"Victory," for duty at Haslar Hospital, about a couple of months after
my application.

My official chief at Haslar was a very remarkable person, the late Sir
John Richardson, an excellent naturalist and far-famed as an indomitable
Arctic traveller. He was a silent, reserved man, outside the circle of
his family and intimates; and having a full share of youthful vanity, I
was extremely disgusted to find that "Old John," as we irreverent
youngsters called him, took not the slightest notice of my worshipful
self, either the first time I attended him, as it was my duty to do, or
for some weeks afterwards. I am afraid to think of the lengths to which
my tongue may have run on the subject of the churlishness of the chief,
who was, in truth, one of the kindest-hearted and most considerate of
men. But one day, as I was crossing the hospital square, Sir John
stopped me and heaped coals of fire on my head by telling me that he had
tried to get me one of the resident appointments, much coveted by the
assistant-surgeons, but that the Admiralty had put in another man.
"However," said he, "I mean to keep you here till I can get you
something you will like," and turned upon his heel without waiting for
the thanks I stammered out. That explained how it was I had not been
packed off to the West Coast of Africa like some of my juniors, and why,
eventually, I remained altogether seven months at Haslar.

After a long interval, during which "Old John" ignored my existence
almost as completely as before, he stopped me again as we met in a
casual way, and describing the service on which the "Rattlesnake" was
likely to be employed, said that Captain Owen Stanley, who was to
command the ship, had asked him to recommend an assistant surgeon who
knew something of science; would I like that? Of course I jumped at the
offer. "Very well, I give you leave; go to London at once and see