“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—­”

“What! ain’t you got over that joke yet?” inquired Mr. Stobell, glaring at him.  “Poor Chalk can’t help his feelings.”

“No, no,” said the captain, staring back.

“People can’t help being sea-sick,” said Stobell, fiercely.

“Certainly not, sir,” agreed the captain.

“There’s no disgrace in it,” continued Mr. Stobell, with unusual fluency,” and nothing funny about it that I can see.”

“Certainly not, sir,” said the perplexed captain again.  “I was just going to point out to you how, talking about pork—­”

“I know you was,” stormed Mr. Stobell, rising from his chair and lurching forward heavily.  “D’ye think I couldn’t hear you?  Prating, and prating, and pra——­”

He disappeared below, and the captain, after exchanging a significant grin with Mr. Tredgold, put his hands behind his back and began to pace the deck, musing solemnly on the folly of trusting to appearances.

Sea-sickness wore off after a day or two, and was succeeded by the monotony of life on board a small ship.  Week after week they saw nothing but sea and sky, and Mr. Chalk, thirsting for change, thought with wistful eagerness of the palm-girt islands of the Fijian Archipelago to which Captain Brisket had been bidden to steer.  In the privacy of their own cabin the captain and Mr. Duckett discussed with great earnestness the nature of the secret which they felt certain was responsible for the voyage.