Ten sailors replied to the summons, and arranged themselves before Israel.
“Men, does this man belong to your mess?”
“No, sir; never saw him before this morning.”
“What are those men’s names?” he demanded of Israel.
“Well, sir, I am so intimate with all of them,” looking upon them with a kindly glance, “I never call them by their real names, but by nicknames. So, never using their real names, I have forgotten them. The nicknames that I know, them by, are Towser, Bowser, Rowser, Snowser.”
“Enough. Mad as a March hare. Take him away. Hold,” again added the officer, whom some strange fascination still bound to the bootless investigation. “What’s my name, sir?”
“Why, sir, one of my messmates here called you Lieutenant Williamson, just now, and I never heard you called by any other name.”
“There’s method in his madness,” thought the officer to himself. “What’s the captain’s name?”
“Why, sir, when we spoke the enemy, last night, I heard him say, through his trumpet, that he was Captain Parker; and very likely he knows his own name.”
“I have you now. That ain’t the captain’s real name.”