Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 20, 2025
They were all muscular and well set-up with blue eyes and blonde mustaches, and were wearing hidden medallions. One of them had presented to the cook one of his religious charms which he had bought on a pilgrimage to Ste. Anne d'Auray. Caragol was wearing it upon his hairy chest, and experiencing a new-born faith in the miracles of this foreign image.
The cook could not hear him, and continued swimming on with all the force of his faith, repeating his pious invocations between his noisy snortings. A cask climbed the crest of a wave, rolling down on the opposite side. The head of the blind swimmer came in its way.... A thudding crash. Padre San Vicente!... And Caragol disappeared with bleeding head and a mouth full of salt.
At this juncture the breeze would flap the narrator's shirt tail, disclosing his abdomen divided into hemispheres by the tyranny of its only pantaloon button. "Uncle Caragol, look out!" warned a teasing voice. The holy man would smile with the seraphic calm of one who sees beyond the pomps and vanities of existence, and would begin the relation of a new miracle.
Good women smelled of fish and kitchen pots; he was sure of that.... In his faraway youth, the knowledge of poor Caragol had never gone beyond that. As soon as he was alone, he snatched up a rag, waving it violently around, as though he were driving away flies. He wished to clear the atmosphere of bad odors.
His visits always ended in the kitchen, invited there by Uncle Caragol, who was accustomed to treat him with fraternal familiarity. 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.
You do not know of what things I am capable in order to make your existence sweet.... And you wish to lose and to ruin me!..." A clash against the door was heard, a struggle of bodies that were pushing each other, the friction of a scuffle against the wood. Toni had entered followed by Caragol. "Enough of that now, Señora," said the mate in a grim voice in order to hide his emotion.
Caragol achieved equal success with the forty-five men who had taken possession of the machinery and the messrooms in the forecastle. They were dressed like seamen of the fleet, with a broad blue collar and a cap topped by a red pompom. Some displayed on the breast military medals and the recent Croix de Guerre.
From time to time he would amuse himself consulting the old fellow as to the future fate of the steamer; he wished to know if the submarines were causing him any fear. "There's nothing to worry about," affirmed Caragol. "We have good protectors. Whoever presents himself before us is lost."
And he moved it, although with a certain difficulty, feeling the weight of an increasing swelling. "By-and-by I'll tell you how it happened.... I don't believe they'll be anxious to repeat it." Then he remained thoughtful for an instant. "At any rate, it's best for us to get away from this port quickly.... Go and see our men. Not one of them is to speak about it!... Call Caragol."
The old man used to pray before it as though it were a miracle-working print, and the Cristo del Grao was relegated to second place. One morning Caragol went in search of the captain and found him writing in his stateroom. He had just come from making purchases in the shore market.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking