"I still love ye t'death, Toulon," Lewrie commiserated, bending down to retrieve the hand towel and give the embarrassed cat a "wubbie" or two. He had to grin, for there had been scraped-off shaving soap on the towel, and Toulon had gotten some of it on his whiskers, which made him go slightly cross-eyed trying to see it and swipe it off, sitting up rabbit-fashion and whacking away with both paws.

Thermopylae rose up to a rare scending wave and heaved another slow roll to starboard, timbers, masts, and windward stays groaning in concert, and Lewrie half-staggered almost to amidships before catching himself. "Mine arse on a band-box!" he hissed under his breath, using one of his favourite expressions. That stagger involved some complicated foot stamping, which only drove the cat under the starboard-side settee, into relative darkness where Toulon could blink in shame and in umbrage, consulting his cat gods.

The larboard roll took Lewrie back to the wash-hand stand, where he took a firm grip with one hand and braced himself for another stab at shaving.

"Um… might you need me to do it for you, sir?" Pettus asked.

"No no, Pettus!" Lewrie countered with a false grin on his phyz, "Done for meself for years, in worse weather than this. Dined out on my dexterity!"

"If you say so, sir," Pettus replied with a dubious expression.

Once he'd scraped his whiskers as close as he dared, without cutting his own throat, Lewrie swabbed his face, tied his neck-stock, and donned his uniform coat. He made a careful way forrud to the dining-coach and his table, and his breakfast.