ities.

Something, nevertheless, suddenly jerked him from his amorous egoism,
something that was overshadowing his visage, furrowing his forehead
with wrinkles of preoccupation, and making him go aboard his vessel.

When seated in the large cabin of his ship opposite his mate, he leaned
his elbows on the table and commenced to chew on a great cigar that had
just gone out.

"We're going to start very soon," he repeated with visible abstraction.
"You will be glad, Toni; I believe that you will be delighted."

Toni remained impassive. He was waiting for something more. The captain
in starting on a voyage had always told him the port of destiny and the
special nature of the cargo. Therefore, noting that Ferragut did not
want to add anything more, he ventured to ask:

"Is it to Barcelona that we are going?"

Ulysses hesitated, looking toward the door, as though fearing to be
overheard. Then he leaned over toward Toni.

The voyage was going to be one without any danger, but one which must
be shrouded in mystery.

"I am counting on you, because you know all my affairs, because I
consider you as one of my family."

The pilot did not appear to be touched with this sample of confidence.
He still remained impassive, though within him all the uneasiness that
had been agitating him in former days was reawakening.

The captain continued talking. These were war times and it was
necessary to take advantage of them. For those two it would not be any
novelty to transport cargoes of military material. Once he had carried
from Europe arms and munitions for a revolution in South America. Toni
had recounted to him his adventures in the Gulf of California, in
command of a little schooner which had served as a transport to the
insurrectionists of the southern provinces in the revolt against the
Mexican government.

But the mate, while nodding his head affirmatively, was at the same
time looking at him with questioning eyes. What were they going to
transport on this trip?...

"Toni, it is not a matter of artillery nor of guns. Neither is it an
affair of munitions.... It is a short and well-paid job that will make
us go very little out of our way on our return to Barcelona."

He stopped himself in his confidences, feeling a curious hesitation and
finally he added, lowering his voice:

"The Germans are paying for it!... We are going to supply their
Mediterranean submarines with petrol."

Contrary to all Ferragut's expectations,