A wide swath of black tar spreads across the deck of the ship, leading back to its origin at the feet of a clumsy deckhand.

“She’s been purty fur twenty year! Yew’d better git her inta tip-top shape afore the Cap’n sees that! If yew’ve got nuthin’ ta say, then grease yer elbow an’ go it!” The first mate’s outrage is emphasized with a shaking fist.

“Aye.” The deckhand grumbles. Under his breath he mutters, “Yer veins is full o’ mud an’ water!”

“Wut’s that, matey? Yew say sumptin’?” The first mate was already mad; now he is furious. “Yew wanna dance fer the Cap’n’s daughter!? Why don’t ye dance, damn ye!? That’ll shew yew ta mouth off.” As he storms off, another deckhand looks up, sympathetic to his colleagues plight.

“Reckon it’s the likker? He been purty sauced since last port. Wunner why.” He goes back to his task. “Purhaps ‘is girl gone’n left ’im. ’Tain’t noways impossible, be it?”

“Aye, ’tain’t impossible,” says the first deckhand with a conspiratorial chuckle, “Jest not likely ’es got a girl.”