[Mrs. Drake. If what you say be true, sailor (and I don’t say it isn’t, mind!), it’s strange that Arethusa and that godly man her father have never so much as spoke your name.

  Pew. Why, that’s so! And why, says you? Why, when I dropped in and paid my respecks this morning, do you think she knew me? No more’n a babe unborn! Why, ma’am, when I promised and vowed for her, I was the picter of a man-o’-war’s man, I was: eye like a eagle; walked the deck in a hornpipe, foot up and foot down; v’ice as mellow as rum; ‘and upon ‘art, and all the females took dead aback at the first sight, Lord bless ‘em! Know me? Not likely. And as for me, when I found her such a lovely woman — by the feel of her ‘and and arm! — you might have knocked me down with a feather. But here’s where it is, you see: when you’ve been knocking about on blue water for a matter of two-and-forty year, shipwrecked here, and blown up there, and everywhere out of luck, and given over for dead by all your messmates and relations, why, what it amounts to is this: nobody knows you, and you hardly know yourself, and there you are; and I’ll trouble you for another noggin of rum.

  Mrs. Drake. I think you’ve had enough.

  Pew. I don’t; so bear a hand. (Exit Mrs. Drake; Pew empties the glass.) Rum, ah, rum, you’re a lovely creature; they haven’t never done you justice. (Proceeds to fill and light pipe; re-enter Mrs. Drake with rum.)] And now, ma’am, since you’re so genteel and amicable-like, what about my old commander? Is he, in a manner of speaking, on half pay? or is he living on his fortune, like a gentleman slaver ought?

  Mrs. Drake. Well, sailor, people talk, you know.

  Pew. I know, ma’am; I’d have been rolling in my coach, if they’d have held their tongues.

  Mrs. Drake. And they do say that Captain Gaunt, for so pious a man, is little better than a miser.

  Pew. Don’t say it, ma’am; not to old Pew. Ah, how often have I up and strove with him! ‘Cap’n, live it down,’ says I. ‘Ah, Pew,’ says he, ‘you’re a better man than I am,’ he says; ‘but dammne,’ he says, ‘money,’ he says, ‘is like rum to me.’ (Insinuating.) And what about a old sea-chest, hey? a old sea-chest, strapped with brass bands?

  Mrs. Drake. Why, that’ll be the chest in his parlour, where he has it bolted to the wall, as I’ve seen with my own eyes; and so might you, if you had eyes to see with.

  Pew. No, ma’am, that ain’t good enough; you don’t bam old Pew. You never was in that parlour in your life.

  Mrs. Drake. I never was? Well, I declare!

  Pew. Well then, if you was, where’s the chest? Beside the chimbley, hey? (Winking.) Beside the table with the ‘oly Bible?

  Mrs. Drake. No, sailor, you don’t get any information out of me.

  Pew. What, ma’am? Not to old Pew? Why, my god-child showed it me herself, and I told her where she’d find my name — P, E, W, Pew — cut out on the starn of it; and sure enough she did. Why, ma’am, it was his old money-box when he was in the Guinea trade; and they do say he keeps the rhino in it still.

  Mrs. Drake. No, sailor, nothing out of me! And if you want to know, you can ask the Admiral himself! (She crosses, L.)

  Pew. Hey? Old girl fly? Then I reckon I must have a mate, if it was the parish bull.

  SCENE II

  To these, Kit, a little drunk

  Kit (looking in over half-door). Mrs. Drake! Mother! Where are you? Come and welcome the prodigal!

  Mrs. Drake (coming forward to meet him as he enters; Pew remains concealed by the settle, smoking, drinking, and listening). Lord bless us and save us, if it ain’t my boy! Give us a kiss.

  Kit. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. (Kisses her.)

  Mrs. Drake. O Kit, Kit, you’ve been at those other houses, where the stuff they give you, my dear, it is poison for a dog.

  [Kit. Round with friends, mother: only round with friends.

  Mrs. Drake. Well, anyway, you’ll take a glass just to settle it, from me. (She brings the bottle, and fills for him.) There, that’s pure; that’ll do you no harm.] But O, Kit, Kit, I thought you were done with all this Jack-a-shoring.

  Kit. What cheer, mother? I’m only a sheet in the wind; and who’s the worse for it but me?

  Mrs. Drake. Ah, and that dear young lady; and her waiting and keeping single these two years for the love of you!

  Kit. She, mother? she’s heart of oak, she’s true as steel, and good as gold; and she has my ring on her finger, too. But where’s the use? The Admiral won’t look at me.

  Mrs. Drake. Why not? You’re as good a man as him any day.

  Kit. Am I? He says I’m a devil, and swears that none of his flesh and blood — that’s what he said, mother! — should lie at my mercy. That’s what cuts me. If it wasn’t for the good stuff I’ve been taking aboard, and the jolly companions I’ve been seeing it out with, I’d just go and make a hole in the water, and be done with it, I would, by George!

  Mrs. Drake. That’s like you men. Ah, we know you, we that keeps a public-house — we know you, good and bad: you go off on a frolic and forget; and you never think of the women that sit crying at home.

  Kit. Crying? Arethusa cry? Why, dame, she’s the bravest-hearted girl in all broad England! Here, fill the glass! I’ll win her yet. I drink to her; here’s to her bright eyes, and here’s to the blessed feet she walks upon!

  Pew (looking round the corner of the settle). Spoke like a gallant seaman, every inch. Shipmate, I’m a man as has suffered, and I’d like to shake your fist, and drink a can of flip with you.

  Kit (coming down). Hullo, my hearty! who the devil are you? Who’s this, mother?

  Mrs. Drake. Nay, I know nothing about him. (She goes out, R.)

  Pew. Cap’n, I’m a brother seaman, and my name is Pew, old David Pew, as you may have heard of in your time, he having sailed along of ‘Awke and glorious Benbow, and a right-’and man to both.

  Kit. Benbow? Steady, mate! D’ye mean to say you went to sea before you were born?

  Pew. See now! The sign of this here inn was running in my ‘ed, I reckon. Benbow, says you? no, not likely! Anson, I mean; Anson and Sir Edward ‘Awke: that’s the pair: I was their right-’and man.

  Kit. Well, mate, you may be all that, and more; but you’re a rum un to look at, anyhow.

  Pew. Right you are, and so I am. But what is looks? It’s the ‘art that does it: the ‘art is the seaman’s star; and here’s old David Pew’s, a matter of fifty years at sea, but tough and sound as the British Constitootion.

  Kit. You’re right there, Pew. Shake hands upon it. And you’re a man they’re down upon, just like myself, I see. We’re a pair of plain, good-hearted, jolly tars; and all these ‘longshore fellows cock a lip at us, by George. What cheer, mate?

  Arethusa (without). Mrs. Drake! Mrs. Drake!

  Pew. What, a female? hey? a female? Board her board her, mate! I’m dark. (He retires again behind, to table, R., behind settle.)

  Arethusa (without). Mrs. Drake!

  Mrs. Drake (re-entering and running to door). Here I am, my dear; come in.

  SCENE III

  To these, Arethusa

  Arethusa. Ah, Kit, I’ve found you. I thought you would lodge with Mrs. Drake.

  Kit. What? are you looking for your consort? Whistle, I’m your dog; I’ll come to you. I’ve been toasting you fathom deep, my beauty; and with every glass I love you dearer.

  Arethusa. Now Kit, if you want to please my father, this is not the way. Perhaps he thinks too much of the guineas: well, gather them — if you think me worth the price. Go you to your sloop, clinker built, eighty tons burthen — you see I remember, Skipper Kit! I don’t deny I like a man of spirit; but if you care to please Captain Gaunt, keep out of taverns; and if you could carry yourself a bit more — more elderly!

  [Kit. Can I? Would I? Ah, just couldn’t and just won’t I, then!

  Mrs. Drake. I hope, madam, you don’t refer to my house; a publican I may be, but tavern is a word that I don’t hold with; and here there’s no bad drink, and no loose company; and as for my blessedest Kit, I declare I love him like my own.

  Arethusa. Why, who could help it, Mrs. Drake?]

  Kit. Arethusa, you’re an angel. Do I want to please Captain Gaunt? Why, that’s as much as ask whether I love you. [I don’t deny that his words cut me; for they did. But as for wanting to please him, if he was deep as the blue Atlantic, I would beat it out. And elderly, too? Aha, you witch, you’re wise! Elderly? You’ve set the course; you leave me alone to steer it. Matrimony’s my port, and love is my cargo.] That’s a likely question, ain’t it, Mrs. Drake? Do I want to please him! Elderly, says you? Why, see here: Fill up my glass, and I’ll drink to Arethusa on my knees.

  Arethusa. Why, you stupid boy, do you think that would please him?

  Kit. On my knees I’ll drink it! (As he kneels and drains the glass, Gaunt enters, and he scrambles to his feet.)

  SCENE IV

  To these, Gaunt

  Gaunt. Arethusa, this is no place for you.

  Arethusa. No, father.

  Gaunt. I wish you had been spared this sight; but look at him, child, since you are here; look at God’s image, so debased. And you, young man (to Kit), you have proved that I was right. Are you the husband for this innocent maid?

  Kit. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. Terror is your last word; you’re bitter hard upon poor sinners, bitter hard and black — you that were a sinner yourself. These are not the true colours: don’t deceive yourself; you’re out of your course.

  [Gaunt. Heaven forbid that I should be hard, Christopher. It is not I; it’s God’s law that is of iron. Think! if the blow were to fall now, some cord to snap within you, some enemy to plunge a knife into your heart; this room, with its poor taper light, to vanish; this world to disappear like a drowning man into the great ocean; and you, your brain still whirling, to be snatched into the presence of the eternal Judge: Christopher French, what answer would you make? For these gifts wasted, for this rich mercy scorned, for these high-handed bravings of your better angel, — what have you to say?

  Kit. Well, sir, I want my word with you, and by your leave I’ll have it out.

  Arethusa. Kit, for pity’s sake!

  Kit. Arethusa, I don’t speak to you, my dear: you’ve got my ring, and I know what that means. The man I speak to is Captain Gaunt. I came to-day as happy a man as ever stepped, and with as fair a look-out. What did you care? what was your reply? None of your flesh and blood, you said, should lie at the mercy of a wretch like me! Am I not flesh and blood that you should trample on me like that? Is that charity, to stamp the hope out of a poor soul?]

  Gaunt. You speak wildly; or the devil of drink that is in you speaks instead.

  Kit. You think me drunk? well, so I am, and whose fault is it but yours? It was I that drank; but you take your share of it, Captain Gaunt: you it was that filled the can.

  Gaunt. Christopher French, I spoke but for your good, your good and hers. ‘Woe unto him’ — these are the dreadful words— ‘by whom offences shall come: it were better—’ Christopher, I can but pray for both of us.

  Kit. Prayers? Now I tell you freely, Captain Gaunt, I don’t value your prayers. Deeds are what I ask; kind deeds and words — that’s the true-blue piety: to hope the best and do the best, and speak the kindest. As for you, you insult me to my face; and then you’ll pray for me? What’s that? Insult behind my back is what I call it! No, sir; you’re out of the course; you’re no good man to my view, be you who you may.

  Mrs. Drake. O Christopher! To Captain Gaunt?

  Arethusa. Father, father, come away!

  Kit. Ah, you see? She suffers too; we all suffer. You spoke just now of a devil; well, I’ll tell you the devil you have: the devil of judging others. And as for me, I’ll get as drunk as Bacchus.

  Gaunt. Come!

  SCENE V

  Pew, Mrs. Drake, Kit

  Pew (coming out and waving his pipe). Commander, shake! Hooray for old England! If there’s anything in the world that goes to old Pew’s ‘art, it’s argyment. Commander, you handled him like a babby, kept the weather gauge, and hulled him every shot. Commander, give it a name, and let that name be rum!

  Kit. Ay, rum’s the sailor’s fancy. Mrs. Drake, a bottle and clean glasses.

  Mrs. Drake. Kit French, I wouldn’t. Think better of it, there’s a dear! And that sweet girl just gone!

  Pew. Ma’am, I’m not a ‘ard man; I’m not the man to up and force a act of parleyment upon a helpless female. But you see here: Pew’s friends is sacred. Here’s my friend here, a perfeck seaman, and a man with a ‘ed upon his shoulders, and a man that, damme, I admire. He give you a order, ma’am: — march!

  Mrs. Drake. Kit, don’t you listen to that blind man; he’s the devil wrote upon his face.

  Pew. Don’t you insinuate against my friend. He ain’t a child, I hope? he knows his business? Don’t you get trying to go a lowering of my friend in his own esteem.

  Mrs. Drake. Well, I’ll bring it, Kit; but it’s against the grain. (Exit.)

  Kit. I say, old boy, come to think of it, why should we? It’s been glasses round with me all day. I’ve got my cargo.

  Pew. You? and you just argy’d the ‘ed off of Admiral Guinea? O stash that! I stand treat, if it comes to that!

  Kit. What! Do I meet with a blind seaman and not stand him? That’s not the man I am!

  Mrs. Drake (re-entering with bottle and glasses). There!

  Pew. Easy does it, ma’am.

  Kit. Mrs. Drake, you had better trot.

  Mrs. Drake. Yes, I’ll trot; and I trot with a sick heart, Kit French, to leave you drinking your wits away with that low blind man. For a low man you are — a low blind man — and your clothes they would disgrace a scarecrow. I’ll go to my bed, Kit; and O, dear boy, go soon to yours — the old room, you know; it’s ready for you — and go soon and sleep it off; for you know, dear, they, one and all, regret it in the morning; thirty years I’ve kept this house, and one and all they did regret it, dear.

  Pew. Come now, you walk!

  Mrs. Drake. O, it’s not for your bidding. You a seaman? The ship for you to sail in is the hangman’s cart. — Good-night, Kit dear, and better company!

  SCENE VI

  Pew, Kit. They sit at the other table, L.

  Pew. Commander, here’s her ‘ealth!

  Kit. Ay, that’s the line: her health! But that old woman there is a good old woman, Pew.

  Pew. So she is, Commander. But there’s no woman understands a seaman; now you and me, being both bred to it, we splice by natur’. As for A. G., if argyment can win her, why, she’s yours. If I’d a-had your ‘ed for argyment, damme, I’d a-been a Admiral, I would! And if argyment won’t win her, well, see here, you put your trust in David Pew.

  Kit. David Pew, I don’t know who you are, David Pew; I never heard of you; I don’t seem able to clearly see you. Mrs. Drake, she’s a smart old woman, Pew, and she says you’ve the devil in your face.

  Pew. Ah, and why, says you? Because I up and put her in her place, when she forgot herself to you, Commander.

  Kit. Well, Pew, that’s so; you stood by me like a man. Shake hands, Pew; and we’ll make a night of it, or we’ll know why, old boy!

  Pew. That’s my way. That’s Pew’s way, that is. That’s Pew’s way all over. Commander, excuse the liberty; but when I was your age, making allowance for a lowlier station and less ‘ed for argyment, I was as like you as two peas. I know it by the v’ice (sings) —

  ‘We hadn’t been three days at sea before we saw a sail,

  So we clapped on every stitch would stand, although it blew a gale,

  And we walked along full fourteen knots, for the barkie she did know

  As well as ever a soul on board, ’twas time for us to go.’

  Chorus, Cap’n!

  Pew and Kit (in chorus) —

  ’Time for us to go,

  Time for us to go,

  As well as ever a soul on board,

  ’Twas time for us to go.’

  Pew (sings) —

  ‘We carried away the royal yard, and the stunsail boom was gone;

  Says the skipper, “They may go or stand, I’m damned if I don’t crack on;”

  So the weather braces we’ll round in, and the trysail set also,

  And we’ll keep the brig three p’ints away, for it’s time for us to go.

  Give it mouth, Commander!

  Pew and Kit (in chorus) —

  ’Time for us to go,

  Time for us to go,

  And we’ll keep the brig three p’ints away,

  For it’s time for us to go.’

  Pew. I ain’t sung like that since I sang to Admiral ‘Awke, the night before I lost my eyes, I ain’t. ‘Sink me!’ says he, says Admiral ‘Awke, my old commander (touching his hat), ‘sink me!’ he says, ‘if that ain’t ‘art-of-oak,’ he says: ‘‘art-of-oak,’ says he, ‘and a pipe like a bloody blackbird!’ Commander, here’s my respecks, and the devil fly away with Admiral Guinea!

  Kit. I say, Pew, how’s this? How do you know about Admiral Guinea? I say, Pew, I begin to think you know too much.

  Pew. I ax your pardon; but as a man with a ‘ed for argyment — and that’s your best p’int o’ sailing, Commander; intelleck is your best p’int — as a man with a ‘ed for argyment, how do I make it out?

  Kit. Aha, you’re a sly dog, you’re a deep dog, Pew; but you can’t get the weather of Kit French. How do I make it out? I’ll tell you. I make it out like this: Your name’s Pew, ain’t it? Very well. And you know Admiral Guinea, and that’s his name, eh? Very well. Then you’re Pew; and the Admiral’s the Admiral; and you know the Admiral; and by George, that’s all. Hey? Drink about, boys, drink about!

  Pew. Lord love you, if I’d a-had a ‘ed like yours! Why the Admiral was my first cap’n. I was that man’s bo’sun, I was, aboard the Arethusa; and we was like two brothers. Did you never hear of Guinea-land and the black ivory business? (sings) —

  ‘A quick run to the south we had, and when we made the Bight

  We kept the offing all day long and crossed the bar at night.

  Six hundred niggers in the hold and seventy we did stow,

  And when we’d clapped the hatches on, ’twas time for us to go.’

  Lay forward, lads!