In the middle of all this, Mike came staggering up the companion ladder, falling from side to side, balancing on each step and bracing himself with knees and elbows. In each hand he had an enormous sandwich. He lurched across the cockpit and fell, sitting, beside Pete. He held up one of the sandwiches. "Here," he said. Pete looked at the thing, the bread already damp with spray, the insides of the sandwich leaking and dripping and squeezing out. "No, thanks," Pete said. Inside his mouth there was a sudden gush of cold liquid, and his stomach seemed to rise up and then fall slowly over backward and slither down again. When Mike withdrew the sandwich, Pete felt a little better. But when Mike took a huge bite of his own, a bite which caused the red and yellow and gray inside of the sandwich to ooze out, Pete had to look up at the topmast as his stomach did another slow roll. "You'd better take those things below before Dagwood sees them," Pete decided.
