It was a dolphin sent by the most holy Senora in order that his side might stop up the open breach.
And thus, like a plug, it had sailed from Naples to Valencia without allowing a drop of water to pass in.
The _chef_ would not admit any criticisms nor protests.

This miracle was undeniable.

He had seen it with his own eyes, and they were good.
He had seen it in an ancient picture in the monastery of Puig, everything appearing on the tablet with the realism of truth,--the galley, the king, the _peixot_ and the Virgin above giving the order.
At this juncture the breeze would flap the narrator's shirt tail, disclosing his abdomen divided into hemispheres by the tyranny of its only pantaloon button.
"Uncle Caragol, look out!" warned a teasing voice.
The holy man would smile with the seraphic calm of one who sees beyond the pomps and vanities of existence, and would begin the relation of a new miracle.
Ferragut used to attribute his cook's periods of exaltation to the lightness of his clothing in all weathers.

Within him was burning a fire incessantly renewed.

On foggy days he would climb to the bridge with some glasses of a smoking drink that he used to call _calentets_.
Nothing better for men that had to pass long hours in the inclement weather in motionless vigilance! It was coffee mixed with rum, but in unequal proportions, having more alcohol than black liquid.