried out, laughing—“Preserve the beef and your temper, Paddy, and if boy Gerrard, after proper trial, shall be found to have purposely hurled the meat at your wise caput, he shall be forthwith delivered over to condign punishment.”

      “Oh, hang your sea-lawyer arguments; I’ll break the chap’s head, and listen to them afterwards,” cried O’Grady, attempting to spring up to put his threat into execution.

      Devereux again held him back, observing, “Break the boy’s head if you like; I have no interest in preserving it, except that we may not find another boy to take his place; but you must listen to my arguments before you commence operations.”

      “Hear, hear! lawyer Devereux is about to open his mouth,” cried several voices.

      “Come, pass me the beef, and let me put some of it into my mouth, which is open already,” exclaimed Peter Bruff, another of the older mates, who having just descended from the deck, and thrown off his dripping outer coat, had taken his seat at the table. His hair and whiskers were still wet with spray, his hands showed signs of service, and his fine open countenance—full of good-nature, and yet expressive of courage and determination, had a somewhat weather-worn appearance, though his crisp, curling, light hair showed that he was still in the early prime of manhood.

      “Listen, gentlemen of the jury, and belay your jaw-tackles you who have no business in the matter, and Bruff being judge, I will plead boy Gerrard’s cause against Paddy O’Grady, Esquire, midshipman of his Majesty’s frigate Cerberus,” cried Devereux, striking the table with his fist, a proceeding which obtained a momentary silence. “To commence, I must go back to first causes. You understand, gentlemen of the jury, that there is a strong wind blowing, which has kicked up a heavy sea, which is tossing about our stout ship in a way to make it difficult for a seaman, and much more for a ship’s boy, to keep his legs, and therefore I suggest—”

      “Belay all that, Master Long-tongue,” shouted Noakes; “if the boy is to be cobbed, why let’s cob him; if not, why let him fill the mustard-pot, for it’s empty.”

      Others now joined in; some were for cobbing poor Gerrard forthwith; others, who had not had their supper, insisted on the mustard-pot being first replenished.

      Devereux had gained his point in setting his messmates by the ears, and Peter Bruff seeing his object, sent off Gerrard for a supply of the required condiment. It was O’Grady’s next watch on deck; and thus before Gerrard returned, he had been compelled to leave the berth. Devereux, however, immediately afterwards turned on Gerrard and scolded him harshly for not keeping steady while waiting at the door of the berth. At length the master-at-arms came round, the midshipmen were sent to their hammocks, and Paul Gerrard was allowed to turn into his. He felt very sick and very miserable. It was the commencement of his sea life, a life for which he had long and enthusiastically yearned, and this was what it proved to be. How different the reality from what he had expected! He could have cried aloud for very bitterness of heart, but that he was ashamed to allow his sobs to be heard.

      “He treat me thus! he by birth my equal! to speak to me as if I was a slave! he who might have been in my place, had there been justice done us, while I should have been in his. A hard fate is mine; but yet I chose it, and I’ll bear it.”

      With such thoughts passing through his mind, the young ship-boy fell asleep, and for a time forgot his cares and suffering. He dreamed of happier times, when he with his parents and brothers and sisters enjoyed all the luxuries which wealth could give, and he was a loved and petted child. Then came a lawsuit, the subject of which he could not comprehend. All he knew was, that it was with the Devereux family. It resulted in the loss to his father of his entire fortune, and Paul remembered hearing him say that they were beggars. “That is what I will not be,” he had exclaimed; “I can work—we can all work—I will work.”

      Paul was to be tried severely. His father died broken-hearted. It seemed too probable that his mother would follow him ere long. Paul had always desired to go to sea. He could no longer hope to tread the quarter-deck as an officer, yet he still kept to his determination of following a life on the ocean.

      “I will enter as a cabin-boy; I will work my way upwards. Many have done so, why should not I?” he exclaimed with enthusiasm; “I will win wealth to support you all, and honours for myself. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way.’ I don’t see the way very clearly just now; but that is the opening through which I am determined to work my way onward.”

      Paul’s mother, though a well-educated and very excellent person, knew nothing whatever of the world. She would, indeed, have hesitated, had she known the real state of the case, and what he would have to go through, ere she allowed her son to enter before the mast on board a man-of-war; but she had no one on whom she could rely, to consult in the matter. Mrs. Gerrard had retired to the humble cottage of a former servant in a retired village, where she hoped that the few pounds a year she had left her would enable her to support herself and her children, with the aid of such needlework as she might obtain. Little did she think, poor woman, to what trying difficulties she would be exposed. Not only must she support herself, but educate her children. She had saved a few books for this purpose, and some humble furniture for her little cottage; everything else had been sold to raise the small sum on the interest of which she was to live.

      “Mother! mother! do let me at once go to sea!” exclaimed Paul, who understood tolerably well the state of affairs. “I can do nothing at home to help you, and only eat up what should feed others; if I go to sea, I shall get food and clothing, and pay and prize-money, and be able to send quantities of gold guineas home to you. Reuben Cole has been telling me all about it; and he showed me a purse full of great gold pieces, just the remains of what he came ashore with a few weeks ago. He was going to give most of it to his sister, who has a number of children, and then go away to sea again, and, dear mother, he promised to take me with him if you would let me go. Mary and Fred will help all the better, when I am away, to teach Sarah and John and Ann, and Fred is so fond of books that he is certain to get on some day, somehow or other.”

      What could the poor widow say to these appeals often repeated? What could she hope to do for her boy? There was a romance attached in those times to a sea life felt by all classes, which scarcely exists at the present day. She sent for Reuben Cole, who, though a rough sailor, seemed to have a kind heart. He promised to act the part of a father towards the boy to the best of his power, undertaking