put this question with a seriousness which fooled no one but the
captain.

"You come up t' the bridge some afternoon, when we've got a smooth sea,
and I'll give y' some _real_ ones." The captain's vanity was soothed,
but he was not aware that he had put doubt upon his own veracity.

"That's kind of you."

"An' say!" went on the captain, drinking his tea, not because he liked
it but because it was customary, "I've got a character forwards. I'm
allus shippin' odds and ends. Got a Frenchman; hands like a lady."

Breitmann leaned forward, and M. Ferraud sat up.

"Yessir," continued the captain; "speaks I-talyan an' English. An' if
I ever meets a lady with long soft hands like his'n, I'm for a pert
talk, straightway."

"What's the matter with his hands?" asked the admiral.

"Why, Commodore, they're as soft as Miss Laura's here, an' yet when th'
big Swede who handles th' baggage was a-foolin' with him this mornin',
it was the Swede who begs off. Nary a callous, an' yet he bowls the
big one round the deck like he was a liner being pierced by a sassy
tug. An' what gets me is, he knows every bolt from stem to stern, sir,
an' an all-round good sailor int' th' bargain; an' it don' take me
more'n twelve hours t' find that out. Well, I'm off t' th' bridge.
Good day, ladies."

When he was out of earshot the admiral roared. "He's the dearest old
liar since Muenchhausen."

"Aren't they true stories?" asked Hildegarde.

"Bless you, no! And he knows we know it, too. But he tells them so
well that I've never had the courage to sheer him off."

"It's amusing," said Laura; "but I do not think that it's always fair
to him."

"Why, Laura, you're as good a listener as any I know. Read him a
tract, if you wish."

Breitmann rose presently and sauntered forward, while M. Ferraud
snuggled down in his rugs again. The others entered into a game of
deck-cricket.

But M. Ferraud was not so ill that he was unable to steal from his
cabin at half after nine, at night, without even the steward being
aware of his departure. It can not be said that he roamed about the
deck, for whenever he moved it was in the shadow, and always forward.
By and by voices drifted down the wind. One he knew and expected,
Breitmann's; of the other he was not sure, though the French he spoke
was of classic smoothness. M. Ferraud was exceedingly interested. He
had been waiting for this meeting. Only a phrase or two could be heard
distinctly.