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,