"Nothing. I stubbed my toe on that beastly stone," answered Jack, with a feeling of satisfaction that the President was once more shelved. "Now," he added, "the boat is just here."
A small but motley crowd was scattered along the water-front: bronzed fishermen, with close-cropped hair and long earrings, carrying osier baskets of shining sardines from their boats to their little carts; fat, raucous-voiced women, with red or yellow scarves pinned across their bosoms; lean-shanked 'longshoremen, too old for the sea this many a day; brown sailors, picking their way among the piles of iridescent fish,—liver-colored squid and flabby octopi; half-naked boys, outrageous and beautiful; with a miscellaneous sprinkling of human flotsam and jetsam, as if the sea had cast them up battered and damaged. Over all floated a distracting hubbub, made up of the rattling of cart-wheels on the flags, the shrill cries of the venders, the calls of the lads, the songs of the fishermen, and a medley of oaths, jests, curses, directions, questions, and all sorts of vociferous shoutings.
Both the ladies drew closer to Jack, who, masterfully making his way through the press, piloted them across the quay. At the landing-steps they found Jerry and the Merle's cutter, the object of the staring curiosity and admiration of the wharf-rats and the loungers of the docks.
"Good-morning, Mr. Taberman. Have we kept you waiting long?" asked Mrs. Fairhew.
Tab had been broiling for half an hour, but was too courteous to say so. He responded cheerily, then helped the ladies aboard, and established them in the sheets. Jack took the tiller-lines, word was given, and the men fell to pulling. The breeze was fresher and cooler on the water; it made the ripples dance and glitter in the sunshine, and kept playfully curling the ensign at the stern of the cutter about Jack's head. According to previous instructions, the watch on the Merle got up anchor on seeing the cutter leave the quay, and were now holding the yacht in the wind's eye. When the boat came alongside, the ladies were handed aboard, the guest-salute was fired, the cutter was hoisted to the davits, and the yacht was paid off.
They ran out past the old battery and the lighthouse on the outer mole, and coasted along to the westward. In the bright sunlight the numerous dwellings—villas, hotels, and pensions—showing among the green foliage of the trees looked very gay and attractive. The sea was dimpled with laughter. The breeze, although it gave promise of freshening, was now only strong enough to make the schooner, which was carrying all sail, heel gracefully as she slipped along. The day was perfect for light sailing.
At one o'clock old Gonzague, his linen jacket dazzling in its whiteness and his snowy hair brushed back from his high forehead, served luncheon. Jack sat by Mrs. Fairhew on the starboard side, with Katrine and Jerry opposite. Gonzague had outdone himself for the occasion. A Provençal by birth, he knew the culinary value of all the wares—to foreign eyes so puzzlingly useless and hopelessly inedible—displayed in Mediterranean markets. The dishes which appeared on the table made Jack and Tab stare: fresh sardines broiled and served with some mysterious sauce of which they tried in vain to guess the ingredients; something which Katrine pronounced delicious until she discovered it to be cuttlefish, and then could not be prevailed upon to taste further; a salad which had lettuce as its obvious foundation, but which was fragrant with a dozen strange and piquant herbs; ripe citrons and limes; figs and bullaces; and a wonderful fruity sherbet for dessert.
"Do you generally fare like this on board the Merle?" Mrs. Fairhew inquired. "If you do, I should like to come here to board while you are in harbor."
"Not much," returned Jerry bluntly. "This is all Gonzague's gallantry to you ladies. As a rule he gives us only pork and beans."
"Dear me," she commented. "That's pretty hard fare."