A slight hitch now occurred, caused by Neptune forgetting his lines. He was unequal to the task of extemporizing, and the more he tried to remember what “came next,” the more confused he became. His majesty glared about, his face meanwhile becoming red with embarrassment, which poor Christian attributed to rage. The Mermaid was equal to the emergency, and came to her father’s rescue. Mike was something of a ventriloquist, and when the order was issued “Minion, box the compass!” Christian was not the only one who stared in amazement, wondering whence the strange voice proceeded. He had never been called by such a name before, and was in much doubt as to whether he was the one addressed. The Mermaid whispered something in Neptune’s ear, and the latter, tapping the culprit with his sceptre, commanded: “Answer, varlet, and quickly!” The compass was a Chinese puzzle to Christian, {175} but he dared not remain silent, and began desperately: “North, northeast, east by north-east, east by east,—” Here the crew set up a roar of derision, and the mate remarked: “A fine able seaman you are. The shipping-master that put you aboard this bark ought to be sent around the world as mate of a ship with two dozen like you for a crew!” Neptune had by this time got his bearings, and asked: “Does the sun cross the equator on the 21st of June, or the 21st day of December?” “June,” hazarded Christian. “What route must a steamer take to go from New York to Honolulu in eight days?” “The middle route.” “Why is the gulf-stream always full of sharks?” “I never knew the reason, sir.” “What year was the Panama Canal discovered?” “I—I don’t know.” “What time does the moon rise at the South Pole?” No answer. “How many wrecks are there on the bottom between here and Pitcairn Island?” “There must be a good many, sir.” Half a dozen equally absurd questions followed, most of which the wisdom of Minerva could not have answered correctly. “Enough; away with him to the shaving-chair!” finally cried Neptune. “He’s the most unpromising subject we ever came across, and calls me ‘sir,’ instead of ‘your majesty!’” An old steamer chair had been tilted back, and the victim—for such he now considered himself—was marched to it, and requested to sit down. Behind this chair stood a large wash-tub filled with water, but the tarpaulin spread over it concealed this fact. The Mermaid now produced a tar-pot, in which she swished a brush about until the “lather” was of the right consistency. A piece of sacking having been spread over the occupant of the chair, the operator brandished her brush and prepared to begin. “I don’t need to—to be shaved,” gasped Christian. This was true, for he was one of those men—mostly Finns and Scandinavians—who couldn’t have raised a beard had his life depended on it. A few colorless hairs appeared on his cheeks and upper lip, which the Mermaid proceeded to count aloud.