[sblock=The Writ of Waiting, upon which the delicate boy Hawthorne regarded the Gamemaster and other players while begging to be chosen]
"S'na fair," be said by I, "Truer n'sweeter a child than I ne'er born by my mother's fat hips, she'd say. An' she'd be right, I'd reckon."
"I be wan'in to say a few words to that mad one Col, an not the kind that says 'Where be me coin, blackheart!' like I might if'n he tried t'stiff me. I long t'smell the sweet air for the wharfs, with all the drudge f'the canals messin' the odor of coconut from th'fish vendors. S'smell o'life an Sasserine I tell, an I reckon I be true as the pale belly of Mongo's pickle when I tell yea I was born fer the spray o'salt and de flappin' of me coat by the breezy sea. "
"So, yea scurvy lurvly landlubbers all - remember me rosy cheeks o'babes when come time and tell to name yer boon companion. By Osprem's extra nipple, I swear t'keep yer secrets and not tell yea mistresses about yer wives. I promise t'lend yea coin when yer purse is lighter than rum an grog. I'll not swive your sisters nor your mothers either unless I be askin' first, an whilst yea wet yerselves in battles I'll stick by you true as lice and sweat."
[/sblock]