giving me a friendly nod, the master-at-arms dismissed us,
and the ship's corporal conducted us down the nearest hatchway to the
lower deck.

At the other end of this we three neophytes were ushered into a large
apartment, fitted with rows of desks and benches, arranged in parallel
lines, which gave it the appearance of an ordinary schoolroom ashore;
the only difference being that there was a harmonium on one side, and a
cottage piano on the other, while a large circular band-stand stood in
between the two in the centre.

Here one of the assistant-masters took charge of us, placing `Ugly' and
`Rattlebrains,' as I had mentally christened my two companions, along
with myself at a table in a corner of the room, away from the rest of
the boys, some three hundred odd in number, who were all busy at their
lessons.

No great obstacle to our joining the service was put in our way by the
examination which we underwent; for, after being asked to spell a few
easy words, tested as to our arithmetic with a sum in simple addition,
and the multiplication table as far as six times six, besides being
given a short sentence from some reader to write from dictation, the
head schoolmaster filled up a form, which he attached to our papers,
notifying that we were sufficiently educated to become _Saint Vincent_
boys.

Our ordeal was thus ended.

The three of us were then escorted back again to the police office on
the middle deck, where our papers were again handed to the master-at-
arms to show that the regulations had been complied with.

This functionary did not seem at all surprised at our reappearance.

"Ha, Bowling, so you've passed your schooling all right, my lad, eh?" he
said to me. "I thought you'd manage to pull through, somehow or other;
and you, too, young shaver--you with that fine pair of flesh-coloured
stockings on, I mean! I can't quite make out your name here from the
writing. It looks like `Damerum,' or `Dunekin,' or `Donkeyvan,' or
something of that sort! What do you call yourself, my lad, when you're
at home, eh?"

"Donovan, sor," promptly answered my friend the ragged boy without any
covering to his feet, whom, of course, he was addressing. "Me name's
Mick Donovan, sor."

"An Irishman, eh?"

"No, sor; Oi'm an Oitalian, yer honour."

The master-at-arms burst out laughing, for really the devil-me-care
chap's brogue was strong enough to have hung a kettle full of potatoes
on it. Even the ship's corpora