And he had done nothing but put his hand upon my arm and squeeze.
There had been no wrenching or jerking.

He had just closed his hand with a steady pressure.

What he might have done I did not fully realize till next day, when he put his head into the galley, and, as a sign of renewed friendliness, asked me how my arm was getting on.
"It might have been worse," he smiled.
I was peeling potatoes.

He picked one up from the pan.

It was fair-sized, firm, and unpeeled.