"Give me your hand, you're choking!" You reach above finding his firm grip at once. Gingerly and seemingly without effort he hauls you to the deck, places you on your feet, and brushes the paint dust from clothes with his thick stubby fingers while picking off bits of grime and flakes of paint.
The gathered crowd looks on, some smile and turn away, a few applaud, most simply stare from their deck chairs at what will become today's gossip.
"I'm sorry, I almost killed you. Look at you, you are a fright. Here," he waves with his left hand broadly toward your stateroom and discreetly opens his jacket with his right hand revealing a massive Webbly .455 revolver to your gaze only, "let me help you change into fresh garments. Will you step into your room please?"
There is something in his voice, a commanding presence fit for a captain. He can't possibly be a member of the crew, they're far too wimpy and always kissing up looking for a big tip. It's almost as if...
Placing his muscular left hand on your shoulder and turning you around you have no choice and are forced back into your stateroom.
Turn to the next page, page 8.