“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?”