It was at this point he heard wimpering from the Captains cot.
To be more presice from under the Captain's cot. And who ever it was, it sounded distressed. Perhaps, thought Orlando in a semi hysterical brainwave, the figure and the bed were re-enacting a scene from the past where an evil officer had killed a man for bringing him coffee. He gulped audibly. Just how was he going to get out of this one?
The voice from under the bed started speaking again, it was panting and sounded very stressed. 'Impy Dance sir, I must have misheard you Captain, er...sir why don't you straighten your wig up again sir and drink your cup of Joe before it gets cold eh? Sir, you know you don't like it cold.'
'SILENCE STYLES! I AM PERFECTLY AWARE OF HOW I LIKE MY COFFEE. YOU ARE NOT MY NANNY!'
A strangled squark eminated from the bed. 'N-n-o sir!'
It was at this point Orlando realised that Styles sounded a lot like a girl. Cocking an eyebrow he steadily moved towards the bed. He was about to raised the sheet and peer under when an weary 19th century cutlass slid out form under the bed and ,not without venom, prodded him in the ankle.



That's great!




