If the youthful oarsman was perspiring greatly....

"A refresquet ?" And the _chef_ would prepare his sweet mixture that made men, after one gulp, fall into the haziness of intoxication.
Esteban esteemed highly the "refrescos" of the cook.

His imagination, excited by the frequent reading of novels of travel, had made him conceive a type of heroic, gallant, dashing sailor--a regular swash-buckler capable of swallowing by the pitcherful the most rousing drinks without moving an eyelid.

He wanted to be that kind; every good sailor ought to drink.
Although on land he was not acquainted with other liquors than those innocent and over-sweet ones kept by his mother for family fiestas, once he trod the deck of a vessel he felt the necessity for alcoholic liquids so as to make it evident that he was entirely a man.

"There wasn't in the whole world a drink that could do _him_ any harm...." And after a second "refresco" from Uncle Caragol, he became submersed in a placid nirvana, seeing everything rose-colored and considerably enlarged,--the sea, the nearby boats, the docks, and Montjuich in the background.
The cook, looking at him affectionately with his bleared eyes, believed that he must have bounded back a dozen years and be still in Valencia, talking with that other Ferragut boy who was running away from the university in order to row in the harbor.