The rattle and bang of the frying-pan was grating horribly on my nerves.

I could not collect my thoughts.

Clutching the woodwork of the galley for support,--and I confess the grease with which it was scummed put my teeth on edge,--I reached across a hot cooking-range to the offending utensil, unhooked it, and wedged it securely into the coal-box.
The cook grinned at my exhibition of nerves, and thrust into my hand a steaming mug with an "'Ere, this'll do yer good." It was a nauseous mess,--ship's coffee,--but the heat of it was revivifying.

Between gulps of the molten stuff I glanced down at my raw and bleeding chest and turned to the Scandinavian.
"Thank you, Mr.Yonson," I said; "but don't you think your measures were rather heroic ?" It was because he understood the reproof of my action, rather than of my words, that he held up his palm for inspection.

It was remarkably calloused.