“Marvelous!” said M. Ferraud from the depths of his rugs.  “And he still lives to tell it?”

“It’s the easiest thing in the world, sir, if y’ know how,” the captain declared complacently.  Indeed, he had recounted these yarns so many times that he was beginning to regard them as facts.  His statement, ambiguous as it was, passed unchallenged, however; for not one had the daring to inquire whether he referred to the telling or the living of them.  So he believed that he was looked upon as an apostle of truth.  Only the admiral had the temerity to look his captain squarely in the eye and wink.

“Captain, would you mind if I put these tales in a book?” Fitzgerald put this question with a seriousness which fooled no one but the captain.

“You come up t’ the bridge some afternoon, when we’ve got a smooth sea, and I’ll give y’ some real ones.”  The captain’s vanity was soothed, but he was not aware that he had put doubt upon his own veracity.

“That’s kind of you.”

“An’ say!” went on the captain, drinking his tea, not because he liked it but because it was customary, “I’ve got a character forwards.  I’m allus shippin’ odds and ends.  Got a Frenchman; hands like a lady.”

Breitmann leaned forward, and M. Ferraud sat up.

“Yessir,” continued the captain; “speaks I-talyan an’ English.  An’ if I ever meets a lady with long soft hands like his’n, I’m for a pert talk, straightway.”

“What’s the matter with his hands?” asked the admiral.

“Why, Commodore, they’re as soft as Miss Laura’s here, an’ yet when th’ big Swede who handles th’ baggage was a-foolin’ with him this mornin’, it was the Swede who begs off.  Nary a callous, an’ yet he bowls the big one round the deck like he was a liner being pierced by a sassy tug.  An’ what gets me is, he knows every bolt from stem to stern, sir, an’ an all-round good sailor int’ th’ bargain; an’ it don’ take me more’n twelve hours t’ find that out.  Well, I’m off t’ th’ bridge.  Good day, ladies.”

When he was out of earshot the admiral roared.  “He’s the dearest old liar since Muenchhausen.”

“Aren’t they true stories?” asked Hildegarde.

“Bless you, no!  And he knows we know it, too.  But he tells them so well that I’ve never had the courage to sheer him off.”

“It’s amusing,” said Laura; “but I do not think that it’s always fair to him.”

“Why, Laura, you’re as good a listener as any I know.  Read him a tract, if you wish.”

Breitmann rose presently and sauntered forward, while M. Ferraud snuggled down in his rugs again.  The others entered into a game of deck-cricket.