The beauty didn’t seem a bit inclined to “wo!” however. She positively rolled her ports under, and Rory confessed that the doldrums were nothing to this.
Presently up comes Rory from below.
“Och! captain dear,” he says, “my gun-case has burst my fiddle-case, and I’m not sure that the fiddle herself is safe, the darling.”
Next up comes Stevenson. “Please captain,” he says, “the steward says his crockery is all going to smithereens, and the cook can’t keep the fire in the galley range, and Freezing Powders has broken the tureen and spilt the soup, and—”
“Enough, enough,” cried McBain, laughing; “take charge, mate, and do as you like with her, I’m satisfied.”
So down below dived the captain, the ship’s head was once more turned north-west, and a bit of canvas clapped on to steady her.