"Boy," said Ship's Mate Smush, sinking his teeth into an orange so plump that the juice ran down his chin, "I sure am glad the commanders figured out this miraculous cure for scurvy. And what a delectable cure it is!"
"Bah!" spat Yeoman Mogey.
"You're not a citrus lad?" Smush asked.
"Citrus lad?"
"Aye, that's what me and a few of the fellows who work in the galley have taken to calling ourselves. Oranges, lemons, limes... we're real flavonoid freaks."
"Bah!" Mogey repeated. "I prevent scurvy the old-fashioned way."
"And that is?" asked Smush.
"Willpower," Mogey replied.
"Ah," Smush acknowledged. "Say, did one of your teeth just fall out?"
"No!" Mogey hastily rejoined. He snatched the offending object from the deck and threw it over the railing, into the briny deep. "That was just, erm... a pebble I was chewing on."
"Because teeth dropping out of your melon is a classic symptom of scurvy. And do you know the other hallmark of the disease?"
"Referring to yourself as a 'citrus lad?'" Mogey grumped. "Because I haven't got time to chin-wag all day while you smash fruit into your face like some sort of... some sort of... Lieutenant Juicington or something!"
"Irritability," Smush replied serenely.
"Oh," said Mogey. "Have you seen any tangelos kicking around, by chance?"
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