“While the boat was gone I walked about the decks of the vessel, hardly knowing what I might stumble on in the shape of human remains, but there was nothing in that way. The boats were gone, the people had long ago cleared out. Small blame to them. Good thunder!” cried he, shuddering or counterfeiting a shudder; “who would willingly pass a night in such a cave as that? The boat came alongside with the lantern. We then lifted the hatches, and I went below. Life there was here, a hideous sort of life, too. Lean rats bigger than kittens, living skeletons horrible with famine. They shrieked, they squeaked, they fled in big shadows. There was not much cargo in the main hold, but cargo there was. I will tell you exactly the contents of the main hold of _La Perfecta Casada_,” he exclaimed, coming out of his bed, opening a drawer, and taking out a small book clasped by an elastic band. He read aloud. “Five thousand serons of cocoa--” “A minute,” said I. “Do I understand you to mean that you counted five thousand serons of cocoa while you looked into the hold of that ship, the hour being about two o’clock--I have been following you critically--and your own ship hove to close in with the land?” “Patience,” said he; “it is a reasonable objection, but as a rule I do not like to be interrupted when I am telling a story. Five thousand serons of cocoa--” he repeated. “Pray,” said I, forgetting that he did not like to be interrupted, “what is a seron?” “A seron is a crate.” “Well, sir?” “Sixty arobes of alpaca wool----” “What is an arobe?” “An arobe is twenty-five pounds.” He continued to read: “One thousand quintals of tin at one hundred pounds per quintal; four casks of tortoiseshell, eight thousand hides in the hair, four thousand tanned hides, and a quantity of cedar planks.” He now looked at me as though he expected me to speak. I addressed him as follows: “What I am listening to is a very interesting story. It is an adventure, and I love adventures. It is said that the charm of the sailor’s life lies in its being made up of adventures. That is a lie. Men pass many years at sea and meet with no adventures worth speaking of. A sailors life is a very mechanical, monotonous routine.” “What do you think of the cargo of _La Perfecta Casada_?” “_La Perfecta Casada_ is the name of the ship in the cave?” “Yes,” he answered. “It is a very good cargo so far as it goes, but there is very little of it.” “There is enough,” said he, with a gesture of his hand. “I should be very pleased to be able to pay the value of that cargo into my banking account.”