“Every one, sir. All hands seem to be against me; none of them willing to remember me.”
“Tell me,” demanded the officer earnestly, “how long do you remember yourself? Do you remember yesterday morning? You must have come into existence by some sort of spontaneous combustion in the hold. Or were you fired aboard from the enemy, last night, in a cartridge? Do you remember yesterday?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“What was you doing yesterday?”
“Well, sir, for one thing, I believe I had the honor of a little talk with yourself.”
“With me?”
“Yes, sir; about nine o’clock in the morning—the sea being smooth and the ship running, as I should think, about seven knots—you came up into the maintop, where I belong, and was pleased to ask my opinion about the best way to set a topgallant stu’n’-sail.”
“He’s mad! He’s mad!” said the officer, with delirious conclusiveness. “Take him away, take him away, take him away—put him somewhere, master-at-arms. Stay, one test more. What mess do you belong to?”
“Number 12, sir.”
“Mr. Tidds,” to a midshipman, “send mess No. 12 to the mast.”