hermes

[cut to a table in a dark room. Rum [Tom Baker, but I needn't tell you that] is sitting with his back against a wall]

Rum: Aaaaaaahrrrrr Aaaaaaahrrrrr Aaaaaaaaaaahrrrrr. Me laddy.

Blackadder: Ah-haah-ah, indeed. So, Rum, I wish to hire you and your ship. Can we shake on it? [holds out hand]

Rum: aah-ahhh! [strokes his hand] You have a woman's hand, milord! I'll wager these dainty pinkies never weighed anchor in a storm.

Blackadder: Well, you're right there.

Rum: Ha ha ha. -Aah! Your skin milord. I'll wager it ne'er felt the lash of a cat ['o' nine tails], been rubbed with salt, and then flayed off by a pirate chief to make fine stockings for his best cabin boy.

Blackadder: How canny, I don't know how you do it, but you're right again.

Rum: Why should I let a stupid cockerel like you aboard me boat?

Blackadder: Perhaps for the money in my purse [holding it up]

Rum: Ha. -Aah! You have a woman's purse! [takes it from him and examines it daintily] I'll wager that purse has never been used as a rowing-boat. I'll wager it's never had sixteen shipwrecked mariners tossing in it.

Blackadder: Yes, right again, Rum. I must say when it comes to tales of courage I'm going to have to keep my mouth shut.

Rum: Oh! You have a woman's mouth, milord! I'll wager that mouth never had to chew through the side of a ship to escape the dreadful spindly killer fish.

Blackadder: I must say, when I came to see you, I had no idea I was going to have to eat your ship as well as hire it. And since you're clearly as mad as a mongoose I'll bid you farewell [gets up]

Rum: Aaah, courtiers to the Queen, you're nothing but lapdogs to a slip of a girl.

Blackadder: Better a "lapdog to a slip of a girl", than a... Git.

Rum: So you do have some spunk in you! Don't worry, laddie, I'll come, I'll come [holds out his hand]

Blackadder: Well, let us set sail as soon as we can. [they shake] I will fetch my first mate, and then I'll return as fast as my legs will carry me.

Rum: Ah! [pointing] You have a woman's legs, my lord! I'll wager those are legs that have never been sliced clean off by a falling sail, and swept into the sea before your very eyes.

Blackadder: [crossly] Well, neither have yours.

Rum: That's where you're wrong [throws aside table showing his lack of legs]

Blackadder: Oh my God!

Rum: No point in changing your mind now; no one else will come. The whole thing's suicide anyway. What's the first mate's name?

Blackadder: Percy.

Rum: A nautical cove?

Blackadder: Yes! Well... He's a sort of wet fish.