are nothin' ter do. I need someone ter hand me down me boots. Betsy 'd make a kinder cozy wife. Could yer learn her ter make grog?

Darlin': Aye.

Duke: I might do worse. And roast pig that crackles?

Darlin': I could learn her.

Duke: I might do worser. I 'd marry you, Darlin'—

Darlin': Dearie!

Duke: But yer gettin' on. Patch might marry yer. He 's only got one eye.

Darlin': (with scorn). Patch!

Duke: I 'll not deny I 've been considerin' leetle Betsy. I was thinkin' about it this mornin' as I was cleanin' me boot. Wives cleans boots. I 'm the sort o' sailorman she would be sure ter like.

Darlin': And what about the pub?

Duke: Blast me stump, Darlin', I 'll not ferget yer.

Darlin': Does I get brass beer-pulls in the tap?

Duke: Everythin' shiny.

Darlin': I 'm lovin' yer.

Duke: Betsy would kinder jump at me. There 's somethin' tender about a young girl's first love—cooin' in yer arms.

Darlin': Easy, Duke!

Duke: I alers was a fav'rite with the ladies. I think it 's me whiskers.

Darlin': 'Vast there, Duke! There 's a shoal ahead. Red Joe 's a right smart feller.

Duke: Red Joe?

Darlin': Him. He sets and watches her.

Duke: What can she see in a young feller like that?

Darlin': Women 's queer folks. They 're wicious wampires. Jest yer watch 'em together. Red Joe 's snoopin' in on yer.

Duke: Yer can blast me. He ain 't got whiskers.

Darlin': I 'm tellin' yer, Duke. If I was you I 'd tumble that Red Joe off a cliff. I 'm hintin' to yer, Duke. Off a cliff! (She sniffs audibly.) It 's the pig. I clean fergot the pig. It 's burnin' on the fire. Off a cliff! I 'm hintin' to yer.

(She runs to the kitchen.)

Duke: Red Joe! Women 's queer—queerer than mermaids. A snooper! Jest a 'prentice pirate! No whiskers! Nothin'!

(At this moment there is a stamping of feet outside and Patch-Eye enters with Red Joe.

If Red Joe were born a gentleman we might expect silver buckles and a yellow feather to trail across his shoulder, for he bears a jaunty dignity. His is a careless grace—the swagger of a pleasant vagabond—a bravado that snaps its fingers at danger. His body has the quickness of a cat, his eye a flash of humor—kindly, unless necessity sharpens it. As poets were thick in those golden days we suspect that the roar of the ocean sets rhymes jingling in his heart. He is, however, almost as shabby as the other pirates, although he wears no pigtail. His collar is turned up. He wrings the water from his hat.

Patch-Eye throws himself on the seaman's chest and falls asleep at once. He snores an obligato to our scene. Just once an ugly dream disturbs him and we must fancy that a gibbet has crossed the frightful shadow of his thoughts.)

Duke: Evenin', ol' sea-serpent! Where has you been?

Joe: Up at the lighthouse. It 's as mirky as hell's back door.