“Why do you tell such lies?” asked John, whom Franci had not observed, as he was lying in one of the schooner’s boats, with a monkey on either arm.  Franci’s smile deepened as he turned toward the boy, swearing softly in Spanish, and feeling in his breast; but at that moment Rento happened to stroll that way, blushing deeply at Lena’s nearness, yet with a warlike expression in his bright blue eyes.  Franci told him he was the son of a pig that had died of the plague, and that he, Franci, devoutly hoped the son would share the fate of his mother, without time to consult a priest.  Rento replied that he could jaw as much as he was a mind to, so long as he let the boy alone; and Lena looked from one to the other with a flush on her pretty cheek, and an instinct that made her heart beat a little faster.

Mr. Scraper’s visits were apt to be made in the evening; his passion for shells was like that for drink, and he would fain have hidden it from the eyes of his neighbours.  It was always a trial to Franci to know that the old miser, as he called Mr. Endymion, was in the cabin, and that he, Franci, must keep watch on deck while this withered anatomy sat on the cabin chairs and drank with the Patron.  Franci’s way of keeping watch was to lie at full length on the deck with his feet in the air, smoking cigarettes.  It was not the regulation way, but Franci did not care for that.  That beast of a Rento was asleep, snoring like a pig that he was, while his betters must keep awake and gaze at this desolating prospect; the Patron was in the cabin with the miser, and no one thought of the individual who alone gave charm to the schooner.  He, Franci, would make himself as comfortable as might be, and would not care a puff of his cigar if the schooner and all that were in it, except himself, should go to the bottom the next minute.  No!  Rather would he dance for joy, and wave his hand, and cry, “Good voyage, Patron!  Good voyage, brute of a pig-faced Rento!  Good voyage, old ‘Nautilus!’ Go all to the bottom with my blessing, and I dance on the wharf, and marry the pretty Lena, and get all the old miser’s money, and wear velvet coats.  Ah!  Franci, my handsome little boy, why did you let them send you to sea, hearts of stone that they were!  You, born to shine, to adorn, to break the hearts of maidens!  Why? tell me that!” He waved his legs in the air, and contemplated with delight their proportions, which were certainly exquisite.  “Caramba!” he murmured; “beauty, that is it!  Otherwise one might better be a swine,—­yes, truly!”

At this point, perhaps, Rento appeared, rubbing his eyes, evidently just awake, and ready to take his watch; whereupon the beautiful one sat up, and, fixing his eyes on his fellow-seaman, executed a series of grimaces which did great credit to his invention and power of facial expression.  Then he delivered himself of an harangue in purest Spanish, to the effect that the day was not far distant when he, Franci, would