In spite of the vague hope for a jug of choice wine that was animating most of his hearers, a murmur of incredulity always arose at the end of this tale.  The devout Caragol then became as wrathful and foul-mouthed as a prophet of old when he considered his faith in danger.  “Who was that son of a flea?...  Who was that son of a flea daring to doubt what I myself have seen?...”  And what he had seen was the fiesta of the Peixet that was celebrated every year, simply listening to most learned men discoursing about the miracle in a commemorative chapel built on the banks of the glen.

This prodigy of the little fishes was almost always followed with what he called the miracle of the Peixot, endeavoring with the weight of such a marvelous fish tale to crush the doubts of the impious.

The galley of Alphonso V of Aragon (the only sailor king of Spain), upon coming out of the Gulf of Naples, once struck a hidden rock near the island of Capri which took away a side of the ship without making it leak; and the vessel continued on with all sails spread, carrying the king, the ladies of his court, and the retinue of mail-clad barons.  Twenty days afterward they arrived at Valencia safe and sound like all sailors who in moments of danger ask aid of the Virgen del Puig.  Upon inspecting the hull of the galley, the master calkers beheld a monstrous fish detach itself from its bottom with the tranquility of an upright person who has fulfilled his duty.  It was a dolphin sent by the most holy Senora in order that his side might stop up the open breach.  And thus, like a plug, it had sailed from Naples to Valencia without allowing a drop of water to pass in.

The chef would not admit any criticisms nor protests.  This miracle was undeniable.  He had seen it with his own eyes, and they were good.  He had seen it in an ancient picture in the monastery of Puig, everything appearing on the tablet with the realism of truth,—­the galley, the king, the peixot and the Virgin above giving the order.

At this juncture the breeze would flap the narrator’s shirt tail, disclosing his abdomen divided into hemispheres by the tyranny of its only pantaloon button.

“Uncle Caragol, look out!” warned a teasing voice.

The holy man would smile with the seraphic calm of one who sees beyond the pomps and vanities of existence, and would begin the relation of a new miracle.

Ferragut used to attribute his cook’s periods of exaltation to the lightness of his clothing in all weathers.  Within him was burning a fire incessantly renewed.  On foggy days he would climb to the bridge with some glasses of a smoking drink that he used to call calentets.  Nothing better for men that had to pass long hours in the inclement weather in motionless vigilance!  It was coffee mixed with rum, but in unequal proportions, having more alcohol than black liquid.  Toni would drink rapidly all the glasses offered.  The captain would refuse them, asking for clear coffee.