"Now, do not get excited," said Mrs. Harrington soothingly. "Just come here and listen to me. Luke has behaved very badly. He has been idle and stubborn on board the Britannia. He has been rude and ungrateful to me." She found she had taken the boy's hand, and she dropped it suddenly, as if ashamed of showing so much emotion. "I am not going to have my house upset by the tantrums of a bad-tempered boy. It is nearly dinner time. Luke is sure to come back. If he is not back by the time we have finished dinner I will send one of the men out to look for him. He is probably sulking in some corner of the gardens." Seeing that Fitz was white with anxiety, she forgot herself so much as to draw him to her again. "Now, Fitz," she said, "you must obey me and leave me to manage Luke in my own way. I know best. Just go and dress for dinner. Luke will come back--never fear." But Luke did not come back. CHAPTER III. A SEA DOG. There is one that slippeth in his speech, but not from his heart. The glass door of the dining-room of the Hotel of the Four Nations at Barcelona was opened softly, almost nervously, by a shock-headed little man, who peered into the room. One of the waiters stepped forward and drew out a chair. "Thank ye--thank ye," said the new-comer, in a thick though pleasant voice. He looked around, rather bewildered--as if he had never seen a table d'hote before. It almost appeared as if a doubt existed in his mind whether or not he was expected to go and shake hands with some one present, explaining who he was. As, however, no one appeared to invite this confidence he took the chair offered and sat gravely down. The waiter laid the menu at his side, and the elderly diner, whose face and person bespoke a seafaring life, gazed politely at it. He was obviously desirous of avoiding hurting the young man's feelings, but the card puzzled as much as it distressed him. Observing with the brightest of blue eyes the manners and customs of his neighbours, the old sailor helped himself to a little wine from the decanter set in front of him, and filled up the glass with water. The waiter drew forward a small dish of olives and another containing slices of red sausage of the thickness, consistency, and flavour of a postage stamp. The Englishman looked dubiously at these delicacies and shook his head--still obviously desirous of giving no offence. Soup was more comprehensible, and the sailor consumed his portion with a non-committing countenance. But the fish, which happened to be of a Mediterranean savour--served in little lumps--caused considerable hesitation. "Is it slugs?" inquired the mariner guardedly--as if open to conviction--in a voice that penetrated half the length of the table. The waiter explained in fluent Castilian the nature of the dish. "I want to know if it's slugs," repeated the sailor, with a stout simplicity.