“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.” “Master-at-arms, take this man away.” “Where shall I take him, sir?” touching his cap. “Go, and air him on the forecastle.” So they resumed their devious wanderings. At last, they descended to the berth-deck. It being now breakfast-time, the master-at-arms, a good-humored man, very kindly’ introduced our hero to his mess, and presented him with breakfast, during which he in vain endeavored, by all sorts of subtle blandishments, to worm out his secret.