Monsieur Dragot turned out to be the original singed cat, for assuredly he possessed more attractive qualities inside than were exteriorly visible, and from a first shyness that did not lack charm he expanded briskly. After visiting a "dry" cafe, to seal this fortunate acquaintanceship--as he insisted upon calling it--he warmed up to us and we to him, with the result that his bags were soon carried down and stowed in our spare stateroom. Leaving him there, we went on deck. "Dragot," Tommy mused. "Speaks with a slight accent, but I can't make out what!" "Roumanian, possibly," I suggested, "as he comes from there." "You rather excel yourself," he smiled. "Registering from Roumania, however, isn't prima facie evidence that he's a Roumanian." "He's a clever little talker, all the same." "Right O! Too clever. I'm wondering if we aren't a pair of chumps to take him." "Why?" "He may be a crook, for all we know. Did you notice what he said about holding a commission from Azuria, and then hurrying to explain that Azuria isn't on the ordinary maps--just a wee bit of a kingdom up in the Carpathians, yet in the confines of Roumania? I call that fishy!" "Not entirely so, Tommy. When you said it might now be turning into a republic, did you notice how proudly he declared that the descendants of Basil the Wolf couldn't be humbled?--that, situated in Moldavia, and escaping the ravages of the Bulgarian army, they were stronger today than ever?" "Sounds like raving, sonny. Who the dickens is Basil the Wolf? No, Jack, that doesn't tell us anything." "It tells us he couldn't have been inspired like that unless the place and people were real to him!" "Well, pirate or priest," Tommy laughed, "he'll do if he waltzes us up to the big adventure. You're about fit enough to tackle one now!" During the past forty-eight hours he had openly rejoiced with Gates at my improvement and tried, with the indifferent success of an unbeliever, to play up at top speed that silly idea of an approaching adventure. We had strolled aft, and now stopped to watch a tall Jamaica negro--or so we thought him to be--asking Gates for a place in the crew. His clothing was too scant to hide the great muscles beneath, and Tommy touched my arm, saying: "There's a specimen for you!" Had he been cast in bronze a critic might have said that the sculptor, by over-idealizing masculine perfection, had made the waist too small, the hips too slender, for the powerful chest and shoulders; the wrists and ankles might have been thought too delicate as terminals for the massive sinews leading into them. He smiled continually, and spoke in a soft, almost timid voice. "I like that big fellow," I said. Perhaps I had been well called a pantheist, having always extravagantly admired the perfect in form or face or the wide outdoors.