The big Dutch boy wanted to fight about the ship's name again. She was a 400 ton merchantman called Tijdverdrijf- 'Pastime' in English. Four years as a printer's devil had taught Rafferty Flynn his letters well enough to spell it, but damned if he could pronounce it. The closest he got was 'tits-fer-drift.' Apparently, it wasn't close enough, because the square-headed carpenter's apprentice had never missed an opportunity to take offense at Raff's mangling of the word.
“You scrawny Irish rat,” the Dutchie shouted. “I'm tired of your funny talk.”
It seemed silly to Raff that the Dutchie, whose sing-song accent made him think of a braying donkey, should mock his perfectly respectable brogue. And sillier still that the larger boy should want to settle the issue with fists. But here they were, circling one another on the sun-beaten mid deck, both sweating and flushed in the still Caribbean air, hands clenched and faces twisted, ready to pound one another senseless. All in all, Raff thought, a foolish way to spend a morning.
But before the first punch could be thrown, Brennan, the American deck hand, stepped between them. "Dudes!" he yelled. "Whassup? Take a goddamned chill pill wouldja?"
Now there was a diction they could really hate.
Opening: Sean McCluskey.....Continuation: anon.