The port captain said "To-morrow," so we
climbed up to the inn, examined the stores, a few tins of tunny,
mackerel, and milk, and the thirteen made the best of the bar-room floor
for the night, booted and ready in case a transport for the _Benedetto_
should arrive.
In the morning the captain said we could have the boat that night, and
in the evening he said we could have it in the morning. His excuse was
that the Borra was blowing its hardest, and no sailor could be found to
venture out; but Fabiano said that this was not true.
The real reason was the sleek Austrian torpedo lying on the beach, for
the Dulcinos are famed on the Adriatic coast because of their timidity.
Time passed drearily. The only amusement we had was to go and annoy the
captain of the port by asking when we could have a boat. The wind was
too cold for constitutionals, and we piled on all our clothes and sat on
our knapsacks in the bar-room--for there was no fire--and talked
wistfully of sausages, Yorkshire Relish and underdone beefsteaks.
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