“He’s mad!  He’s mad!” said the officer, with delirious conclusiveness.  “Take him away, take him away, take him away—­put him somewhere, master-at-arms.  Stay, one test more.  What mess do you belong to?”

“Number 12, sir.”

“Mr. Tidds,” to a midshipman, “send mess No. 12 to the mast.”

Ten sailors replied to the summons, and arranged themselves before Israel.

“Men, does this man belong to your mess?”

“No, sir; never saw him before this morning.”

“What are those men’s names?” he demanded of Israel.

“Well, sir, I am so intimate with all of them,” looking upon them with a kindly glance, “I never call them by their real names, but by nicknames.  So, never using their real names, I have forgotten them.  The nicknames that I know, them by, are Towser, Bowser, Rowser, Snowser.”

“Enough.  Mad as a March hare.  Take him away.  Hold,” again added the officer, whom some strange fascination still bound to the bootless investigation.  “What’s my name, sir?”

“Why, sir, one of my messmates here called you Lieutenant Williamson, just now, and I never heard you called by any other name.”

“There’s method in his madness,” thought the officer to himself.  “What’s the captain’s name?”

“Why, sir, when we spoke the enemy, last night, I heard him say, through his trumpet, that he was Captain Parker; and very likely he knows his own name.”

“I have you now.  That ain’t the captain’s real name.”

“He’s the best judge himself, sir, of what his name is, I should think.”

“Were it not,” said the officer, now turning gravely upon his juniors, “were it not that such a supposition were on other grounds absurd, I should certainly conclude that this man, in some unknown way, got on board here from the enemy last night.”

“How could he, sir?” asked the sailing-master.

“Heaven knows.  But our spanker-boom geared the other ship, you know, in manoeuvring to get headway.”

“But supposing he could have got here that fashion, which is quite impossible under all the circumstances, what motive could have induced him voluntarily to jump among enemies?”

“Let him answer for himself,” said the officer, turning suddenly upon Israel, with the view of taking him off his guard, by the matter of course assumption of the very point at issue.

“Answer, sir.  Why did you jump on board here, last night, from the enemy?”

“Jump on board, sir, from the enemy?  Why, sir, my station at general quarters is at gun No. 3, of the lower deck, here.”

“He’s cracked—­or else I am turned—­or all the world is;—­take him away!”

“But where am I to take him, sir?” said the master-at-arms.  “He don’t seem to belong anywhere, sir.  Where—­where am I to take him?”

“Take him-out of sight,” said the officer, now incensed with his own perplexity.  “Take him out of sight, I say.”