“No, I'm not lyin'. I promised not to lay a hand on you in anger, that's all. Fust place, I don't kick with my hands, and, second place, I ain't angry. Now, then, pick up them lines.”
The “able seaman” was frightened. This sort of treatment was new to him. He judged it best to obey now and “get square” later on. He sulkily picked up the codlines, and threw the hooks overboard. Captain Eri, calmly resuming his fishing, went on to say, “The fust thing a sailor has to l'arn is to obey orders. I see you've stopped smokin'. Light up.”
“I don't want to.”
“Well, I want you TO. Light up.”
“I won't. Oh, yes, I will!”
He eyed the threatening boot fearfully and lit the awful pipe with shaking fingers. But he had taken but a few puffs when it went over the side, and it seemed to Josiah that the larger half of himself went with it. The Captain watched the paroxysm grimly.
“Sick, hey?” he grunted, “and not a capful of wind stirrin'. You're a healthy sailor! I thought I'd shipped a man, but I see 'twas only a sassy baby. My uncle Labe had a good cure for seasickness. You take a big hunk of fat salt pork, dip it in molasses, and—”
“Oh, d-o-n-'t!” Another spasm.
“Dip it in molasses,” repeated Captain Eri.
“Don't, Cap! PLEASE don't!”