as an ordinary small boy, I had my share. I have spoken of
the starvation at Dr. Pinkney's; here it was the terrible
bullying that left its impress on me - literally its mark,
for I still bear the scar upon my hand.

Most boys, I presume, know the toy called a whirligig, made
by stringing a button on a loop of thread, the twisting and
untwisting of which by approaching and separating the hands
causes the button to revolve. Upon this design, and by
substituting a jagged disk of slate for the button, the
senior 'Bull-dogs' (we were all called 'Burney's bull-dogs')
constructed a very simple instrument of torture. One big boy
spun the whirligig, while another held the small boy's palm
till the sharp slate-edge gashed it. The wound was severe.
For many years a long white cicatrice recorded the fact in my
right hand. The ordeal was, I fancy, unique - a prerogative
of the naval 'bull-dogs.' The other torture was, in those
days, not unknown to public schools. It was to hold a boy's
back and breech as near to a hot fire as his clothes would
bear without burning. I have an indistinct recollection of a
boy at one of our largest public schools being thus exposed,
and left tied to chairs while his companions were at church.
When church was over the boy was found - roasted.

By the advice of a chum I submitted to the scorching without
a howl, and thus obtained immunity, and admission to the
roasting guild for the future. What, however, served me
best, in all matters of this kind, was that as soon as I was
twelve years old my name was entered on the books of the
'Britannia,' then flag-ship in Portsmouth Harbour, and though