“Strange things happen at sea,” said Perrin.
“I believe Captain Cammock makes these stories up,” said Margaret. “In the night-watches, when he isn’t grilling seamen’s bloods.”
“Yes,” said Perrin, “yes.”
“Is that right, captain?” asked Margaret. “Do you make these stories up yourself?”
“No, sir,” said Cammock, “I’ve not got the education, and I’ve something else to think about. These writer fellows—beg pardon, Captain Margaret, I don’t mean you, sir—they’re often very unpractical. They’d let a ship fall overboard.”
“So you think them very unpractical, do you, captain?” said Margaret. “What makes you think that?”
“Because they are, sir,” he replied. “They’re always reading poetry and that. From all I can make out of it, poetry’s a lot of slush.”
“Have you ever read any?” said Perrin.
“Who? Me?” said Cammock. “Bless yer, yes. Reams of it. A book of it called Paradise Lost. Very religious, some of it. I had enough of poetry with that inside me. I can’t say as I ever read much since.”
“Well, captain,” said Margaret, “it hasn’t made you unpractical.”