M.S. _Archimandrite_ lay off Funchal. "M. de C." was,
always on behalf of his country, a Madeira Portuguese fleeing from the
conscription. They discovered him eighty miles at sea and bade him assist
the cook. So far this seemed fairly reasonable. Next day, thanks to his
histrionic powers and his ingratiating address, he was promoted to the
rank of "supernumerary captain's servant"--a "post which," I give his
words, "I flatter myself, was created for me alone, and furnished me with
opportunities unequalled for a task in which one word malapropos would
have been my destruction."
From this point onward, earth and water between them held no marvels like
to those "M. de C." had "envisaged"--if I translate him correctly. It
became clear to me that "M. de C." was either a pyramidal liar, or...
I was not acquainted with any officer, seaman, or marine in the
_Archimandrite_; but instinct told me I could not go far wrong if I took a
third-class ticket to Plymouth.
I gathered information on the way from a leading stoker, two seaman-
gunners, and an odd hand in a torpedo factory. They courteously set my
feet on the right path, and that led me through the alleys of Devonport to
a public-house not fifty yards from the water. We drank with the
proprietor, a huge, yellowish man called Tom Wessels; and when my guides
had departed, I asked if he could produce any warrant or petty officer of
the _Archimandrite_.
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