the city, and so the steamer had been entrusted to the guardianship of Uncle Caragol with half a dozen men for the daily cleaning.  The little Ferragut used to play that he was the captain of the Mare Nostrum and would pace the bridge, pretending that a great tempest was coming up, and examine the nautical instrument with the gravity of an expert.  Sometimes he used to race through all the habitable parts of the boat, climbing down to the holds that, wide open, were being ventilated, waiting for their cargo; and finally he would clamber into the ship’s gig, untying it from the landing in order to row in it for a few hours, with even more satisfaction than in the light skiffs of the Regatta Club.

His visits always ended in the kitchen, invited there by Uncle Caragol, who was accustomed to treat him with fraternal familiarity.  If the youthful oarsman was perspiring greatly....  “A refresquet?” And the chef would prepare his sweet mixture that made men, after one gulp, fall into the haziness of intoxication.

Esteban esteemed highly the “refrescos” of the cook.  His imagination, excited by the frequent reading of novels of travel, had made him conceive a type of heroic, gallant, dashing sailor—­a regular swash-buckler capable of swallowing by the pitcherful the most rousing drinks without moving an eyelid.  He wanted to be that kind; every good sailor ought to drink.

Although on land he was not acquainted with other liquors than those innocent and over-sweet ones kept by his mother for family fiestas, once he trod the deck of a vessel he felt the necessity for alcoholic liquids so as to make it evident that he was entirely a man.  “There wasn’t in the whole world a drink that could do him any harm....”  And after a second “refresco” from Uncle Caragol, he became submersed in a placid nirvana, seeing everything rose-colored and considerably enlarged,—­the sea, the nearby boats, the docks, and Montjuich in the background.

The cook, looking at him affectionately with his bleared eyes, believed that he must have bounded back a dozen years and be still in Valencia, talking with that other Ferragut boy who was running away from the university in order to row in the harbor.  He almost came to believe that he had lived twice.

He always listened patiently to the lad’s complaints, interrupting him with solemn counsels.  This fifteen-year-old Ferragut appeared discontented with life.  He was a man and he had to live with women—­his mother and two nieces, who were always making laces,—­just as in other times his mother had been the lace-making companion of her mother-in-law, Dona Cristina.  He wanted to be a seaman and they were obliging him to study the uninteresting courses leading to a bachelor’s degree.  It was scarcely likely, was it, that a captain would have to know Latin?...  He wanted to bring his student life to an end so as to become a pilot and continue practicing on the bridge, beside his father.  Perhaps at thirty years of age, he might achieve the command of the Mare Nostrum or some similar boat.