A steward, white-jacketed, appeared from what I took to be the pantry. He was a tall, thin character with a dark complexion and the long lugubrious face of a dyspeptic spaniel. He looked at Benson and said in a meaningful voice: "«Another» plate of French fries, Doc?"

"You know very well that I never have more than one helping of that carbohydrated rubbish," Benson said with dignity. "Not, at least, for breakfast. Henry, this is Dr. Carpenter."

"Howdy," Henry said agreeably.

"Breakfast, Henry," Benson said. "And, remember, Dr. Carpenter is a Britisher. We don't want him leaving with a low opinion of the chow served in the U. S. Navy."

"If anyone aboard this ship has a low opinion of the food," Henry said darkly, "they hide it pretty well. Breakfast. The works. Right away."

"Not the works, for heaven's sake," I said. "There are some things we decadent Britishers can't face up to first thing in the morning. One of them is French fries."

He nodded approvingly and left.

I said, "Dr. Benson, I gather."

"Resident medical officer aboard the «Dolphin», no less," he admitted. "The one who's had his professional competence called into question by having a competing practitioner called in." -

"I'm along for the ride. I assure you I'm not competing with anyone."

"I know you're not," he said quickly. Too quickly. Quickly enough so that I could see Swanson's hand in this, could see him telling his officers to lay off quizzing Carpenter too much. I wondered again what Swanson was going to say when and if we ever arrived at the drift station and he found out just how fluent a liar I was. Benson went on, smiling: "There's no call for even one medico aboard this boat, much less two."

"You're not overworked?" From the leisurely way he was going about his breakfast, it seemed unlikely.

"Overworked! rye sick-bay call once a day and no one ever turns up — except the morning after we arrive in port with a long cruise behind us, and then there are liable to be a few sore heads around.