ospatric is when you come to know him intimately. No one from
meeting him casually would guess that he had failings of this sort. In
fact, you would take him for a very tough subject indeed, inured to
hardship in the past, and liking hardship in the present for its own
sake. As an instance: instead of taking his ugly cutter down coast by
the inner passages, he must needs get out into the open water, which is
at this time of year exceptionally unquiet, from sheer delight at
getting kicked about. Indeed, when we picked up an equinoctial gale
half-way across, and had our hands exceedingly full to keep the boat
afloat, the man fairly revelled in the scene and the work; and what's
more, that sleepy, straggling person Haigh did too. It wasn't in my
line at all. I've not the smallest objection to getting cold and wet
when there is a big elk or a good bag of grouse in question; that's
different. But when one is perpetually half-drowned and frozen in a
little tub of a sailing craft, I fail to see where the fun comes in.
Still, in spite of the hard, rough time, I should have been sorry to
have missed that hammering across the North Sea and the trip down
Channel to queer old St. Malo. There was one strong redeeming
feature--Cospatric's accounts of his hunting after the Raymond Lully
inscription. He and I took one watch between us, and to the
accompaniment of northern gale and northern spindrift, he yarned about
a chase under southern skies for an object which I believe to be an
absolutely unique one. He was one of the men who were scouring after
that Recipe for making Diamonds lost to this world since the death of
its original finder in 1315.

[_Follows, an account of the contention for the blessed Raymond
Lully's Recipe, as given from Michael Cospatric's own lips._]

CHAPTER IV.

MR. WEEMS AND HIS PURCHASE.

... Genoa no doubt has its drawbacks. Incessant rain, perennial stink,
and big prices can go to make up a heaven for few people. But for
taking the taste of really bitter hard times out of one's mouth, the
place has its good points.

I'd been catching it bad just before. I'd got on my beam-ends in
Oporto, and couldn't afford to be fastidious about a berth.
Consequently, I'd found myself in a rotten old Genovese tramp barque
that most of the crew had run from because they thought she'd founder
next time she put to sea. Of course the owners didn't want to see her
again, and the skipper had been doing his best to p