"Th-th-that m-m-man 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