with a strange
quickening of interest, "you 'ave been to Lima; you like 'eem?" No, I
had not. "I go wizzen," he said proudly. "It is because I go; zat is
why I ask. Zere is few 'ave gone wizzen." An old quartermaster walked
up to us. "There's very few come back, sir," he said. "Them
Indians----" "Ah, ze Indians," said the little man scornfully, "ze
Indians; I zeenk nozzin of ze Indians." "Beg pardon, sir," said the
old sailor, "They're a tough crowd, them copper fellers." "I no
understan';" said the Frenchman. "They pickle people's heads," said
the old sailor, "in the sand or somethin'. They keep for ever pretty
near when once they're pickled. They pickle every one's head and sell
'em in Lima: I've knowed 'em get a matter of three pound for a good
head." "Heads?" said another sailor. "I had one myself once. I got
it at Tacna, but it wasn't properly pickled or something--it was a
red-headed beggar the chap as owned it--I had to throw it away. It got
too strong for the crowd," he explained. "Ah zose Indians," said the
Frenchman. "I 'ave 'eard; zey tell me, zey tell me at Valparaiso. But
ah, it ees a fool; it ees a fool; zere is no Indians." "Beg pardon,
sir," said the old sailor, "but if you go up among them jokers, you'll
have to look slippy with a gun, sir," "Ah, a gon," he answered, "a
gon. I was not to be bozzered wiz a gon. I 'ave what you call
'eem--peestol." He produced a boy's derringer, which might have cost
about ten dollars, Spanish dollars, in the pawnshops of Santiago.
"Peestol," murmured a sailor, gasping, as he shambled forward to laugh,
"peestol, the gawdem Dago's balmy."

During the next few days I saw the Frenchman frequently. He was a
wonder to us, and his plans were discussed at every meal, and in every
watch below. In the dog-watches he would come forward, with his
eternal questions: "What is wizzin? In ze contry?" We would tell him,
"Indians, or highwaymen," or "a push of highbinders;" and he would
answer: "It ees nozzin, it ees a fool." Once he asked us if we had
heard of any gold being found "wizzen." "Gold?" said one of us.
"Gold? O' course there's gold, any God's quantity. Them Incas ate
gold; they're buried in it." "'Ave you know zem, ze Incas?" he asked
eagerly. "I seen a tomb of theirs once," said the sailor; "it were in
a cove, like the fo'c'sle yonder, and full of knittin'-needles." "What
is zem?" said the Frenchman. The sailor shambled below to his chest