"Well, I ain't in it, anyhow," he swore. But certainly "Tom Deane, A.B." was in it, and was having a holy time. When the admiral woke, which he did after half an hour's shaking administered in turns by three of the _California's_ crew, who were anxious to know where he had stowed his bottle of rum, he was still confused with the "dope" given him ashore. So he lay pretty still and said: "Send Mr. Selwyn to me." But Selwyn was his flag-lieutenant, and was just then the centre of interest to many reporters. "Send hell; rouse out, old son, and turn to," said one of his new mates. And the admiral rose and rested on his elbow. "Where am I?" "On board the _California_, to be sure." "I'm dreaming," said the admiral, "that's what it is. To be sure, I'm dreaming." There was something in his accent as he made this statement that roused curiosity in the others. "No, you ain't--not much," said the first man who had spoken; "and even if you was, I guess Simpson will wake you. Rouse up before he comes along again. He was in here an hour back inquiring for the trumpet of the Day of Judgment to rouse you. Come along, Deane! Now then!" "My name's Dunn," said the admiral, with contracted brows. "Devil doubt it," said his friend; "and who done you? Was it Shanghai Smith?" The admiral sat up suddenly, and by so doing brought his head into violent contact with the deck above him. This woke him thoroughly, just in time to receive Mr. Simpson, mate of the _California_, who came in like a cyclone to inquire after his health. "Did you ship as a dead man?" asked Mr. Simpson, "for if you did, I'll undeceive you." And with that he yanked the admiral from his bunk, and dragged him by the collar out upon the deck at a run. Mr. Simpson was "bucko" to his finger-tips, and had never been licked upon the high seas. But for that matter Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Dunn, K.C.B., had never hauled down his flag either to any man. It surprised him, as it would have surprised any of his crew, to find that he took this handling almost meekly. But then no one knows what he would do if the sky fell; and as far as the admiral was concerned, the entire world was an absurd and ridiculous nightmare. He rose at the end of his undignified progress and stared at the mate. "Who--who are you?" he said. Mr. Simpson gasped. "Who am I--oh, who am I? Well, I'll oblige you by statin' once for all that I'm mate of this ship, and you're my dog." But the "dog" shook his head. "Nothing of the sort," he said, as he staggered with the remains of the opiate. "I'm a British admiral, and my name's Sir Richard Dunn. Where's my ship?" Any ordinary kind of back-answer or insubordination received only one kind of treatment on board the _California_, and when a man had been beaten to a jelly, he rarely recovered enough spirit to inquire why he had been hammered. But this was a new departure in back-talk. "Oh, you're an admiral--an admiral, heh?" said Simpson.