While the cabin boy continued to rush among the guests with siphons, ice, and fresh refreshments, Charley became the Hermana’s guidebook for me; and our interview gave me, I may say, entertainment unalloyed, although there lay all the while, beneath the entertainment, my sadness and concern about John.  Charley was owner of the Hermana, there was no doubt of that; she had cost him (it was not long before he told me) fifty thousand dollars, and to run her it cost him a thousand a month.  Yes, he was her owner, but there it stopped, no matter with how solemn a face he inspected each part of her, or spoke of her details; he was as much a passenger on her as myself; and this was as plain on the equally solemn faces of his crew, from the sailing-master down through the two quartermasters to the five deck-hands, as was the color of the Hermana’s stack, which was, of course, yellow.  She was a pole-mast, schooner-rigged steam yacht, Charley accurately told me, with clipper bow and spiked bowsprit.

“About a hundred tons?” I inquired.

“Yes.  A hundred feet long, beam twenty feet, and she draws twelve feet,” said Charley; and I thought I detected the mate listening to him.

He now called my attention to the flags, and I am certain that I saw the sailing-master hide his mouth with his hand.  Some of the deck-hands seemed to gather delicately nearer to us.

“Sunday, of course,” I said; and I pointed to the Jack flying from a staff at the bow.

But Charley did not wish me to tell him about the flags, he wished to tell me about the flags.  “I am very strict about all this,” he said, his gravity and nauticality increasing with every word.  “At the fore truck flies our club burgee.”

I went through my part, giving a solemn, silent, intelligent assent.

“That is my private signal at the main truck.  It was designed by Miss Rieppe.”

As I again intelligently nodded, I saw the boatswain move an elbow into the ribs of one of the quartermasters.

“On the staff at the taffrail I have the United States yacht ensign,” Charley continued.  “That’s all,” he said, looking about for more flags, and (to his disappointment, I think) finding no more.  For he added:  “But at twelve o’c—­at eight bells, the crew’s meal-flag will be in the port fore rigging.  While we are at lunch, my meal-flag will be in the starboard main rigging.”

“It should be there all day,” I was tempted to remark to him, as my wandering eye fell on the cabin boy carrying something more on a plate to Kitty.  But instead of this I said:  “Well, she’s a beautiful boat!”

Charley shook his head.  “I’m going to get rid of her.”

I was surprised.  “Isn’t she all right?” It seemed to me that the crew behind us were very attentive now.