"I couldn't make much out of your clerk. He speaks so brokenly, and I
don't know a word of Italian. But perhaps I ought to first introduce
myself. My name is Philip Hornby," and he handed me a card bearing the
name with the addresses "Woodcroft Park, Somerset ------ Brook's." Then
he added: "I am cruising on board my yacht, the _Lola_, and last night
we unfortunately went aground on the Meloria. I have a new captain whom
I engaged a few months ago, and he seems an arrant fool. Very
fortunately for us a fishing-boat saw our plight and gave the alarm at
port. The Admiral sent out two torpedo-boats and a tug, and after about
three hours they managed to get us off."

"And you are now in harbor?"

"Yes. But the reason I've called is to ask you to do me a favor and
write me a letter of thanks in Italian to the Admiral, and one to the
Captain of the Port--polite letters that I can copy and send to them.
You know the kind of thing."

"Certainly," I replied, the more interested in him on account of the
curious suspicion that the port authorities seemed to entertain. He was
evidently a gentleman, and after I had been with him ten minutes I
scouted the idea that he had endeavored to cast away the _Lola_.

I took down a couple of sheets of paper and scribbled the drafts of two
letters couched in the most elegant phraseology, as is customary when
addressing Italian officialdom.

"Fortunately, I left my wife in England, or she would have been terribly
frightened," he remarked presently. "There was a nasty wind blowing all