Nevertheless, two of them, instead of engaging in these fleeting gallantries, stood in the bow talking with a man, advanced in years, but still vigorous and erect.  Both these youths seemed to be well known and respected, to judge from the deference shown them by their fellow passengers.  The elder, who was dressed in complete black, was the medical student, Basilio, famous for his successful cures and extraordinary treatments, while the other, taller and more robust, although much younger, was Isagani, one of the poets, or at least rimesters, who that year came from the Ateneo, [6] a curious character, ordinarily quite taciturn and uncommunicative.  The man talking with them was the rich Capitan Basilio, who was returning from a business trip to Manila.

“Capitan Tiago is getting along about the same as usual, yes, sir,” said the student Basilio, shaking his head.  “He won’t submit to any treatment.  At the advice of a certain person he is sending me to San Diego under the pretext of looking after his property, but in reality so that he may be left to smoke his opium with complete liberty.”

When the student said a certain person, he really meant Padre Irene, a great friend and adviser of Capitan Tiago in his last days.

“Opium is one of the plagues of modern times,” replied the capitan with the disdain and indignation of a Roman senator.  “The ancients knew about it but never abused it.  While the addiction to classical studies lasted—­mark this well, young men—­opium was used solely as a medicine; and besides, tell me who smoke it the most?—­Chinamen, Chinamen who don’t understand a word of Latin!  Ah, if Capitan Tiago had only devoted himself to Cicero—­” Here the most classical disgust painted itself on his carefully-shaven Epicurean face.  Isagani regarded him with attention:  that gentleman was suffering from nostalgia for antiquity.

“But to get back to this academy of Castilian,” Capitan Basilio continued, “I assure you, gentlemen, that you won’t materialize it.”

“Yes, sir, from day to day we’re expecting the permit,” replied Isagani.  “Padre Irene, whom you may have noticed above, and to whom we’ve presented a team of bays, has promised it to us.  He’s on his way now to confer with the General.”

“That doesn’t matter.  Padre Sibyla is opposed to it.”

“Let him oppose it!  That’s why he’s here on the steamer, in order to—­at Los Banos before the General.”

And the student Basilio filled out his meaning by going through the pantomime of striking his fists together.

“That’s understood,” observed Capitan Basilio, smiling.  “But even though you get the permit, where’ll you get the funds?”

“We have them, sir.  Each student has contributed a real.”

“But what about the professors?”

“We have them:  half Filipinos and half Peninsulars.” [7]

“And the house?”

“Makaraig, the wealthy Makaraig, has offered one of his.”