going somewhere, and never arriving. In some things, they almost
have a harder time of it than the seamen themselves. They are
messengers and errand-boys to their superiors.

"Mr. Pert," cries an officer of the deck, hailing a young
gentleman forward. Mr. Pert advances, touches his hat, and
remains in an attitude of deferential suspense. "Go and tell the
boatswain I want him." And with this perilous errand, the middy
hurries away, looking proud as a king.

The middies live by themselves in the steerage, where, nowadays,
they dine off a table, spread with a cloth. They have a castor at
dinner; they have some other little boys (selected from the
ship's company) to wait upon them; they sometimes drink coffee
out of china. But for all these, their modern refinements, in
some instances the affairs of their club go sadly to rack and
ruin. The china is broken; the japanned coffee-pot dented like a
pewter mug in an ale-house; the pronged forks resemble tooth-
picks (for which they are sometimes used); the table-knives are
hacked into hand-saws; and the cloth goes to the sail-maker to be
patched. Indeed, they are something like collegiate freshmen and
sophomores, living in the college buildings, especially so far as
the noise they make in their quarters is concerned. The steerage
buzzes, hums, and swarms like a hive; or like an infant-school of
a hot day, when the school-mistress falls asleep with a fly on
her nose.

In frigates, the ward-room--the retreat of the Lieutenants--
immediately adjoining the steerage, is on the same deck with it.
Frequently, when the middies, waking early of a morning, as most