ssed. "I am no great preacher, my boy, but remember there's One
ever watching over you, and He'll be true to you if you try honestly to
be true to Him," said the boatswain, as he wrung his son's hand, and
stepped down the side of the fine frigate to which Pearce through the
interest of his late captain had been appointed. The crew went tramping
round the capstan to the sound of the merry fife, the anchor was away,
and under a wide spread of snowy canvas the dashing "Blanche" of
thirty-two guns, commanded by the gallant Captain Faulkner, stood
through the Needle passage between the Isle of Wight and the main, on
her way down channel, bound out to the West Indies. It was a station
where hurricanes, yellow fever, and sicknesses, and dangers of all sorts
were to be encountered, but it was also one where enemies were to be met
with, battles to be fought, prizes to be captured, and prize-money to be
made, glory, honour, and promotion to be obtained, and who on board for
a moment balanced one against the other?

Several of Pearce's old shipmates were on board the "Blanche," and two
of his messmates, from one of whom, Harry Verner, he would rather have
been separated; the other, David Bonham, he was very glad to see.
Between Bonham and Verner the contrast was very great; for the former,
though of excellent family, was the most unpretending fellow possible,
free from pride, vanity, and selfishness, and kind-hearted, generous,
good tempered, and the merriest of the merry. The first A.B. who
volunteered for the "Blanche," when he knew Mr Pearce had been
appointed to her, was Dick Rogers, an old friend of his father's, with
whom he had served man and boy the best part of his life; and if there
was one thing more strongly impressed on Dick's mind than another, it
was that John Ripley, the boatswain, ought to have been a post-captain.
For his father's sake Dick had at first loved Pearce, and now loved him
for his own. "Though his father isn't what he should be, he shall be,
that he shall, or it won't be my fault," he said to himself. Dick was
no scholar, and had not many ideas beyond those connected with his
profession, except that particular one in favour of Pearce which might
or might not be of any service to him, and yet let us never despise a
friend, however humble. Pearce did not, though he possibly had not read
the fable of the lion and the mouse.

Dick Rogers was short and broad in the shoulders, though not fat, with a