Presently, after Mr. Rea had waited--as if to draw from me the answer he expected--he said: "Well, no, I reckon you can't tell. It was thus. When mother died, I brought the _Bold Venture_ here and set her where she is now, on the cupboard, and Jonas, he had set the new ship, all red and green, the _Saucy Jane_ it was called, on the bureau. Will you believe me, next morning when I came downstairs the frigate was on the floor, and some of her spars broken and all the rigging in a muddle." "There was no lead on the bottom. It fell down." "It was not once that happened. It came to the same thing every night; and what is more, the _Bold Venture_ began to show signs of having fouled her." "How so?" "Run against her. She had bruises, and had brought away some of the paint of the _Saucy Jane_. Every morning the frigate, if she were'nt on the floor, were rammed into a corner, and battered as if she'd been in a bad sea." "But it is impossible." "Of course, lots o' things is impossible, but they happen all the same." "Well, what next?" "Jane, she was ill, and took wus and wus, and just as she got wus so it took wus as well with the _Saucy Jane_. And on the night she died, I reckon that there was a reg'lar pitched sea-fight." "But not at sea." "Well, no; but the frigate seemed to have been rammed, and she was on the floor and split from stem to stern." "And, pray, has the _Bold Venture_ made no attempt since? The glass case is not broken." "There's been no occasion. I chucked what remained of the _Saucy Jane_ into the fire." MUSTAPHA I Among the many hangers-on at the Hotel de l'Europe at Luxor--donkey-boys, porters, guides, antiquity dealers--was one, a young man named Mustapha, who proved a general favourite. I spent three winters at Luxor, partly for my health, partly for pleasure, mainly to make artistic studies, as I am by profession a painter. So I came to know Mustapha fairly well in three stages, during those three winters. When first I made his acquaintance he was in the transition condition from boyhood to manhood. He had an intelligent face, with bright eyes, a skin soft as brown silk, with a velvety hue on it. His features were regular, and if his face was a little too round to quite satisfy an English artistic eye, yet this was a peculiarity to which one soon became accustomed. He was unflaggingly good-natured and obliging. A mongrel, no doubt, he was; Arab and native Egyptian blood were mingled in his veins. But the result was happy; he combined the patience and gentleness of the child of Mizraim with the energy and pluck of the son of the desert.