"Abraham Hackett. Is that your name, lad?"
"No, sir. I'm called Maurice Tiernay."
"Tiernay, Tiernay," said he a couple of times over. "No such name here."
"Where's Tiernay's name, Cottle?" asked he of a subordinate behind him.
The fellow looked down the list—then at me—then at the list again—and then back to me, puzzled excessively by the difficulty, but not seeing how to explain it.
"Perhaps I can set the matter right, sir," said I. "I came aboard along with a wounded countryman of mine—the young Frenchman who is now in the sick bay."
"Ay, to be sure; I remember all about it now," said the lieutenant. "You call yourselves French officers?"
"And such are we, sir."
"Then how the devil came ye here? Mother Martin's cellar is, to say the least of it, an unlikely spot to select as a restaurant."
"The story is a somewhat long one, sir."