“My
ship is becalmed,” the Captain begins in apoplexy, “And late to
port, my crew are being lured to their certain deaths by some watery
witch and you're telling me that my problem is my cargo?”
“It's
not the whole problem,” Phoebe replies, “But it does lie at the
heart of things.”
“You'd
best be explaining yourself,” the Captain says, folding his arms
with scepticism. “And none of your riddles mind.”
“Your
cargo,” the girl begins, drawing a deep breath, “Is commercial
alcohol, used for fortifying wines and such like, correct?”
Briggs
nods with a grunt.
“Such
alcohol is very intoxicating, even the fumes, and requires a
particularly sturdy barrel for transportation. Correct?”
Again
the Captain nods and grunts.
“Your
cargo isn't in that type of barrel.”
