“Come to my heart, angelic child!” cried Franci, flinging out his arms once more.  “At length I am understood, I am appreciated, I have found a comrade!  That I weep on thy bosom, Colorado!”

And, much to the disgust of Rento, he fell upon John’s neck, and shed, or appeared to shed, a few tears, with great parade of silk handkerchief.  He then advanced to where the Skipper was smoking his cigar in the stern, and informed him, with a low bow, that he and Colorado were one soul, which the Skipper said he was delighted to hear, adding that he recommended the one soul to set the two bodies to work cleaning the brasses.

Franci liked to clean the brasses, because he could see his face in them, and make eyes at himself as he went along; accordingly he turned three back-somersaults, a sign of high good-humour with him, and returned to his new friend.

“Have you noticed, Colorado,” he inquired, “the contour of my leg?  Did you observe it now, quivering in the air?”

John nodded appreciation, and wondered how old Franci was.

“To possess beauty,” said the latter, gravely, “is a responsibility, my friend.  It is a burden, my soul!  Franci has shed tears over it, the tears of a poet.  You have read of Apollo, at least you have heard of him, the god of poetry, of music, of grace? yes?  Behold him, Colorado!  He lives before you, in the form of Franci.  Come on, that we clean together the brasses!”

As for the monkeys, they at once adopted John as their companion and their lawful prey.  They climbed over him, they tried to get into his pockets, they nestled in his arms, they challenged him to races among the yards.  The Skipper was their king, Franci was their model, the ideal toward which they vainly aspired.  Rento, good, homely Rento, was the person who fed them, and with whom they could take any liberties, with no danger of a beating; but the new-comer, the boy John, was simply another monkey like themselves.  Dressed up, it was true, like men, but in no other way resembling them more than another, more than themselves.  Let him come and play, then, and put on no airs.  These were the sentiments of Jack and Jim, and John responded to them with hearty good-will.

The Skipper sat smoking, and watched with a quiet smile the gambols of the three young creatures, as they sped here and there about the rigging, chattering, laughing, shrieking with glee.

“Laugh, my son!” he said to himself, between the puffs of his cigar.  “Laugh and play, my little son!  Far too little laughter has been in thy life so far; here thou shalt be as gay as the sun is bright on the Bahamas.  Of what use to be a sailor, if not to rejoice, and to see with joy the works of God and His glory?  Laugh, Colorado, the sound is music in my ears!”

But by-and-by the play must cease.  Orders were given, and Rento and Franci set to work in good earnest.  The wind was fair, the tide was setting out.  What should keep them longer here?  The sails were hoisted to the tune of “Baltimore,” and Rento’s gruff bass and Franci’s melting tenor were mingled for once in friendly harmony.