He wanted to bring his student life to an end so as to become a pilot and continue practicing on the bridge, beside his father.

Perhaps at thirty years of age, he might achieve the command of the _Mare Nostrum_ or some similar boat.
Meanwhile the lure of the sea dragged him far from the classroom, prompting him to visit Uncle Caragol at the very hour that his professors were calling the roll and noting the students' absence.
The old man and his protege used to betake themselves in the galley with the uneasy conscience of the guilty.

Steps and voices on deck always changed their topic of conversation.

"Hide yourself!" and Esteban would dodge under the table or hide in the provision-closet while the cook sallied forth with a seraphic countenance to meet the recent arrival.
Sometimes it was Toni, and the boy would then dare to come out, relying on his silence; for Toni liked him, too, and approved of his aversion to books.
If it was the captain who was coming to the boat for a few moments, Caragol would talk with him, obstructing the door with his bulk at the same time that he was smiling maliciously.
For Esteban the two most wonderful things in all the world were the sea and his father.

All those romantic heroes that had come from the pages of novels to take their place in his imagination had the face and ways of Captain Ferragut.
From babyhood he had seen his mother weeping occasionally in resigned sadness.