The reason why he had tried the scheme—­and, spite of the foregoing failure, meant to repeat it—­was this:  As customary in armed ships, the men were in companies allotted to particular places and functions.  Therefore, to escape final detection, Israel must some way get himself recognized as belonging to some one of those bands; otherwise, as an isolated nondescript, discovery ere long would be certain, especially upon the next general muster.  To be sure, the hope in question was a forlorn sort of hope, but it was his sole one, and must therefore be tried.

Mixing in again for a while with the general watch, he at last goes on the forecastle among the sheet-anchor-men there, at present engaged in critically discussing the merits of the late valiant encounter, and expressing their opinion that by daybreak the enemy in chase would be hull-down out of sight.

“To be sure she will,” cried Israel, joining in with the group, “old ballyhoo that she is, to be sure.  But didn’t we pepper her, lads?  Give us a chew of tobacco, one of ye.  How many have we wounded, do ye know?  None killed that I’ve heard of.  Wasn’t that a fine hoax we played on ’em?  Ha! ha!  But give us a chew.”

In the prodigal fraternal patriotism of the moment, one of the old worthies freely handed his plug to our adventurer, who, helping himself, returned it, repeating the question as to the killed and wounded.

“Why,” said he of the plug, “Jack Jewboy told me, just now, that there’s only seven men been carried down to the surgeon, but not a soul killed.”

“Good, boys, good!” cried Israel, moving up to one of the gun-carriages, where three or four men were sitting—­“slip along, chaps, slip along, and give a watchmate a seat with ye.”

“All full here, lad; try the next gun.”

“Boys, clear a place here,”, said Israel, advancing, like one of the family, to that gun.

“Who the devil are you, making this row here?” demanded a stern-looking old fellow, captain of the forecastle, “seems to me you make considerable noise.  Are you a forecastleman?”

“If the bowsprit belongs here, so do I,” rejoined Israel, composedly.

“Let’s look at ye, then!” and seizing a battle-lantern, before thrust under a gun, the old veteran came close to Israel before he had time to elude the scrutiny.

“Take that!” said his examiner, and fetching Israel a terrible thump, pushed him ignominiously off the forecastle as some unknown interloper from distant parts of the ship.

With similar perseverance of effrontery, Israel tried other quarters of the vessel.  But with equal ill success.  Jealous with the spirit of class, no social circle would receive him.  As a last resort, he dived down among the holders.

A group of them sat round a lantern, in the dark bowels of the ship, like a knot of charcoal burners in a pine forest at midnight.

“Well, boys, what’s the good word?” said Israel, advancing very cordially, but keeping as much as possible in the shadow.