'Going astern, sir,' sang out the leadsman, with an eye on the water.
'Stop engines,' the Skipper snapped again, and the old Hector was once more at anchor.
At eight o'clock we saluted the Santa Cruz flag; the fort, up in the clouds, which had fired the sunrise gun, returned it after a while, and the swarthy little port doctor came out from behind the breakwater, in a fussy little steam-launch, to see if we had any infectious diseases on board, and as we hadn't, to give us 'pratigue'—take us out of quarantine.
After a lot of silly rot, he bowed and scraped himself on board, said 'bueno, bueno,' about a hundred times, bowed and scraped himself down the ladder into his boat, and went fussing back behind the breakwater again.
He'd brought some letters from our Minister at Santa Cruz, and it turned out that it was the President's wife who had died. She was to be buried next day, so we were a trifle early.
'We might have finished that "footer" match after all,' I heard the Angel grumble to Cousin Bob.
I rather hoped that Gerald would have written, but he hadn't—he was a terrible hand at writing letters.
The Skipper—Old Tin Eye—went ashore to call on the Military Governor, who returned his call almost before he could get back.
He was a long, lean, hollow-cheeked Spanish kind of a chap, in a white uniform and marvellous hat with green and yellow plumes, his chest covered with medals and orders—a grand-looking old fighting-cock. He brought with him his two A.D.C.'s—one of them as black as your hat, and the other fat and short, with an enormous curved sabre ten sizes too big for him and gilt spurs so long that he could hardly get down the ladders, even by walking sideways. He looked just like a pantomime soldier.
He brought his black pal down to the gun-room to leave the Governor's cards, and, as he could speak a little English, we got on all right.