“Come along, then, my ghost,” said the master-at-arms.  And, collaring the phantom, he led it hither and thither, not knowing exactly what to do with it.

Some fifteen minutes passed, when the captain coming from his cabin, and observing the master-at-arms leading Israel about in this indefinite style, demanded the reason of that procedure, adding that it was against his express orders for any new and degrading punishments to be invented for his men.

“Come here, master-at-arms.  To what end do you lead that man about?”

“To no end in the world, sir.  I keep leading him about because he has no final destination.”

“Mr. Officer-of-the-deck, what does this mean?  Who is this strange man?  I don’t know that I remember him.  Who is he?  And what is signified by his being led about?”

Hereupon the officer-of-the-deck, throwing himself into a tragical posture, set forth the entire mystery; much to the captain’s astonishment, who at once indignantly turned upon the phantom.

“You rascal—­don’t try to deceive me.  Who are you? and where did you come from last?”

“Sir, my name is Peter Perkins, and I last came from the forecastle, where the master-at-arms last led me, before coming here.”

“No joking, sir, no joking.”

“Sir, I’m sure it’s too serious a business to joke about.”

“Do you have the assurance to say, that you, as a regularly shipped man, have been on board this vessel ever since she sailed from Falmouth, ten months ago?”

“Sir, anxious to secure a berth under so good a commander, I was among the first to enlist.”

“What ports have we touched at, sir?” said the captain, now in a little softer tone.

“Ports, sir, ports?”

“Yes, sir, ports”

Israel began to scratch his yellow hair.

“What ports, sir?”

“Well, sir:—­Boston, for one.”

“Right there,” whispered a midshipman.

“What was the next port, sir?”

“Why, sir, I was saying Boston was the first port, I believe; wasn’t it?—­and”—­

“The second port, sir, is what I want.”

“Well—­New York.”

“Right again,” whispered the midshipman.

“And what port are we bound to, now?”

“Let me see—­homeward-bound—­Falmouth, sir.”

“What sort of a place is Boston?”

“Pretty considerable of a place, sir.”

“Very straight streets, ain’t they?”

“Yes, sir; cow-paths, cut by sheep-walks, and intersected with hen-tracks.”

“When did we fire the first gun?”

“Well, sir, just as we were leaving Falmouth, ten months ago—­signal-gun, sir.”

“Where did we fire the first shotted gun, sir?—­and what was the name of the privateer we took upon that occasion?”

“’Pears to me, sir, at that time I was on the sick list.  Yes, sir, that must have been the time; I had the brain fever, and lost my mind for a while.”