"Why, I don't find the odor so very unpleasant," the master declared;
"in fact, I rather like it, and I know it's healthy, because I
remember, when my brother Ezra had pneumonia, they burned creosote in
the room."

"Oh, nobody objects to the smell particularly, sir, though it's been
my experience that anybody can cheapen a good thing by overuse--and we
have three months of that smell ahead of us. It's the taste that
busts my bobstay."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Well, you see, sir, the odor of creosote is so heavy it won't float
in the air, but just settles down over everything, like mildew on a
pair of boots. So it gets in the stores and you taste it. You can
store flour below deck aft and creosoted piling on deck for'd--and you
won't be out two weeks before that flour is spoiled. Same way with
the tea, coffee, sugar, mush, salt-horse--everything. It all tastes
of creosote; and then the damned stuff rubs off on the ship and ruins
the paintwork. And if the crew happen to have any cuts or abrasions
on their hands they're almost certain to get infected with the awful
stuff, and you'll be kept busy doctoring them. Then, the first thing,
along comes a gale and you're shorthanded, and there's the devil to
pay."

"Aye!" Mr. MacLean interrupted solemnly. "I dinna care for creosote
mysel', sir; so, wi' your kind permission, I'll hae ma time--an' I'll
hae it noo."

Matt Peasley bent upon the recalcitrant Scotchman a withering glare.