eral law which induced the phenomenon; and I put myself to
studying it out, as an interesting problem. At last, I came to the
conclusion--to which I still adhere--that their so long wearing only
one epaulet (for to only one does their rank entitle them) was the
infallible clew to this mystery. And when any one reflects upon so
well-known a fact, that many sea Lieutenants grow decrepit from age,
without attaining a Captaincy and wearing _two_ epaulets, which would
strike the balance between their shoulders, the above reason assigned
will not appear unwarrantable.

CHAPTER XIII.

A MAN-OF-WAR HERMIT IN A MOB.

The allusion to the poet Lemsford in a previous chapter, leads me to
speak of our mutual friends, Nord and Williams, who, with Lemsford
himself, Jack Chase, and my comrades of the main-top, comprised almost
the only persons with whom I unreservedly consorted while on board the
frigate. For I had not been long on board ere I found that it would not
do to be intimate with everybody. An indiscriminate intimacy with all
hands leads to sundry annoyances and scrapes, too often ending with a
dozen at the gang-way. Though I was above a year in the frigate, there
were scores of men who to the last remained perfect strangers to me,
whose very names I did not know, and whom I would hardly be able to
recognise now should I happen to meet them in the streets.

In the dog-watches at sea, during the early part of the evening, the
main-deck is generally filled with crowds of pedestrians, promenading
up and down past the guns, like people taking the air in Broadway. At
such times, it is curious to see the men nodding to each other's
recognitions (they might not have seen each other for a week);
exchanging a pleasant word with a friend; making a hurried appointment
to meet him somewhere aloft on the morrow, or passing group after group
without deigning the slightest salutation. Indeed, I was not at all
singular in having but comparatively few acquaintances on board, though
certainly carrying my fastidiousness to an unusual extent.

My friend Nord was a somewhat remarkable character; and if mystery
includes romance, he certainly was a very romantic one. Before seeking
an introduction to him through Lemsford, I had often marked his tall,
spare, upright figure stalking like Don Quixote among the pigmies of
the Afterguard, to which he belonged. At first I found him exceedingly
reserved and taciturn; his saturnine brow wore a