“Bu’ful,” said Mr. Chalk, shortly.  He was gazing in much distaste at a brig to starboard, which was magically drawn up to the skies one moment and blotted from view the next.

“Nice fresh smell,” said Tredgold, sniffing.  “Have a cigar, Chalk?”

Mr. Chalk shook his head, and his friend, selecting one from his case, lit it with a fusee that poisoned the atmosphere.

“None of us seem to be sea-sick,” he remarked.

“Sea-sickness, sir,” said Captain Brisket—­“seasickness is mostly imagination.  People think they’re going to be bad, and they are.  But there’s one certain cure for it.”

“Cure?” said Mr. Chalk, turning a glazing eye upon him.

“Yes, sir,” said Brisket, with a warning glance at Mr. Stobell, who was grinning broadly.  “It’s old-fashioned and I’ve heard it laughed at, but it’s a regular good old remedy.  Mr. Stobell’s laughing at it,” he continued, as a gasping noise from that gentleman called for explanation, “but it’s true all the same.”

“What is it?” inquired Mr. Chalk, with feeble impatience.

“Pork,” replied Captain Brisket, with impressive earnestness.  “All that anybody’s got to do is to get a bit o’ pork-fat pork, mind you—­and get the cook to stick a fork into it and frizzle it, all bubbling and spluttering, over the galley fire.  Better still, do it yourself; the smell o’ the cooking being part of——­”

Mr. Chalk arose and, keeping his legs with difficulty, steadied himself for a moment with his hands on the companion, and disappeared below.

“There’s nothing like it,” said Brisket, turning with a satisfied smile to Mr. Stobell, who was sitting with his hands on his knees and rumbling with suppressed mirth.  “It’s an odd thing, but, if a man’s disposed to be queer, you’ve only got to talk about that to finish him.  Why talking about fried bacon should be so bad for ’em I don’t know.”

“Imagination,” said Tredgold, smoking away placidly.

Brisket smiled and then, nursing his knee, scowled fiercely at the helmsman, who was also on the broad grin.

“Of course, it wants proper telling,” he continued, turning to Stobell.  “Did you notice his eyes when I spoke of it bubbling and spluttering over the galley fire?”

“I did,” replied Mr. Stobell, laying his pipe carefully on the deck.

“Some people tell you to tie the pork to a bit o’ string after frying it,” said Brisket, “but that’s what I call overdoing it.  I think it’s quite enough to describe its cooking, don’t you?”

“Plenty,” said Stobell.  “Have one o’ my matches,” he said, proffering his box to Tredgold, who was about to relight his cigar with a fusee.

“Thanks, I prefer this,” said Tredgold.

Mr. Stobell put his box in his pocket again and, sitting lumpily in his chair, gazed in a brooding fashion at the side.

“Talking about pork,” began Brisket, “reminds me—­”