..I contracted, while in Charleston, a very rare and highly contagious strain of the St. Vitus Dance. If I don't knock back at least a quart of rum a day, I'll be up on my feet stringing together a cluster of spins and combinations that would give Fred Astaire the heebie-jeebies. The last three days in port were like a hazy dream to me; I dimly recalled tap-dancing my way down Serone St to a grimy little dock-side bar, where I performed the Overture to Swan Lake for drinks and tips. Then it was two plies and a jette' down to Filthy Frank's where I performed the Sabre Dance with some rusty cutlery I borrowed from the cook. By now I was half in the bag, and emerged from Frank's into a heavy downpour. I still managed to pull off the entire puddle-stomping routine from Singing in the Rain before I collapsed into the first dry shelter I came to- the hold of the SS Possum.

I knew one thing- once this wacky disease started to spread, this entire ship, crew and passengers alike, would look like one gigantic Busby Berkley Musical from Hell.

Suddenly a voice cried out "Hey You!" I turned...it was...