his pipe and walks to the vessel's side, where he
knocks out the ashes.

"Well!" I insist, "I've said I'm sorry, and in English the proper
reply to that is 'I forgive you.'"

A curious, lingering look out of those dark eyes of his.

"I forgif you," he says, as a child repeats a lesson.

"And we must be friends again, _nicht wahr_?" I hold out my hand.

"No, Senorita." He takes the hand, but shakes his head.

"No!" I echo; "why not?"

"Because I haf nefer been your friend. I haf always loaf you, I haf
forget vhat it vas like not to loaf you. It ees true you vere scarce
polite about dthe reading. I did not know I bore you. I feel it fery
deep. It might not matter to zome Nordthern zhentlemen, but I am dthe
most sensible man you ever know."

"Sensible!" I say, in a tone scarcely flattering, trying to keep my
lips from twitching.

"Yes, I am terrible sensible; a fery leedle dthing vill hurt me."

"Well, well, I'll be _your_ friend, anyhow, and I'll try to be very
considerate. I'll show you what a good friend a North American can
be."

"My gude friend haf make my head zo ache I dthink it vill burst."

He pushes back his cap, and carries my hand to his forehead; it is
very hot and the temples throb under my fingers.

"Poor fellow!" I say, hoping with might and main that no one sees.
"Shall I send you some _eau de Cologne_?"

"No! no! If you vould gif me your hand again."

"No," I say, "not here. Anyone who saw us would misunderstand. Come to
Mrs. Steele; she'll give you something."

"No!" says the Peruvian. "I vill stay here; you stay, too. Ah,
Senorita, how can you be so indifferent to my loaf?"

"I can't stay here if you talk nonsense."

"Mein Gott! Vhat more sense can a man haf dthan to loaf you?"

"Oh, see the porpoises!" I say abruptly. The great clumsy fish are
floundering about us in schools.

"Vhat heafen eyes you haf, Senorita!"

"I do believe that's 'San Jose Joe.'" I run to the rail. "You know!
the huge old shark all covered with barnacles the seamen tell about."

"You vill nefer listen," says the Peruvian, plunging his hands far
down in his yachtsman's jacket. "I dthink, Senorita, ven you die, and
St. Peter meet you at dthe gate and say, 'You haf lif gude life, come
into Heaven'--you vill fery like look over your shoulder and say, 'Oh,
Peter! vhere go all dthose nice leedle devils?'"

The Peruvian's last shot certainly diverts me from all finny
creatures, and we sit down on a pile of