In his estimation, oil was as precious as rice.  In the time of their money-losing navigation, when the captain was making special efforts at economy, Caragol used to keep an especially sharp eye on the great oil bottles in his galley, for he suspected that the cabin boys and the young seamen appropriated it to dress their hair when they wanted to play the dandy, using the oil as a pomade.  Every head that put itself within reach of his disturbed glance he grasped between his arms, raising it to his nose.  The slightest perfume of olive oil would arouse his wrath.  “Ah, you thief!"...  And down would fall his enormous hand, soft and heavy as a fencing gauntlet.

Ulysses believed him quite capable of climbing the bridge, and declaring that navigation could not go on because of his having exhausted the leathern bottles of amethyst-colored liquid proceeding from the Sierra de Espadan.

In the ports, his short-sighted eyes recognized immediately the nationality of the boats anchored on both sides of the Mare Nostrum.  His nose would sniff the air sadly.  “Nothing!...”  They were unsavory barks, barks from the North that prepared their dinner with lard or butter,—­Protestant barks, perhaps.

Sometimes he would sneak along the gunwale, following an intoxicating trail until he planted himself in front of the galley of the neighboring boat, breathing in its rich perfume.  “Hello, brothers!” Impossible to fool him, they were probably Spaniards and, if not, they were from Genoa or Naples,—­in short, were compatriots accustomed to live and eat in all latitudes just as though they were in their own little inland sea.  Soon they would begin a speech in the Mediterranean idiom, a mixture of Spanish, Provencal and Italian, invented by the hybrid peoples of the African coast from Egypt to Morocco.  Sometimes they would send each other presents, like those that are exchanged between tribes,—­fruits from distant countries.  At other times, suddenly inimical, without knowing why, they would shake their fists over the railing, yelling insults at each other in which, between every two or three words, would appear the names of the Virgin and her holy Son.

This was the signal for Uncle Caragol, religious soul, to return in haughty silence to his galley.  Toni, the mate, used to make fun of his devout enthusiasm.  On the other hand, the foremast hands, materialistic and gluttonous, used to listen to him with deference, because he was the one who doled out the wine and the choicest tid-bits.  The old man used to speak to them of the Cristo del Grao, whose pictures occupied the most prominent site in the kitchen, and they would all listen as to a new tale, to the story of the arrival by sea of the sacred image, mounted upon a ladder in a boat that had dissolved in smoke after discharging its miraculous cargo.

This had been when the Grao was no more than a group of huts far from the walls of Valencia and threatened by the raids of the Moorish pirates.  For many years Caragol, barefooted, had carried this sacred ladder on his shoulder on the day of the fiesta.  Now other men of the sea were enjoying such honor and he, old and half-blind, would be waiting among the public for the procession to pass in order that he might throw himself upon the enormous relic, touching his clothes to the wood.