Steve. The mast!
Capt. No, three feet of the cook’s stove-pipe. But she righted, and we were saved. Then a new danger arose on our weather bow. Three fathoms to windward arose a rock with a shelving surface nearest us even with the water, but the farthest part rising four feet. We were in danger of striking, when I rushed to the helm, bore hard on the compass, doused the binnacle lights, and steered straight for the rock. Fortune favored the bold manœuvre, for a sudden squall from the sou-sou-west raised the ship upon the rock. She slid swiftly over, and came down into the water with such a shock that, blast my eyes, if all the salt junk in the caboose didn’t turn of its own accord. Give us another chew, messmate.
Sam (aside). If my uncle aint a sailor, it isn’t for want of ability to lie.
Steve. Captain, is there anything I can do for you?
Capt. Ay, ay, messmate; show me a room, and give me something comfortable.
Steve. Ay, ay, sir! A warm room and a good pipe.
Capt. Pipe! Blast my eyes, I don’t smoke!
Steve. You are the first sailor that ever I saw who didn’t smoke.
Capt. Oh, shiver my timbers, let’s have the pipe!
Sam. I say, uncle, don’t smoke a horrid pipe; you’ll be awful sick.