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.