Part 28 (1/2)
”Oh, good Lord! I did not mean it that way. Let us finish the walk,”
savagely.
On the afternoon of the second day out, tea was served under the awning, and Captain Flanagan condescended to leave his bridge for half an hour. Through a previous hint dropped by the admiral they lured the captain into spinning yarns; and well-salted hair-breadth escapes they were. He understood that the admiral's guests always expected these flights, and he was in nowise n.i.g.g.ard. An ordinary sailor would have been dead these twenty years, under any one of the exploits.
”Marvelous!” said M. Ferraud from the depths of his rugs. ”And he still lives to tell it?”
”It's the easiest thing in the world, sir, if y' know how,” the captain declared complacently. Indeed, he had recounted these yarns so many times that he was beginning to regard them as facts. His statement, ambiguous as it was, pa.s.sed unchallenged, however; for not one had the daring to inquire whether he referred to the telling or the living of them. So he believed that he was looked upon as an apostle of truth.
Only the admiral had the temerity to look his captain squarely in the eye and wink.
”Captain, would you mind if I put these tales in a book?” Fitzgerald 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 s.h.i.+ppin' 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 sa.s.sy 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 Munchhausen.”
”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 cla.s.sic smoothness. M. Ferraud was exceedingly interested. He had been waiting for this meeting. Only a phrase or two could be heard distinctly. But words were not necessary. What he desired above all things was a glimpse of this Frenchman's face. After several minutes Breitmann went aft. M. Ferraud stepped out cautiously, and luck was with him. The sailor to whom Breitmann had spoken so earnestly was lolling against the rail, in the act of lighting a cigarette. The light from the match was feeble, but it sufficed the keen eyes of the watcher. He gasped a little. Strong hands indeed! Here in the garb of a common sailor, was one of the foremost Orleanists in France!
CHAPTER XVII
A QUESTION FROM KEATS