Estremera was a smart little Andalusian, with large whiskers, which he curled with great care, and he wore his black hair shorn short. He had little gold rings in his ears, and the red point of a cigarito perpetually gleamed between his teeth. He wore a broad-brimmed straw-hat, from which a scarlet ribbon floated, and he was entirely clad in a spotless suit of white linen—jacket, waist-coat, and trousers. The ample collar of a shirt that was broadly striped with red and white was folded over his shoulders. He was about to speak, when Antonio, who was supported by two of the crew, suddenly exclaimed to one of them—
"Benito Ojeda—hah! Don't you remember me, Benito?"
"What, Antonio, is this you?" replied the seaman; "the best Cubano that ever sailed past the Morro light."
"Do you know this man, Benito?" asked the captain.
"Right well, senor, and will bear witness to his character," replied the sailor bluntly.
"Much value your evidence will be," said Estremera, contemptuously, "when you are known to be the greatest picaroon on board. Come, esta, senor," he added to me, "you are welcome."
"Muchos gratias, senor capitano," replied I, bowing low, as I stepped forward.
"But what in the name of mischief am I to do to provision you all?" said Estremera, with perplexity.
"After what I have endured, senor capitano, a very little food will suffice for me."
"Were you ever in Spain?"