"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."