cheerful as it was diverse. There were some officers on their way to
rejoin their units, a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan
merchant, returning from Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran
prince, a great joker this, who did impersonations.... Not one of these
people was sea-sick and they spent the time drinking champagne with the
captain of the Zouave, a fat "Bon viveur" from Marseille, who had an
establishment there and another in Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name
of Barbassou. Tartarin hated all these people. Their gaity redoubled his
misery.

At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual
activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor. The
bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could be
heard running on the deck... "Engine ahead!... engine astern!." Shouted
the hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then "Stop engine!"

The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing. The
ferry lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air.
This strange silence horrified Tartarin. "My God! We are sinking!" He
cried in a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic,
he rushed up onto the deck.




Chapter 13.

The Zouave was not sinking. She had just dropped her anchor in a fine
anchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the hillside, was Algiers,
its little matt-white houses running down to the sea, huddled one