( Is a good biscuit, this, honest and true. Bit stale around'em edges, where the good God lent a watering, but if He sends the wave, and the wave be wrathful, and the beautiful Zanyra, she's washed at the legs, and that's where'em provisions be holding — well, you ask Mr. Eames, not much helping a world where each does what each wants.

And Mr. Eames, he be wantin'his biscuit. Chomping. Grazing. Moaning with the sheer enjoyment of a man watched. Aye, but he's devouring it slow. )

You be looking smug like a kettle fresh sprung tea, ain't nothing wrong with ye. Run yer mouth, we treated you fair, fair'n'honest, is us, is lads of the sea.