We accounted ourselves the best seamen in the ship; and from our airy perch, literally looked down upon the landlopers below, sneaking about the deck, among the guns.

In a large degree, we nourished that feeling of "_esprit de corps_," always pervading, more or less, the various sections of a man-of-war's crew.

We main-top-men were brothers, one and all, and we loaned ourselves to each other with all the freedom in the world.
Nevertheless, I had not long been a member of this fraternity of fine fellows, ere I discovered that Jack Chase, our captain was--like all prime favorites and oracles among men--a little bit of a dictator; not peremptorily, or annoyingly so, but amusingly intent on egotistically mending our manners and improving our taste, so that we might reflect credit upon our tutor.
He made us all wear our hats at a particular angle--instructed us in the tie of our neck-handkerchiefs; and protested against our wearing vulgar _dungeree_ trowsers; besides giving us lessons in seamanship; and solemnly conjuring us, forever to eschew the company of any sailor we suspected of having served in a whaler.

Against all whalers, indeed, he cherished the unmitigated detestation of a true man-of-war's man.
Poor Tubbs can testify to that.
Tubbs was in the After-Guard; a long, lank Vineyarder, eternally talking of line-tubs, Nantucket, sperm oil, stove boats, and Japan.
Nothing could silence him; and his comparisons were ever invidious.
Now, with all his soul, Jack abominated this Tubbs.

He said he was vulgar, an upstart--Devil take him, he's been in a whaler.