Gates had hoisted even the topmast- and maintopmast-staysails, but these did not help much; and when Tommy and Monsieur appeared half an hour later they were in wretched humors at the way matters stood. The only slight hope we nursed had been one cry of "Sail-ho!" from the mate, but he could not tell what kind of a craft had rested on his lens, because she was almost at once swallowed by the distant bank of mist. At last, with a squint into the southwest, Gates prophesied that something worth while would be coming before long, and with this crumb of comfort, seasoned by his promise to call if anything appeared, we half-heartedly went down to breakfast. Healthy man is ever cheered by breakfast, especially if Pete has prepared it, and gradually our departed spirits came lumbering back. I remembered Tommy's promise of the night before to mutilate my countenance on certain conditions, and began to laugh. Then he laughed, doubtless because I had, and pretty soon Monsieur showed signs of warming up. "This is what my boy Tommy would call hot-stuffie, eh?" he cried. "To be chasing a scoundrel who has kidnaped a Princess is fun, you think so?" "And such a princess," Tommy rapturously exclaimed. "Eyes more deep than the mysteries of twilight shadows in a woodland pool!--oval cheeks more damask than the rose which steals its fragrance from her hair!--lips whose Cupid's bow----" "Here," I good-naturedly protested. "Don't make her so wonderful! You won't have an adjective left for the beautiful Bluegrass flower!" "But isn't she wonderful?--I challenge you, isn't she perfect?" "That is a perilous assertion," Monsieur chuckled, "since there is a Persian proverb that 'to be perfect is to be damned.'" "Well, she'd rather be damned than ugly, if I know anything about girls--and I do!" Tommy declared. "Isn't that right, gezabo?" "Isn't what right? That you know so much about girls? Bah! It is a young rooster's foolish talk! Woman, my boy, is as the law of gravity--difficult to understand, and I may add difficult to disobey. But to comprehend her she must first be stripped----" "Why, you wicked old thing," Tommy, in mock astonishment, gasped at him. "You do not let me finish," he blushingly protested. "What I mean is stripped of her inexplicable----" "Oh, come off," his tormentor burst out laughing. "That's as transparent as a girl buying cigarettes for her brother! I didn't know you were so curious." "Please--you shame me! I am curious of nothing, and you will someday learn that curiosity is the root of tragedy." "There's an epigram worthy of you: 'Curiosity is the root of tragedy'--and the blossom of delight!" "I said nothing of delight," the professor blushed. "I said tragedy! And--ah, I see! You are cut-upping! I will not talk. Your conscience should hurt you!" "Not conscience, old fellow! The wages of conscience is _ennui_, and the gods know how I hate that. Give me your epigrams on delight and love, and the Princess of Azuria!"