"All right, all right, you have said enough to convince me that it is, as you said, the usual galley-slave tale," Jack said, strolling over to the rail and stretching—very carefully. He picked up a bulging skin and squirted a stream of stale water into his mouth, then stood up on the bench to contemplate the rock of Malta, which was drifting by them a few miles to starboard. He had just realized that it was a very small island and that he’d better look at it while he had the chance. "What I meant was: How did you end up on my oar?"