her—says she 'd start hisself without no windin' when the right time came.

Patch: If I was ter look up and see that pendulum swingin'—Horrers! Yeller elephants would be nothin'!

Duke: Pooh! I 'd give a month o' grog jest ter hear the ol' dear tickin', and ter know that Flint was restin' easy in his rotten coffin—swappin' stories with the pretty angels.

Patch: I loved Flint like a brother. (He is quite sentimental about this.) It was him knocked this out. (Pointing to his missing eye.) But it was jest in the way o' business. We differed a leetle in the loot. He was very persuasive, was ol' Flint.

Duke: Yer talks like a woman. They loves yer to cuff 'em. Them was 'appy days, Patch.

Patch: Blast me gig what 's left, Duke, but me and you has seen a heap o' sights. I suppose I 've drowned meself a hundred men. It 's comfertin' when yer lays awake at night. I feels I ain 't wasted meself. I 've used me gifts. I ain 't been a foolish virgin and put me shinin' talent inside a bushel. But me and you is driftwood now, Duke.

Duke: Aye. But it ain 't no use snifflin' about it, ol' crocodile. Darlin' is certainly handy at mixin' grog. And we 've a right smart cabin with winders on the sea. Since I stuffed yer ol' shirt in the roof it hardly leaks.

Patch: My shirt! Next week is me week fer changin'. How could yer ha' done it? I 'm a kinder perticerler dresser. I likes ter wash now and then—if it ain 't too often.

Duke: Darlin', me friend Patch is thirsty. And a drop meself. (The cups are filled.) Yer a precious ol' lady, and I loves yer.

Darlin': Yer spoils me, Duke.

(Lightning and a crash of thunder.)

Duke: It 's foul tonight on the ocean. How the wind blows! It be spittin' up outside. The channel 's as riled as a wampire when yer scorns her. How she snorts!

Patch: The devil hisself is hissin' through his teeth.

Duke: There 'll be sailormen tonight what 's booked fer Davy Jones's locker. I 'm not kickin' much ter be ashore. I rots peaceful.

(Patch-Eye has opened the door to consult the night. It slams wide in the wind and the gust blows out the candle.)

"Yer blowin' the gizzard out o' us" Duke: Hi, there, for'ard! Batten yer hatch! Yer blowin' the gizzard out o' us.

(He hobbles on timber leg to the warm chair by the fire. Patch closes the door and sits. Darlin' relights the candle.)

Patch: Poor Flint! He was took on jest such a night.

Dropped inter the Port Light fer somethin' wet and warmin'. Jest ter kinder say goodby. Ship all fitted out. He 'd got three new sailormen—fine fellers as had been sentenced ter be hanged fer cuttin' purses, but had been let go, as they had reformed and wanted ter be honest pirates.

Duke: I remembers the night, ol' sea-nymph. It was rainin' ter put out the fires o' hell—with the leetle devils stoakin' in the sinners. It 's sinners, Patch, as is used fer kindlers, ter keep the devils in a healthy sweat.

Patch: He was ter sail when the tide ran out. Lord a Goody! How the tide runs down the Thames, as if it were homesick fer the ocean!

Duke: But someone squealed.

Patch: Squealers is worse 'n hissin' reptiles. They ketched Flint and they strung him to a gibbet. Poor ol' dear! I never touches me patch, but I thinks o' Flint.

Duke: This here life is snug and easy. We has retired from practice, like store-keepers does who has made a fortin. Ain 't we settin' here in style and comfert, and jest waitin' fer the treasure ships ter come ter us? We gets the plums without chawin' at the dough. We blows out the lighthouse, and we sets our lantern so as ter fool 'em on the course, and when they smashes on the rocks, well—all we does is stuff our pokes with the treasure that washes up. I prays meself fer fog and dirty weather. Now I lay me, says I, and will yer send it thick and oozy?

Patch: I ain 't disputin' yer. (He cheers up a bit.) And we robs landlubbers once in a while.

Duke: Now yer talkin', ol' sea-lion. I 'm tellin' yer it were a good haul we made last night on Castle Crag.

Patch: Who 's disputin' yer?

Duke: I 'm tellin' yer. Silver candles! And spoons! Never seen such a heap o' spoons.

Patch: What 's anyone want more 'n one spoon fer? Yer cleans it every bite agin the tongue.

Duke: Yer disgusts me, Patch. Yer ain 't no manners. Fer meself I spears me food tidy on me knife.

(The Duke sits looking at the seaman's chest at the rear of the cabin. He is deep in thought.)

Duke: There 's jest one leetle thing I does n't understand. I asks yer. (He goes to the chest, opens it and draws out a rich velvet garment. He holds it up.) What 's the meaning o' this here loot we took at Castle Crag? I asks yer. Ain 't we been by that castle a hundred times? The Earl, he don 't wear clothes like this. None o' the arstocky does, 'cept when they struts on Piccadilly. I asks yer, Patch. I asks yer who wears a thing like that.

(He puts the garment around Patch's shoulders.)

Darlin': Yer looks like the Archbishop o' Canterbury.

Patch: (with strut and gesture). His Grice takin' the air—pluckin' posies.

Duke: Lookin' like a silly jackass.

Patch: Yer hurts me feelin's, Duke.

(The Duke folds the cloak and puts it back again in the chest. He sits at the table in meditation.)

Duke: I does n't like it, Patch. I does n't understand it. And what I does n't understand, I does n't like.

Patch: What?

Duke: Them gay clothes. Who owned 'em, I asks yer, afore we stole 'em.

Patch: Darlin'! Me friend, the Duke, is thirsty. Yer had better mix another pot. Our cups is low. Yer does n't want ter be a foolish virgin and get ketched without no grog.

Duke: With this bit o' slop what 's left I drinks to yer shinin' lamps—Wenus's flashin' gigs.

Her apron is towel, dust rag, mop and handkerchief Darlin': I loves yer, Duke.

(She fills, mixes and stirs the pot. She tastes it like a practiced house-wife. Her apron is maid of all work. It is towel, dust-rag, mop and handkerchief.)

Duke: What does