The money question did not worry him any.  Dona Cinta had it in abundance and it was easy to find her bunch of keys.  An old and slow-going steamer, commanded by one of his father’s friends, had just entered port and the following day would weigh anchor for Italy.

This sailor accepted the son of his old comrade without any traveling papers.  He would arrange all irregularities with his friends in Genoa.  Between captains they ought to exchange such services, and Ulysses Ferragut, who was awaiting his son in Naples (so Esteban told him), would not wish to waste time just because of some ridiculous, red tape formality.

Telemachus with a thousand pesetas in his pocket, extracted from a work box which his mother used as a cash box, embarked the following day.  A little suit-case, taken from his home with deliberate and skillful precaution, formed his entire baggage.

From Genoa he went to Rome, and from there to Naples, with the foolhardiness of the innocent, employing Spanish and Catalan words to reinforce his scanty Italian vocabulary acquired at the opera.  The only positive information that guided him on his quest of adventure was the name of the albergo on the shore of S. Lucia which Caragol had given him as his father’s residence.

He sought him vainly for many days and visited in Naples the consignees who thought that the captain had returned to his country some time ago.

Not finding him, he began to be afraid.  He ought to be back in Barcelona by this time and what he had begun as an heroic voyage was going to turn into a runaway, a boyish escapade.  He thought of his mother who was perhaps weeping hours at a time, reading and rereading the letter that he had left for her explaining the object of his flight.  Besides, Italy’s intervention in the war,—­an event which every one had been expecting but had supposed to be still a long way off,—­had suddenly become an actual fact.  What was there left for him to do in this country?...  And one morning he had disappeared.

Since the hotel porter could not tell him anything more, the father, after his first impression of surprise had passed, thought it would be a good plan to visit the firm of consignees.  Perhaps there they might give him some news.

The war was the only thing of interest in that office.  But Ferragut, owner of a ship and a former client, was guided by the director to the employees who had received Esteban.

They did not know much about it.  They recalled vaguely a young Spaniard who said that he was the captain’s son and was making inquiries about him.  His last visit had been two days before.  He was then hesitating between returning to his country by rail or embarking in one of the three steamers that were in port ready to sail for Marseilles.

“I believe that he has gone by railroad,” said one of the clerks.

Another of the office force supported his companion’s supposition with a positive affirmation in order to attract the attention of his chief.  He was sure of his departure by land.  He himself had helped him to calculate what the trip to Barcelona would cost him.