'Safely tucked under our larboard beam, zur.'

'Good. We'll keep 'em on the Swedish side.' He concentrated on his shave.

'You'll pardon me for saying, zur,' Tregembo pressed on with the familiarity of long service, 'but you've been under the weather these past two days ...'

'You talk too much, too early in the day, damn you... God's bones!' Drinkwater winced at the nick the razor had given him.

'You'd do better to take more care of yourself,' Tregembo persisted, and for a second Drinkwater thought he was being insolent, referring to his own bloodily obvious need to keep his mouth shut. But a single glance at the old Cornishman's face told him otherwise. Tregembo's concern was touching.

'You cluck like an old hen,' Drinkwater said, his tone and mood mellowing. He had to admit the justice of Tregembo's allegation, although 'under the weather' was an inadequate description of Drinkwater's evil humour. He wiped off the lather and looked at Tregembo. It was impossible for him to apologise but his expression was contrite.

"Tis time we went ashore, zur. Swallowed the anchor, in a manner of speaking.'

'Ashore?' Drinkwater tied his stock, peering at himself in the mirror. 'Ashore? No, I think not, Tregembo, not yet. I don't think I could abide tea and gossip at the same hour every day and having to be polite to the train of gentlewomen who infest my house like weevils in a biscuit.'

Tregembo was not so easily diverted, knowing full well Drinkwater's exaggeration only emphasised his irritability. "Tis time you purchased a bit of land, zur. You could go shooting ...'

Drinkwater turned from the mirror. 'When we swallow the anchor, as you quaintly put it, Tregembo,' he said with a sudden vehemence, holding his arms backwards for his coat, 'I pray God I have done with shooting!'