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.