"Watch your noun," Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. "Your adjectives are insubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous."
"Captain, you've gone too far," I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, was scarlet, his chest heaving with emotion.
"Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship's Surgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain," Winkelmann said.
"Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you," I said. "The other officers and the men have been more than satisfied with his work."
"That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds," Winkelmann said. "Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber," he added.
Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered him to my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on my bunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metal bulkhead. "You'll have that drink now," I said.
"No, dammit!" he shouted.
"Orders," I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. "This is therapy, Bailey," I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throat like water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it.
After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. "Sorry, Doc," he said.