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. “The good word is,” rejoined a censorious old _holder_, “that you had best go where you belong—on deck—and not be a skulking down here where you _don’t_ belong. I suppose this is the way you skulked during the fight.” “Oh, you’re growly to-night, shipmate,” said Israel, pleasantly—“supper sits hard on your conscience.” “Get out of the hold with ye,” roared the other. “On deck, or I’ll call the master-at-arms.” Once more Israel decamped. Sorely against his grain, as a final effort to blend himself openly with the crew, he now went among the _waisters_: the vilest caste of an armed ship’s company, mere dregs and settlings—sea-Pariahs, comprising all the lazy, all the inefficient, all the unfortunate and fated, all the melancholy, all the infirm, all the rheumatical scamps, scapegraces, ruined prodigal sons, sooty faces, and swineherds of the crew, not excluding those with dismal wardrobes. An unhappy, tattered, moping row of them sat along dolefully on the gun-deck, like a parcel of crest-fallen buzzards, exiled from civilized society. “Cheer up, lads,” said Israel, in a jovial tone, “homeward-bound, you know. Give us a seat among ye, friends.” “Oh, sit on your head!” answered a sullen fellow in the corner.