. When the time came to
_chorrar_, to haul the nets, he would take his hand at the ropes. He
scrubbed the decks, stowed the baskets of fish in the hold, and kept
the fires going in the galley, so that the men of the crew never had a
chance to complain. And what luxuries in reward for all that enthusiasm!
When the captain and the men were through eating, the leavings were for
Pascualet and the other "cat," who had been standing by motionless and
respectful during the meal. The two boys would sit down on the bow with
black pots between their legs and loaves of bread under their arms. They
would eat almost everything with their spoons, but when scooping became
too slow, they would begin to mop the bottoms of the pots with crusts of
bread till the metal was polished and shining. Then they would carefully
collect the few drops of wine that the men had left in their tin cups.
Finally, if there was no work to do, the "cats" would lie down like
princes in the forecastle, their shirt-tails hanging out, their bellies
toward the stars, their faces pleasantly tickled by the breeze, till
they were rocked to sleep by the swaying of the vessel. There was
tobacco a-plenty. _Tio_ Borrasca was always raising a rumpus because he
couldn't understand how his pockets ran empty so soon, now of the
_alguilla_ of Algiers, now of the Havana fine cut--according to the
stock of the latest smuggler to make the Cabanal.

That was real life in Pascualet's eyes. Every time he came in, his
mother could see that he had grown, was stronger, tanned a darker brown,
but as good-natured as ever in spite of his fights with other "cats,"
husky little hectors who would stop at nothing, and who always puffed
smoke in your face, when you talked to them, from pipes as big as they
were.

These rapid visits home were all there was to remind _sina_ Tona that
she had an elder son at all. The mistress of the tavern had something
else on her mind. She was now spending entire days alone in her hulk
there. "The Rector" was offshore, earning his share of _cabets_,
returning only Sundays to hand over, with a show of pride, the three or
four pesetas that represented his week's wage. The other boy, that lost
soul Tonet, had turned out a regular waster--that was the very word for
him. And he never came home unless he was hungry. He had joined the
ragamuffins along shore, a swarm of wharf rats that knew no more about
their fathers than the homeless dogs who went with them on t