' ship"]

PATCH: She was tickin' peaceful the day Flint was hanged. But she
stopped--does yer remember it?--the very minute they pushed him off
the ladder.

DUKE: She ain 't ticked since.

PATCH: It makes yer 'stitious. And she won 't never run agin--that 's
what Flint alers said--till his death 's revenged.

DUKE: He told us never ter wind 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 c