He walked forward to take a better view of the crew, and the seamen touched their caps to the shoulder straps of a lieutenant with which he had been careful to ornament his coat.
The men at work in the waist finished their task as Christy was returning from his promenade, with the intention of presenting himself to the commander.

Among those who saluted him in proper form was Walsh.
He seemed to be a little diffident about encountering the son of his late employer, and turned his face away as he touched his cap.

But the officer had fully identified him, and spoke to him, calling him by name.
The sailor made no reply; but Christy had placed himself directly before him, and he could not escape without a breach of discipline.
"I spoke to you, Walsh," said the lieutenant, in the tone he had learned to use when he intended to enforce respect and obedience.
"I beg your pardon, sir; my name is not Walsh," replied the sailor, with all the deference the occasion required.
"Your name is not Walsh!" exclaimed Christy with a frown.
"No, sir; that is not my name, and I supposed that you spoke to some other man," pleaded the late man-servant of the mansion at Bonnydale.
The lieutenant gazed earnestly into the face of the sailor, for he was willing to admit to himself the possibility of a mistake.

Walsh, or whatever his name might have been, was a man of robust form, not more than an inch or two short of six feet in height.

He was clean-shaved, with the exception of his upper lip, whereon he sported a rather long dark brown mustache, of which a Broadway dandy might have been vain.