He had recognized them by their silk caps with visors, their blue jackets and their heavy obesity of Mediterranean sailors enjoying a certain prosperity. They must be skippers of small boats.
As though Ferragut's looks and gestures had mysteriously notified them, the three turned, fixing their eyes on the captain. Then they began to discuss among themselves with a vehemence which made it easy to guess their words.
"It is he!…" "No, it isn't!…"
Those men knew him but couldn't believe that they were really seeing him.
They went a little way off with marked indecision, turning repeatedly to look at him once more. In a few moments one of them, the oldest, returned, approaching the table timidly.
"Excuse me, but aren't you Captain Ferragut?…" He asked this question in Valencian, with his right hand at his cap, ready to take it off.
Ulysses stopped his salutation and offered him a seat. Yes, he was
Ferragut. What did he want?…
The man refused to sit down. He wished to tell him privately two special things. When the captain presented to him his mate as a man in whom they could have complete confidence, he then sat down. The two companions, breaking through the human current, were standing on the edge of the sidewalk, turning their backs to the café.
He was skipper of a small craft; Ferragut had not been mistaken. He was speaking slowly, as though taken up with his final revelation to which all that he was saying was merely an introduction.
"The times are not so bad…. Money is to be gained in the sea; more than ever. I am from Valencia…. We have brought three boats from there with wine and rice. A good trip, but it was necessary to navigate close to the coast, following the curve of the gulf, without venturing to pass from cape to cape for fear of the submarine…. I have met a submarine."