Scarcely were these prophetic words uttered, when the soldier statue at the head of the boarding-stairs swung his musket forward into position, and hailed in emphatic Spanish, a language which, thanks to my mother, I knew fairly well.  There followed a moment of angry controversy, during which the startled negroes rested upon their oars, while the enraged guard threatened to fire if they drifted a yard closer.  In the midst of this hubbub a head suddenly popped up above the rail.  Then a tall, ungainly figure, clad in a faded, ill-fitting uniform, raised itself slowly, leaning far out over the side, a pair of weak eyes, shadowed by colored glasses, gazing down inquiringly into the small boat.

“Vat ees it you say you have zare?” he asked in an attempt at French, which I may only pretend to reproduce in English.  “Vat ees ze cargo of ze leetle boat?”

Instantly the two hucksters gave voice, fairly running over each other in their confused jargon, during which I managed to distinguish native names for potatoes, yams, sweet corn, peaches, apples, and I know not what else.

The Spaniard perched high on the rail waved his long arms in unmitigated disgust.

“Caramba!” he cried the moment he could make his voice distinguished above the uproar.  “I vant none of zos zings; Saint Cristoval, non! non!  Ze Capitaine he tole me get him some of ze olif—­haf you no olif in ze leetle boat?”

The darkies shook their heads, instantly starting in again to call their wares, but the fellow on the rail waved them back.

“Zen ve don’t vant you here!” he cried shrilly.  “Go vay dam quick, or else ze soldier shoot.”  As if in obedience to an order the stolid guard brought his weapon menacingly to the shoulder.

How the episode terminated I did not remain to learn.  At that moment I only clearly comprehended this—­I had a way opened, an exceedingly slight one to be sure, of doubtful utility, yet still a way, which might lead me into the guarded mystery of that ship.  The time for action had arrived, and that was like a draught of wine to me.  Eagerly I slipped back through the increasing crowd of gaping countrymen, to where the negro had found a spot of comfort in the sun.

“Alphonse!” I called, careful to modulate my voice.  “Wake up, you black sleepy-head!  Ay!  I have you at last in the world again.  Now stop blinking, and pay heed to what I say.  Do you chance to know where, for love, money, or any consideration, you could lay hands on olives in this town?”

The fellow, scarcely awake, rolled up the whites of his eyes for a moment, and scratched his woolly pate, as if seeking vainly to conjure up some long-neglected memory.  Then his naturally good-humored countenance relaxed into a broad grin.

“Fo’ de Lord, yas sah!  I’se your man dis time suah ’nough.  Dat fat ol’ Dutchman, down by de Tehoupitoulas Gate, suah as you’re born had a whole barrel ob dem yesterday.  I done disremember fer de minute, boss, jist whar I done saw dem olibs, but I reckon as how de money ’d fotch ’em all right.”