"You are making it do so, certainly. But there, for God's sake, don't let's be asses enough to quarrel. Here, smoke." We all three lit cigarettes, and there was a silence for some minutes. Then Haigh broke out again,-- "Phe--ew!" he whistled. "Have they gone posting to Soller after all?" "Eh?" said Taltavull. "I mean, isn't this all a blind? Wasn't that letter written just to put us on the wrong track? Why should the man have taken the trouble to make all that long screed just for the sake of jeering, when he wouldn't be here to see what effect his smart sarcasms would have? Besides, if he showed his route, he might think we could work the telegraph wires and get him and his blessed feluccre stopped in Soller Port till we came up. Now, here or Palma are the orthodox outlets to this island. What's the best way to Palma?" "La Puebla, and rail from there." "Bet any one an even ten pesetas that Mr. Pether has cleared by the early train from La Puebla." "The same road leads out of here till it branches, whether one is going to Pollensa or La Puebla," exclaimed the anarchist, with a fresh access of excitement. "I can wire friends at both places, who can find out for me which way they have gone. I will go and do it at once." He rushed away to the stairhead till Haigh shouted, "Put on your trousers, man, first!" and then he turned to his own bedroom. "He don't take a whipping well," said I, as the gaunt figure disappeared. "Ruffle a fanatic," said Haigh, "and you'll soon see that he's all superfluous nerves and useless springs." [_There breaks in at this point an extract from the life-history of Mr. N. C. Pether, which bears upon the main narrative. It is told by himself._] CHAPTER XV. CAMARADERIE. ... Again I distinguished the Belgian drummer's steps coming aft along the deck planks. "They are all so sick below," said he, "that I could endure it no longer." He sat down on the saloon skylight beside me. "You see that low hummocky island we are coming to, out yonder on the port hand? Cabrera, monsieur, where they say Hannibal was born, and where they hope and expect M. Blanc's successors will find a resting-place for their tables when France and Italy hound them out of Monte Carlo. I was over in Cabrera the other day. I ran across in the little packet from Palma. There's a lovely harbour there--almost as good as the one at Mahon; and the place holds two hundred people, who are planting vines and building fortifications. My faith, it will be a heavy change if they make that into the fashionable gambling hell of Europe. "You are regarding the island--you see its contours; now shut your eyes.