‘What good indeed?’ Three-Legged Ned said later that evening, as he massaged Captain Cole’s shoulders. ‘Ooh, you haven’t half got knots.’

‘That would be that bastard Flint. Took us six months to track him down.’

‘Wrong.’

‘Alright, it was closer to four. We had that month off boozing in …’

‘I mean, you’ve no call blaming Flint because you, mister, you don’t take care of yourself.’

‘But …’

‘Did Admiral Flint stop you from doing your morning stretches?’

‘Well …’

‘And I suppose Flint made you eat nothing but steak and kidney pie, pork and beer-battered chips for the last week?’

‘No, …’

‘Then perhaps I missed the time that Flint made you stay up all night fretting about whether your crew would get scurvy?’

‘Then, dammit, Ned, what am I supposed to do with myself?’

‘Well, I’m of the opinion you should start with physical therapy. Now, slip out of your jacket and let’s see if we can’t get a swell of triumph out of you yet.’