Then, too, it would sound natural to hear a Norwegian skipper swearing at his men.
The search officer clambered aboard.
"Merry Christmas, Captain."
"Merry Christmas, Mister Officer," I replied, using the kind of broken English I thought a Norwegian skipper would use. I talk English with an accent, luckily about the same brand you would hear in a Scandinavian port. "But," I continued, "if you want to see what kind of Christmas we have had come along down to my cabin."
"A bit of a nasty blow this past week, eh, what!" agreed the officer, "and from the look of your deck you've had more than your share of it. We went in behind the islands and waited for her to blow over."
"Yes, luckily for us," I thought to myself.
"I must see your papers, Captain." He got right down to business. Just then the gramophone struck up "Tipperary," and he began to whistle the tune while his men made for the galley. I ushered the two officers to the cabin. The one who stuck his head in first retreated holding his nose.
"What a hell of a smell!"
"Excuse me, Mister Officer, but my stove is out of order. I could not know you gentlemen were giving me a visit to-day."
"Oh, never mind, Captain, that's all right, that's all right."