The Count of Monte Cristo

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An old seaman, bronzed by the tropical sun, advanced, twirling the
remains of a tarpaulin between his hands. "Good-day, M. Morrel," said
he, as if he had just quitted Marseilles the previous evening, and had
just returned from Aix or Toulon.

"Good-day, Penelon," returned Morrel, who could not refrain from smiling
through his tears, "where is the captain?"

"The captain, M. Morrel,--he has stayed behind sick at Palma; but please
God, it won't be much, and you will see him in a few days all alive and
hearty."

"Well, now tell your story, Penelon."

Penelon rolled his quid in his cheek, placed his hand before his
mouth, turned his head, and sent a long jet of tobacco-juice into the
antechamber, advanced his foot, balanced himself, and began,--"You see,