"The blamed thing is spooky!" he howled, as he gathered himself
together. He made a quick run for the ladder leading on deck, but was
stopped by the master-at-arms, who demanded an explanation. While they
were arguing, "Bill" and I quickly fixed the hammock, casting off the
shell and concealing it behind a black bag. We had barely finished when
the chief petty officer came up and examined the clews. He tested them
by applying his own weight, then gave the crestfallen and astounded
Potter a few terse words of advice about eating too much supper. Five
minutes later the deck was quiet.

The hard labor of the previous day--such labor as hauling and pulling,
handling heavy boxes and casks, and bales and barrels of provisions and
ammunition--had made me dead tired, and I slept like a log until
reveille. This unpleasant function occurred at three bells (half-past
five o'clock), and it consisted of an infernal hubbub of drums and
bugles and boatswains' pipes, loud and discordant enough to awaken the
seven sleepers. We roused in a hurry, and, with eyes scarcely open,
began to lash up our hammocks.

"Seven turns, no more, no less," bawled the master-at-arms. "Get just
seven turns of the lashing around your hammocks, and get 'em quick. If
you can't pass your hammock through a foot ring, you'll go on the
report. Shake a leg there!"

The rumor had gone about that it was the custom to "swat" the last man
with a club, and there was a great scramble. We found the hammock
stowers in the nettings, which were large boxes on the gun deck, and our
queer canvas beds were soon stowed away for the day. As the reveille
hour is too early for breakfast, coffee and hard-tack is served out by