“Yes.”

“And be sure to take an empty carriage to carry canned food and bottled water,” supplemented Cathewe.  “The native food is frightful.  The first time I took the journey I was ignorant.  Happily it was in the autumn, when the chestnuts were ripe.  Otherwise I should have starved.”

“And you spent a winter or spring here, Hildegarde?” said Mrs. Coldfield.

“It was lovely then.”  There was a dream in Hildegarde’s eyes.

The hotel omnibus was out of service, and they rode up in carriages.  The season was over, and under ordinary circumstances the hotel would have been closed.  A certain royal family had not yet left, and this fact made the arrangements possible.  It was now very warm.  Dust lay everywhere, on the huge palms, on the withered plants, on the chairs and railings, and swam palpable in the air.  Breitmann was nowhere to be found, but he had seen the manager of the hotel and secured rooms facing the bay.  Later, perhaps two hours after the arrival, he appeared.  In this short time he had completed his plans.  As he viewed them he could see no flaw.

Now it came about that Captain Flanagan, who had not left the ship once during the journey, found his one foot aching for a touch and feel of the land.  So he and Holleran, the chief-engineer, came ashore a little before noon and decided to have a bite of maccaroni under the shade of the palms in the Place des Palmiers.  A bottle of warm beer was divided between them.  The captain said Faugh! as he drank it.

“Try th’ native wine, Capt’n,” suggested the chief-engineer.

“I have a picture of Cap’n Flanagan drinkin’ the misnamed vinegar.  No Dago’s bare fut on the top o’ mine, when I’m takin’ a glass.  An’ that’s th’ way they make ut.  This Napoleyun wus a fine man.  He pushed ’em round some.”

“Sure, he had Irish blood in ’im, somewheres,” Holleran assented.  “But I say,” suddenly stretching his lean neck, “will ye look t’ see who’s comin’ along!”

Flanagan stared.  “If ut ain’t that son-of-a-gun ov a Picard, I’ll eat my hat!” The captain grew purple.  “An’ leavin’ th’ ship without orders!”

“An’ the togs!” murmured Holleran.

“Watch me!” said Flanagan, rising and squaring his peg.

Picard, arrayed in clean white flannels, white shoes, a panama set rakishly on his handsome head, his fingers twirling a cane, came head-on into the storm.  The very jauntiness of his stride was as a red rag to the captain.  So then, a hand, heavy and charged with righteous anger, descended upon Picard’s shoulder.

“Right about face an’ back to th’ ship, fast as yer legs c’n make ut!”

Picard calmly shook off the hand, and, adding a vigorous push which sent the captain staggering among the little iron-tables, proceeded nonchalantly.  Holleran leaped to his feet, but there was a glitter in Picard’s eye that did not promise well for any rough-and-tumble fight.  Picard’s muscular shoulders moved off toward the vanishing point.  Holleran turned to the captain, and with the assistance of a waiter, the two righted the old man.