"She is," the young man agreed, with his admiration leveled at the lovely profile of the girl. "Let me see," began the admiral; "there will be Mr. and Mrs. Coldfield, first-class sailors, both of them. What's the name of that singer who is with them?" "Hildegarde von Mitter." "Of the Royal Opera in Munich?" asked Fitzgerald. "Yes. Have you met her? Isn't she lovely?" "I have only heard of her." "And Arthur Cathewe," concluded the admiral. "Cathewe? That will be fine," Fitzgerald agreed aloud. But in his heart he swore he would never forgive Arthur for this trick. And he knew all the time! "He's the best friend I have. A great hunter, with a reputation which reaches from the Carpathians to the Himalayas, from Abyssinia to the Congo." "He is charming and amusing. Only, he is very shy." At four that afternoon Captain Flanagan presented his respects. The admiral was fond of the old fellow, a friendship formed in the blur of battle-smoke. He had often been criticized for officering his yacht with such a gruff, rather illiterate man, when gentlemen were to be had for the asking. But Flanagan was a splendid seaman, and the admiral would not have exchanged him for the smartest English naval-reserve afloat. There was never a bend in Flanagan's back; royalty and commonalty were all the same to him. And those who came to criticize generally remained to admire; for Flanagan was the kind of sailor fast disappearing from the waters, a man who had learned his seamanship before the mast. "Captain, how long will it take us to reach Funchal in the Madieras?" "Well, Commodore, give us a decent sea an' we can make 'er in fourteen days. But I thought we wus goin' t' th' Banks, sir?" "Changed my plans. We'll put out in twelve days. Everything shipshape?" "Up to the buntin', sir, and down to her keel. I sh'd say about six-hundred tons; an' mebbe twelve days instead of fourteen. An' what'll be our course after Madeery, sir?" "Ajaccio, Corsica." "Yessir." If the admiral had said the Antarctic, Flanagan would never have batted an eye. "You have spoken the crew?" "Yessir; deep-sea men, too, sir. Halloran 'll have th' injins as us'l, sir. Shall I run 'er up t' N' York fer provisions? I got your list." "Triple the order. I'll take care of the wine and tobacco." "All right, sir." "That will be all. Have a cigar." "Thank you, sir. What's the trouble?" extending a pudgy hand toward the chimney. "I'll tell you all about that later. Send up that man Donovan again." It occurred to the admiral that it would not be a bad plan to cover Mr. Donovan's palm. They had forgotten all about him. He had overheard. Very carefully the captain put away the cigar and journeyed back to the village. He regretted Corsica. He hated Dagos, and Corsica was Dago; thieves and cut-throats, all of them.