- end_line
- 6222
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.591Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 6116
- text
- “My name, sir, is Peter Perkins,” said Israel, thinking it most prudent
to conceal his real appellation.
“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?”
“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.”
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.”
“He’s the best judge himself, sir, of what his name is, I should
think.”
“Were it not,” said the officer, now turning gravely upon his juniors,
“were it not that such a supposition were on other grounds absurd, I
should certainly conclude that this man, in some unknown way, got on
board here from the enemy last night.”
“How could he, sir?” asked the sailing-master.
“Heaven knows. But our spanker-boom geared the other ship, you know, in
manoeuvring to get headway.”
- title
- Chunk 6