By the round brass ship's clock placed over the passageway door, in the saloon, Jerry could see that it was a little after ten o'clock. The yacht had come to anchor in the small hours, and the gentlemen had in consequence slept late. The dull light of an English morning in September came through the big skylight, and showed the captain, the mate, and Mr. Wrenmarsh lingering over their breakfast.
"On my word, Mr. Wrenmarsh," said Tab, "we'll be sorry to lose you. You've been aboard so long and your"—he almost blurted out "eccentricities," but fortunately had the unusual luck to stop in time to substitute a better word—"your—er—conversation has such—er—has been so very entertaining, that is, that we're sure to miss you."
"Ah, well," said the collector, "I'm in hopes that you've improved so much by contact with me that you'll be able to entertain each other."
"Wouldn't you like to take passage across?" suggested Jack.
"Your rates are too high," the other rejoined grimly. "Gonzague, 'n' altro bicchier' d' aqua fresca."
The old steward, who had come in while Jerry was speaking, served the archæologist with the ready alacrity which marked all he did, and then departed with a handful of dishes.
"Why do you always speak to Gonzague in Italian?" inquired Jerry. "You said yesterday that you always had a reason for everything you do."
"Oh," the guest returned, fixing his eyes not on the questioner but on the ceiling above him, "I speak to him in Italian because he understands it."
"But he isn't an Italian," Tab objected.
"No, but then I'm not either."