It's a fine thing. It marks a man with noble symbols and mottoes,
and commits him to an honorable life, indelibly I may say."
"It's a little like branding a mule," said Cleary.
"Yes," said Sam; "the brand shows who owns the mule, and the tattooing
shows a man belongs to his country."
"And if he's shipwrecked and hasn't any picture-books or newspapers
with him, he can find all he wants on his own skin," said Cleary.
"Joke as you please, I think it's a patriotic custom."
"Why don't you get tattooed then?" asked Cleary.
"Do you think there's anybody on board can do it?" cried Sam
enthusiastically.
"Of course. Any of those blue-jackets can tell you whom to go to."
Sam was off before Cleary had finished his sentence. Sure enough, he
found a boatswain who was renowned as an artist, and without further
parley he delivered himself into his hands. Cleary was consulted on the
choice of designs, and the result was pronounced by all the
connoisseurs on board--and there were many--to be a masterpiece. On his
chest was a huge spread-eagle with a bunch of arrows, bayonets, and
lightning-flashes in his claws. Cannon belched forth on each side, and
the whole was flanked by a sailor on one side and a soldier on the
other. His arms were tattooed with various small designs of crossed
swords, flags, mottoes, the title of his regiment, and other such
devices.
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