One fine morning they were lying near a small island; the bay was smooth as a mirror, and the trees were reflected, leaf for leaf, in its bosom. Now and then a fish would rise to the surface of the water, take a breath of air, and dive down again. John amused himself in observing some wild ducks swimming in the shallow water, watching for prey with fixed eyes and grave looks, and he smiled to see their disappointment when the little fish were too cunning or too nimble for them. He was interrupted by Antonio coming out of the cabin, dressed in his best clothes.
‘Why, Mr Antonio, where are you going?’
‘Nowhere,’ he replied. ‘This is my saint’s day.’
‘Oh, I am named after San Antonio, and this is his day.’
‘Well,’ said John, ‘I have looked through the New Testament, and have never found such a saint there.’
‘Why,’ said Antonio, ‘he was not alive at that time.’
‘Who made him a saint then?’
Now, as the sailor had not troubled his head about the matter, he was puzzled to find an answer. At last he honestly confessed he did not know.
‘Suppose he is a saint,’ said John, ‘what good can he do you?’