The next day, young Dirk braced himself for another encounter with the volatile Drochan…he spotted him in mid stride of the elbow pivot that would take dram of whiskey from the table to his lips. The old tavern, “The Pig” was well worn, and every wooden surface glowed with the patina of age. There were handfuls of ruffians, gambling tars, flitting mice and the ubiquitous stench of body odor, rotting teeth, street dogs and horseshit. One sigh of pleasure from the Captain’s amber pull, and Dirk made his move. “Sir, I pray for another chance with you. I know my tongue is stupid and devoid of manner, but I have a strong back and willing heart to work my best for you, the crew and the voyage. I did not mean to offend you, but as you have observed, my mind takes on an idiot’s will at times, despite my inner protests.“Well, you had best take possession of your “idiot” and quickly before I have the pleasure of hurling you arse out of that finely paned window. I should rather be interred within the bowels of a rotting pig then to admit one of your two club feet on my ship; and there you have the balance of it.
Neither would give further quarter. The Captain was a well-seasoned adventurer who had tasted the brine of many an ocean, set foot on many strange yet beautiful paradiso and polished more than one or two native mahogany breasts. Dirk was tall, hardened by pulling muck and peat from the Moors with a crude spade made from the shoulder plate of a Hart, but his wanderlust was insatiable. The two men were like twigs of the same branch, grafted from different trees.
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