“A scamp, I take,” broke in the consul, “who, having done his worst on shore, takes to the sea for a refuge?”
“Partly right,—partly wrong,” was the dry answer.
“Well, my smart fellow, there 's no help for it. You must give your name and your birthplace; and if they should prove false ones, take any consequences that might result.”
“What sort of consequences might these be?” asked Tony, calmly; and the consul, having either spoken without any distinct knowledge attached to his words, or provoked by the pertinacity of the question, half irritably answered: “I 've no time to throw away in discussing casualties; give your name or go your way.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured the skipper. “Who knows anything about you down here?—Just sign the sheet and let's be moving.”
The sort of good-humored tone and look that went with the words decided Tony, and he took the pen and wrote “Tony Butler, Ireland.”
The consul glanced at the writing, and said, “What part of Ireland? Name a town or a village.”
“I cannot; my father was a soldier, quartered in various places, and I 'm not sure in what part of the island I was born.”
“Tony Butler means Anthony Butler, I suppose?”
“Tony Butler!” cried the consul's friend, suddenly starting up, and coming forward; “did you say your name was Tony Butler?”