CHAPTER VIII.
THE YOUNG TELEMACHUS Whenever the _Mare Nostrum_ returned to Barcelona, Esteban Ferragut had always felt as dazzled as though a gorgeous stained glass window had opened upon his obscure and monotonous life as the son of the family.
He now no longer wandered along the harbor admiring from afar the great transatlantic liners in front of the monument of Christopher Columbus, nor the cargo steamers that were lined up along the commercial docks.
An important boat was going to be his absolute property for some weeks, while its captain and officers were passing the time on land with their families.

Toni, the mate, was the only one who slept aboard.

Many of the seamen had begged permission to live in the city, and so the steamer had been entrusted to the guardianship of Uncle Caragol with half a dozen men for the daily cleaning.

The little Ferragut used to play that he was the captain of the _Mare Nostrum_ and would pace the bridge, pretending that a great tempest was coming up, and examine the nautical instrument with the gravity of an expert.

Sometimes he used to race through all the habitable parts of the boat, climbing down to the holds that, wide open, were being ventilated, waiting for their cargo; and finally he would clamber into the ship's gig, untying it from the landing in order to row in it for a few hours, with even more satisfaction than in the light skiffs of the Regatta Club.
His visits always ended in the kitchen, invited there by Uncle Caragol, who was accustomed to treat him with fraternal familiarity.