“It seems to me that we have,” answered his brother.

Neither of the two smiled, for they meant a good deal by the simple jest.

“Tell me, Ruggiero,” said Bastianello after a pause, “since you never loved Teresina, who is it?”

“No, Bastianello.  That is what I cannot tell any one, not even you.”

“Then I will not ask.  But I think I know, now.”

Going over the events of the past weeks in his mind, it had suddenly flashed upon Bastianello that his brother loved Beatrice.  Then everything explained itself in an instant.  Ruggiero was such a gentleman—­in Bastianello’s eyes, of course—­it was like him to break his heart for a real lady.

“Perhaps you do know,” answered Ruggiero gravely, “but if you do, then do not tell me.  It is a business better not spoken of.  But what one thinks, one thinks.  And that is enough.”

A crowd of brown-skinned boys were in the water swimming and playing, as they do all day long in summer, and dashing spray at each other.  They had a shabby-looking old skiff with which they amused themselves, upsetting and righting it again in the shallow water by the beach beyond the bathing houses.

“What a boat!” laughed Bastianello.  “A baby can upset her and it takes a dozen boys to right her again!”

“Whose is she?” enquired Ruggiero idly, as he filled his pipe.

“She?  She belonged to Black Rag’s brother, the one who was drowned last Christmas Eve, when the Leone was cut in two by the steamer in the Mouth of Procida.  I suppose she belongs to Black Rag himself now.  She is a crazy old craft, but if he were clever he could patch her up and paint her and take foreigners to the Cape in her on fine days.”

“That is true.  Tell him so.  There he is.  Ohe!  Black Rag!”

Black Rag came down the pier to the two brothers, a middle-aged, bow-legged, leathery fellow with a ragged grey beard and a weather-beaten face.

“What do you want?” he asked, stopping before them with his hands in his pockets.

“Bastianello says that old tub there is yours, and that if you had a better head than you have you could caulk her and paint her white with a red stripe and take foreigners to the Bath of Queen Giovanna in her on fine days.  Why do you not try it?  Those boys are making her die an evil death.”

“Bastianello always has such thoughts!” laughed the sailor.  “Why does he not buy her of me and paint her himself?  The paint would hold her together another six months, I daresay.”

“Give her to me,” said Ruggiero.  “I will give you half of what I earn with her.”

Black Rag looked at him and laughed, not believing that he was in earnest.  But Ruggiero slowly nodded his head as though to conclude a bargain.

“I will sell her to you,” said the sailor at last.  “She belonged to that blessed soul, my brother, who was drowned—­health to us—­to-day is Saturday—­and I never earned anything with her since she was mine.  I will sell her cheap.”