The ship remained at Gibraltar Bay about three weeks, during which time we had refitted the rigging fore and aft, restowed and cleaned the hold, and painted the outside. She never looked more beautiful than she did when, in obedience to our orders, we made sail to join the admiral. We had very light winds, and a day or two afterwards we were off Valencia, nearly becalmed. I was on the gangway, looking through a telescope at the houses and gardens round the city, when Mr Chucks, the boatswain, came up to me. “Mr Simple, oblige me with that glass a moment; I wish to see if a building remains there, which I have some reason to remember.”
“What, were you ever on shore there?”
“Yes, I was, Mr Simple, and nearly stranded, but I got off again without much damage.”
“How do you mean—were you wrecked then?”
“Not my ship, Mr Simple, but my peace of mind was for some time; but it’s many years ago, when I was first made boatswain of a corvette” (during this conversation he was looking through the telescope); “yes, there it is,” said he; “I have it in the field. Look, Mr Simple, do you see a small church, with a spire of glazed tiles, shining like a needle?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, then, just above it, a little to the right, there is a long white house, with four small windows—below the grove of orange-trees.”
“I see it,” replied I; “but what about that house, Mr Chucks?”
“Why, thereby hangs a tale,” replied he, giving a sigh, which raised and then lowered the frill of his shirt at least six inches.
“Why, what is the mystery, Mr Chucks?”