“Sixteen, all told.”

“English, I suppose?”

“Not all.  I find French and Italians are more sober than English, and better behaved in port.”

I examined him critically as he sat facing me, and the mere fact of his desire to send thanks to the authorities convinced me that he was a well-bred gentleman.  He was about forty-five, with a merry round, good-natured face, red with the southern sun, blue eyes, and a short fair beard.  His countenance was essentially that of a man devoted to open-air sport, for it was slightly furrowed and weather-beaten as a true yachtsman’s should be.  His speech was refined and cultivated, and as we chatted he gave me the impression that as an enthusiastic lover of the sea, he had cruised the Mediterranean many times from Gibraltar up to Smyrna.  He had, however, never before put into Leghorn.

After we had arranged that his captain should come to me in the afternoon and make a formal report of the accident, we went out together across the white sunny piazza to Nasi’s, the well-known pastry-cook’s, where it is the habit of the Livornese to take their ante-luncheon vermouth.

The more I saw of Hornby, the more I liked him.  He was chatty and witty, and treated his accident as a huge joke.

“We shall be here quite a week, I suppose,” he said as we were taking our vermouth.  “We’re on our way down to the Greek Islands, as my friend Chater wants to see them.  The engineer says there’s something strained that we must get mended.  But, by the way,” he added, “why don’t you dine with us on board to-night?  Do.  We can give you a few English things that may be a change to you.”

This invitation I gladly accepted for two reasons.  One was because the suspicions of the Captain of the Port had aroused my curiosity, and the other was because I had, honestly speaking, taken a great fancy to Hornby.

The captain of the Lola, a short, thickset Scotsman from Dundee, with a barely healed cicatrice across his left cheek, called at the Consulate at two o’clock and made his report, which appeared to me to be a very lame one.  He struck me as being unworthy his certificate, for he was evidently entirely out of his bearings when the accident occurred.  The owner and his friend Chater were in their berths asleep, when suddenly he discovered that the vessel was making no headway.  They had, in fact, run upon the dangerous shoal without being aware of it.  A strong sea was running with a stiff breeze, and although his seamanship was poor, he was capable enough to recognize at once that they were in a very perilous position.

“Very fortunate it wasn’t more serious, sir,” he added, after telling me his story, which I wrote at his dictation for the ultimate benefit of the Board of Trade.

“Didn’t you send up signals of distress?” I Inquired.

“No, sir—­never thought of it.”

“And yet you knew that you might be lost?” I remarked with recurring suspicion.