“Out of his mind?” rejoined the officer-of-the-deck. “He’s out of all reason; out of all men’s knowledge and memories! Why, no one knows him; no one has ever seen him before; no imagination, in the wildest flight of a morbid nightmare, has ever so much as dreamed of him. Who _are_ you?” he again added, fierce with amazement. “What’s your name? Are you down in the ship’s books, or at all in the records of nature?” “My name, sir, is Peter Perkins,” said Israel, thinking it most prudent to conceal his real appellation. “Certainly, I never heard that name before. Pray, see if Peter Perkins is down on the quarter-bills,” he added to a midshipman. “Quick, bring the book here.” Having received it, he ran his fingers along the columns, and dashing down the book, declared that no such name was there. “You are not down, sir. There is no Peter Perkins here. Tell me at once who are you?” “It might be, sir,” said Israel, gravely, “that seeing I shipped under the effects of liquor, I might, out of absent-mindedness like, have given in some other person’s name instead of my own.” “Well, what name have you gone by among your shipmates since you’ve been aboard?” “Peter Perkins, sir.” Upon this the officer turned to the men around, inquiring whether the name of Peter Perkins was familiar to them as that of a shipmate. One and all answered no. “This won’t do, sir,” now said the officer. “You see it won’t do. Who are you?” “A poor persecuted fellow at your service, sir.” “_Who_ persecutes you?” “Every one, sir. All hands seem to be against me; none of them willing to remember me.” “Tell me,” demanded the officer earnestly, “how long do you remember yourself? Do you remember yesterday morning? You must have come into existence by some sort of spontaneous combustion in the hold. Or were you fired aboard from the enemy, last night, in a cartridge? Do you remember yesterday?” “Oh, yes, sir.” “What was you doing yesterday?” “Well, sir, for one thing, I believe I had the honor of a little talk with yourself.” “With _me_?” “Yes, sir; about nine o’clock in the morning—the sea being smooth and the ship running, as I should think, about seven knots—you came up into the maintop, where I belong, and was pleased to ask my opinion about the best way to set a topgallant stu’n’-sail.” “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.