COSTUMES.
| Hanscomb. | —Modern. |
| Nat Skillings. | —Sailor rig; blue pants and shirt, pea-jacket, old fisherman’s hat, gray wig. |
| Sam Skillings. | —Dark mixed pants, blue coat with brass buttons, white hat, shawl, red wig. |
| Pete and Steve. | —Waiters’ dress, white aprons, wigs to suit. |
| Bobby Small. | —Red shirt, black pants rolled up, glazed cap. |
Scene.—Room No. 86,“Fatted Calf” Hotel. Table and two chairs, C. Entrances, R. and L.
Hanscomb (outside, L.). Steve, Pete, come, come, hurry, hurry, wake up! (Enter, L.) This is really encouraging. The Fatted Calf, just opened, is rapidly filling up, and such customers, too; real upper crust,—nabobs, millionnaires, heiresses, generals, majors, captains, colonels, and all sorts of stylish people! Now let’s look at the situation. I have on my books already thirty permanent boarders at five dollars a day. Pretty high for the times, but that draws the style. Of these thirty, ten will pay up promptly, ten wont pay at all, and the other ten will be obliged to leave their baggage to settle the bill. Well, I think that will pay. We must give a wide margin for profit, and in course of time may make a fortune, or manage to fail for seventy-five or a hundred thousand, either of which will create a sensation. Where can those waiters be? Ah, here’s Steve at last, as stiff and pompous as one of the nabobs whom he delights to wait upon. (Enter Steve, L.)
Steve. Mr. Hanscomb, allow me to present for your inspection this document just left at the bar, with the compliments of the landlord of the Hotel Bullock. (Gives Hanscomb printed handbill.)
Mr. H. What is it? (Reads.) “Stop, thief! Nab him! Strayed from the Hotel Bullock an individual passing by the singular name of John Smith.” John Smith? I think I’ve heard that name before.
Steve. It has a very distangue air.
Mr. H. “Tall, red hair, pale, ferocious-looking countenance; wore, when last seen, dark mixed pants, blue coat with brass buttons, white hat, and a shawl. A reward of one cent will be given for the arrest of the missing individual, and fifty dollars for the recovery of one dozen silver spoons, which said individual, probably accidentally, took with him.” So, so, a hotel thief. Mr. John Smith will no doubt pay me a visit; so, Steve, just keep a sharp look-out for this spoony. (Enter Pete, R., muttering and shaking his head.) Well, what’s the matter with you?
Pete. Mr. Hanscomb, I don’t wish to be troubulous,—I don’t wish to be troubulous, Mr. Hanscomb, but dar are t’ings, Mr. Hanscomb, dat stir de heart of man, as Deacon Foster eloquentially distresses himself, and—and—and—well, what I mean—rile him—rile him.
Mr. H. What’s the matter, stupid?
Pete. Mr. Hanscomb, you’re my massa.
Mr. H. Well, well?
Pete. You’re my massa, Mr. Hanscomb, and I s’pose you can call me what you please.
Mr. H. Of course I can.
Pete. Ob course, ob course, kase I look upon you as my equel.
Mr. H. Well, I’m much obliged—
Pete. Don’t apologize; no matter ’bout nuffin; but dat ar hostler down dar, he’s an ignoramus, down dar, he is, down dar; he’s low and insultin’, he is. By golly! de imperance of dat feller is distressin’. He says I’m bound to asswociate wid him kase he’s a man and a brudder. Guess not, Mr. Hanscomb,—guess not; don’t asswociate wid people dat smell ob de stable.
Mr. H. You attend to your business, and he shall not trouble you.
Pete. Dat’s all I ask, Mr. Hanscomb,—dat’s all I ask. Jes’ you keep hisself to hisself, and I wont say nuffin. I’s perfectly dissatisfied, but if he jes’ trubble me, I’ll brush him off—brush him off.
Mr. H. Well, well, you go about your business.
Steve (at door, L., looking off). Here’s a queer-looking customer, and I’m not sure but what it is our friend, John Smith, of the spoon adventure; just the dress, even to the shawl.
Mr. H. Ah, so soon? Now, boys, look sharp and catch him in the act,—in the act, mind. (Exit, L. Pete about to follow.)
Steve. Where are you going, Pete?
Pete. Going? Going after de axe, ob course.
Steve. After the axe! What do you want of the axe?
Pete. Cotch dat ar spoon feller. Didn’t massa say be sure and cotch him wid de axe?
Steve. Well, you are an ignoramus.
Sam (outside, L., in Cockney dialect). Up this way, eh? Oh! never mind, Mister, I’ll find the way. First turn to the right, second to the left, and then keep straight on, and here you are. (Enter, L.) So this is eighty-six, first floor from the roof. It’s airy, anyhow. (Steve, L., Pete, R., step up each side of Sam with the exclamation, “Take your baggage!” One seizes umbrella, the other carpet-bag, and start for entrances, R. and L.) Here, you African, bring back that umbrella, and you, Mr. Upstart, bring back that valise. I choose to have them under my own observation.
Pete. Don’t you want your wardrobe aired?
Sam. No, I don’t want it aired. What’s your name, African?
Pete. My name, massa, am White; dey calls me Pete.
Sam. And what’s your name, Upstart?
Steve. My name is Black; I am called here Stephen.
Pete. “Steben, Steben; don’t you bleeb ’im.” He’s called Steeb, short Steeb.
Sam. Well, you cut short, African, and cut off. Do you see that entrance? Well, you both get outside that entrance instantly. (Steve and Pete go to entrance, L.)
Steve. Pete, that is John Smith.
Pete. No! De spoon feller?
Steve. The same. Don’t you see the pants and the coat and the shawl? ’Tis the pettifogger.
Pete. Petti who? I fought it was Smiff,—John Smiff.
Steve. So it is; look out for spoons. Sh! (Exit, L.)
Pete. Look out for de spoons. Sh! (Exit, L.)
Sam (during this speech busies himself taking off his shawl, brushing his clothes, smoothing his hair, etc.). What ails them objects? They look at me awful hard; they are evidently not accustomed to the presence of so elegant an individual in this hotel. So this is an hotel; this is the first time that ever I was in one. I declare, it’s quite elegant. And this is Boston, the hub of the universe, as Artemus Ward says. I wonder I have ever lived to get here, after having been cooped up in that horrid hole, Dismaltown. It is refreshing to get among civilized individuals. I’ve passed my whole life in that place without ever seeing anybody or anything, and I should be there now but for my uncle, the captain; and somehow I do feel quite homesick when I think of my Annastasia; but then my Annastasia is not there; she is nearer to me in Boston than in Dismaltown, for my Annastasia is now on a visit to her aunt in Brighton. I have received epistles often from the object of my heart’s adoration, and the last one was particularly interesting. She invited me in the name of her aunt to come and spend Christmas with her. I was particularly overjoyed at first, but how was I to get there? The people of Dismaltown never go anywhere, and I should never have got here but for my uncle, the captain. My uncle has always been called captain, though he never went to sea, but for years has been behind the counter of the little grocery at Dismaltown, where he made some money. Well, my uncle took it into his head to buy a sloop; so he bought a sloop; it was a very good sloop for a second-hand one. The sloop was well sold, and so, they said, was my uncle, the captain. My uncle bought her, and then was bent on going a voyage in her as skipper, and so he invited me to go with him on his first voyage to Boston. He never went to sea before, and don’t know anything about a sloop, and he was awful sick all the way, but he had a good mate, and he is a beautiful skipper; he talks such sea lingo, and swears so beautifully, though people do say that he knows no more about the sea than an owl; but that is all envy. Well, after I got aboard, I happened to think of one sentence in Annastasia’s letter, which read, “Be sure to learn how to carve before you come, as uncle is away, and aunt will expect you to carve the Christmas goose.” What an idea! they might as well ask me to carve an ox or an alligator. However, when I reached Boston, I bought a little book on the art of carving, and came up to this hotel to have a little practice. Look here, African. (Pete and Steve have been bobbing in and out of the door, L., during the speech, watching Sam. Enter Pete, L.) Do you know what a goose is?
Pete. Yes, massa; one ob dem two-legged fellers dat flops his wings jes’ so—dis way—so.
Sam. Well, I want one of them.
Pete. One ob dem flappers? Live one?
Sam. No, ignorance,—roasted.
Pete. Yes, massa. (Calls, L.) Roast goose for 86.
Sam. No, no, stupid! Not for eighty-six; I only want it for one.
Pete. It’s all right, massa; dat’s what I fought,—dat’s what I fought. Dar wont but one goose come up here, so decompose yourself,—decompose yourself. (Exit, L.)
Sam. What horrid grammar that African does indulge in! (Capt. Skillings outside—“Ship ahoy! ahoy!” through speaking-trumpet.) There’s my uncle, the captain. (Enter Captain, L.)
Capt. Shiver my timbers, blast my eyes, and keel-haul me, if this here craft ar’n’t the biggest seventy-four that ever I saw in all my cruisings. Such a climbing up hatchways and over bulkheads is trying to the narves of a tar with his sea-legs on.
Sam (aside). Now, isn’t that beautiful language? It sounds so briny! (Aloud.) But I say, uncle, where’s your tar?
Capt. Blast my eyes! Shiver my timbers! Do you mean to insult me? Aint I the skipper of the “Jemima Matilda,” as stanch a craft as ever sailed out of harbor, with spanker jib-boom hauled taut, and foretop main-truck flying at the mast-head?
Sam (enthusiastically). Oh, aint he a spanker?
Capt. Now, look here, nevy, none of your jokes, or, shiver my timbers, I’ll disinherit you. Aint I the skipper of the “Jemima”—
Sam. Oh, uncle, you said that before.
Capt. Blast my eyes, I’ll say it again. (Enter Steve, L.) Look here, messmate, I’m a sailor; not one of your fresh-water sailors, but a regular-built old sea-dog.
Sam (aside). Eight days old; hasn’t got his eyes open yet.
Capt. I’ve climbed the rigging in the darkest night.
Sam (aside). So dark nobody could see him.
Capt. I’ve seen the waves roll mountains high.
Sam (aside). That’s a great idea.
Capt. I’ve been alone in the middle of the ocean in a jolly-boat.
Sam (aside). That’s a jolly lie.
Steve. Well, captain, what can I do for you?
Capt. I say, messmate, did you ever hear of the escape of the “Jemima Matilda” on her trip from Dismaltown to Puddock?
Steve. Never did.
Capt. Then, blast my eyes, but you shall now, messmate.
Sam. I say, uncle, don’t tell that horrid fiction again.
Capt. Fiction! You young dog, I’ll have you court-martialed. (Steve takes out tobacco-box and takes a chew.) Well, you must know, messmate—What you got there?
Steve. Tobacco; will you have a chew?
Capt. No, I thank you; I don’t chew.
Steve. You don’t? Well you are the first sailor I ever saw who didn’t chew.
Capt. I say, messmate, give us a chew. (Aside.) If sailors chew this, I can.
Sam. Don’t, uncle, don’t chew that horrid stuff; it’ll make you as sick as a horse.
Capt. Shiver my timbers, nevy, what’s the use in being a sailor, if you don’t do as sailors do? Give us another chew, messmate. Thank ye. You must know, messmate, that the “Jemima Matilda,” of which I am the skipper, left the harbor of Dismaltown on the second of July for a trip to Puddock.
Sam. With a cargo of onions.
Capt. We hauled off from the wharf wing and wing.
Sam (aside). It takes a pretty good sailor to put a sloop wing and wing.
Capt. As the wind freshened, we put more sail on the mizzenmast, and took a reef in the capstan, and set a hen-coop on top of the caboose, as a look-out. Then came on a perfect hurricane. We were within the latitude of forty-two degrees below zero, when I went below to take an observation. I hadn’t been gone long before there was a cry from the look-out of “There she blows!” I rushed on deck, and sure enough it did blow strong from the nor-nor-east, nor-east-by-nor, and the ship was nearly on her bulkheads. The crew clung around me and entreated me to save the ship. I alone was calm. I had all the heavy furniture of my cabin, consisting of a pine table, a musquito netting, and a looking-glass, brought up and consigned to the waves; but all in vain. Desperation nerved my arm, and seizing a hatchet, I rushed abaft the hen-coop, and with one terrific blow cut away—
Steve. The mast!
Capt. No, three feet of the cook’s stove-pipe. But she righted, and we were saved. Then a new danger arose on our weather bow. Three fathoms to windward arose a rock with a shelving surface nearest us even with the water, but the farthest part rising four feet. We were in danger of striking, when I rushed to the helm, bore hard on the compass, doused the binnacle lights, and steered straight for the rock. Fortune favored the bold manœuvre, for a sudden squall from the sou-sou-west raised the ship upon the rock. She slid swiftly over, and came down into the water with such a shock that, blast my eyes, if all the salt junk in the caboose didn’t turn of its own accord. Give us another chew, messmate.
Sam (aside). If my uncle aint a sailor, it isn’t for want of ability to lie.
Steve. Captain, is there anything I can do for you?
Capt. Ay, ay, messmate; show me a room, and give me something comfortable.
Steve. Ay, ay, sir! A warm room and a good pipe.
Capt. Pipe! Blast my eyes, I don’t smoke!
Steve. You are the first sailor that ever I saw who didn’t smoke.
Capt. Oh, shiver my timbers, let’s have the pipe!
Sam. I say, uncle, don’t smoke a horrid pipe; you’ll be awful sick.
Capt. Blast my eyes, nevy, do you take me for a land-lubber? You just keep a sharp look-out here on the quarter-deck, while I turn in and take a shot in the locker. Heave ahead, my hearty (to Steve), or, shiver my timbers, I’ll rake you fore and aft. (Exit Steve and Captain, L.)
Sam. My uncle knows a thing or two, but I’m afraid that, with smoking and chewing, he’ll get awful sick of this sailor business. Ah, here comes my goose. (Enter Steve and Pete, L., with table-cloth, dishes, and a roast goose. They spread the cloth on table, C., and arrange dishes.) What an elegant spread!
Pete. Anything else, massa?
Sam. Let me see: there’s no ale; bring me some ale; and—why, there’s no spoons!
Steve. Spoons?
Pete. Spo-spo-spo-spoons?
Sam. Yes, spoons. How do you suppose an individual is to eat without spoons?
Steve. I’ll bring them, sir. (Exit, L.)
Sam. Well, African, what are you grinning at?
Pete. At de goose, massa,—at de goose. (Enter Steve, L., with spoons.)
Sam. Now leave. Get out. (Steve and Pete come down.)
Steve. Keep your eye on the spoons.
Pete. By golly, Steve, if he take de spoons, he must take African too. (Exit Pete, R., Steve, L.)
Sam. It seems to me that those individuals have a great deal of anxiety on my account. Well, now to business. Where’s my “Art of Carving”? (Pulls small book from his pocket.) Now let me see. No. 1 is the head, this must be it. (Points to tail.) No, this is the head. Now for it. (Reads.) “Grasp the knife firmly in the right hand,”—that’s so,—“take the fork in the left;” but what shall I do with the “Art of Carving”? It doesn’t say anything about that: I’ll fix it. (Places book on the table.) Now (reads), “stick the fork in No. 8.” That must be No. 8. “Draw your knife across No. 11”— (Enter Pete, R.)
Pete. Did you ring, sar?
Sam. No, I didn’t ring, you outrageous ignorant—
Pete. Beg pardon, sar. Must have been 84. (Aside.) Spoons are dar. (Exit, R.)
Sam. Blast 84! What does he ring for just as I’ve got my knife across No. 11? I must go all over it again. (Reads.) Put your fork in No. 4, draw your knife across No. 11— (Enter Steve, L.)
Steve. Did you ring, sir?
Sam. Ring, you blasted upstart? (Aside.) With my fork in No. 4 and my knife across No. 11! How was I to ring? (Aloud.) Ring?—no.
Steve. Beg pardon, sir; it must have been 82. (Aside.) Spoons all right. (Exit, L.)
Sam. 82 be blowed! This is a queer proceeding. I’ll try it again. Put your fork in No. 4, draw your knife across No. 11, force yourself, and off comes the (pulls the goose on to the floor) blasted animal. (Enter Pete, R., and Steve, L.)
| Pete. | } Did you ring, sir? |
| Steve. |
(Sam stands by the table trying to hide the goose with the table-cloth, looking first at Pete then at Steve.)
Sam. Ring? Blast your ignorance, no! Where’s your bell?
Steve. (Pointing, R.) There it is, sir.
Sam. When I want you, I’ll ring it loud, and open the door,—so get out. (Exit Pete, R., Steve, L.) After all my trouble, I must go back to No. 4. (Places goose on platter.) No, I wont; I’ll push ahead and trust to luck. (During the remainder of this speech tries in various places to carve the goose.) This is the toughest old gander that ever I saw. I can do nothing with it. O Annastasia! that leg wont come off. O Annastasia! if you could only see me now,—I can’t start that wing. Why did you not ask me to get a horn of the moon, or extinguish the Etna volcano. O Annastasia!—there’s a piece of the breast; what a horrid looking object! What shall I do with him? I can’t eat him, and I should get laughed at if it should be seen. I’ll give him away to some poor individual. (Looks out of door, L.) Nobody about—yes, there’s an urchin. Sh! look here.
Bobby Small (outside, L.) Shine your boots? (Enter, with box and brush, L.) Yes, sir, all right; put yer foot there, and I’ll give yer true Union polish in about forty-five seconds.
Sam. I don’t want my boots polished.
Bobby. Oh, can’t stand the press? Look ahere, gent, stand on my head, play yer a tune on my chin, and give yer the Union polish, all for five cents.
Sam. I don’t want your Union polish. I’m an Englishman.
Bobby. Oh, yer an Englishman! Say, don’t yer want to go over to Bunker Hill? Stand on my head, play yer a tune, and carry yer over to Bunker Hill, for five cents.
Sam. I don’t want to go to Bunker Hill.
Bobby. Well, say what do you want?
Sam. Sh! Do you want a goose?
Bobby. Do I want—Say that again, gent.
Sam. Do you want a goose? This one?
Bobby. What’s the matter with the poor old gobbler? somebody’s been mauling on him.
Sam. Yes, all right, just cooked; here, take him and leave. (Ties up goose in a napkin, accidentally slipping in a gravy spoon.)
Bobby. Thank yer. I’ll take him right down among the Union Polishers, and if we don’t polish his bones, my name is not Bobby Small.
Sam (giving goose). Well, Bobby, here you are.
Bobby. Thank yer, sir; may yer live forever! But I say, can’t I do something for yer? Stand on my head? No! Play yer a tune on my chin? No! Union polish yer? Oh! yer don’t like that. Well, when yer do want a shine, just drop down into Brattle Square. You’ll find me there in business hours, ready to stand on my head, give yer a tune on my chin, or give yer the Union polish. (Sings “Jordan:”)
“Take off yer coat, boys, roll up yer sleeves,
Spread well de blacking on de boots,
De people bound to shine, and no make believes,
And de Union am de polish dat suits.”
(Exit, L.)
Sam. Well, I’ve got rid of that unfortunate animal, and now let’s see if I can find my uncle, the captain. (Enter Pete, L.) Here, African, clear away this truck. (Exit, L.)
Pete. Clear away de truck? By golly! I t’ink it pretty well cleared itself, bones and all. (Enter Steve, L.) I say, Steve, de old gobbler am clean gone.
Steve. Is it possible? Look under the table.
Pete. By golly! dere am no goose dar. Dat are feller is a what yer call him, he is.
Steve. What do you mean by a what yer call him?
Pete. Why, one of dem fellers, connubial, connubial.
Steve. Connubial? You mean a cannibal.
Pete. Dat’s what I said, a connubial.
Steve. Well, cannibal or connubial, our gravy spoon is missing.
Pete. By golly! Steve, it’s Smiff,—John Smiff. Cotch him wid de axe! cotch him wid de axe!
Steve. Here, take these things right down, and tell Mr. Hanscomb. Be quick, for the gong will sound for dinner in three minutes. (Enter Sam, L.) More spoons, monsieur. (Exit, L.)
Pete. More spoons, spoons, monster! (Exit, R.)
Sam. What does this mean? Oh, horror! a light dawns upon me. Spoons, spoons! I must have given away one of the spoons with the goose. I remember there was one in the dish. Oh, heavens! what’s to be done? They’ll have me arrested. Where can my uncle, the captain, be? I can’t find him anywhere, and he’s got all the money. Oh, Annastasia, why did you ask me to learn the horrid art of carving? Oh, what will become of me? Oh, agony, agony! I’ll ring the bell and disclose all. (Rings the bell, R. As the gong sounds outside, Sam stumbles back over the carpet-bag, then over a chair, falls behind table, and crawls out in front as the gong ceases.) Oh, what have I done, what have I done? Hear the crockery go! I’ve pulled down a whole crockery shop. (Enter Steve, L.)
Steve (fiercely). Did you ring?
Sam. No, I didn’t touch anything,—I say, much broke?
Steve. Much broke! you’ll find out what’s broke. (Exit, L.)
Sam. What’s to be done? That upstart’s gone for an officer. It wont do for me to stop here. I’ll make a run of it. (Starts for door, L. Enter Steve, with a broom.)
Steve. You can’t pass here.
Sam. Oh, excuse me; I’ll go the other way. (Enter Pete, R., with a paper.) This port blockaded?
Pete. Yes, massa, by Burnside. (Touches him in side with poker.)
Sam. Oh, oh, you ignoramus! do you want to torture me?
Pete. Only a little game of poker, massa.
Sam (fiercely). This is insulting! What do you mean by stopping an Englishman in this way?
Steve. Want to overhaul you, to see if there is anything contraband aboard.
Pete. ’Taint de fust time a British mail has been stopped.
Sam. I must submit. What would Annastasia say? It must be that unfortunate goose. I can’t pay my bill till I find my uncle, the captain. (Enter Bobby, stealthily, L., with the goose. Makes frantic efforts to attract Sam’s attention.) There’s that urchin again. What is he making such awful faces for?
Bobby (aside). The gent gave me a spoon with the goose. It must have been by mistake, so I brought it back. Perhaps the gent will stand a dime. (To Sam.) Sh, sh! I’ve got it.
Sam (seizing him). Got it! so have I. Audacious! (Seizes goose.) Here’s the goose (takes out spoon), and here’s the spoon. Hurrah! I’m saved. (Enter Mr. Hanscomb, L.)
Hanscomb. Are you? That’s a very ingenious dodge, Mr. John Smith, but it wont do. Steve, seize that man; and you, Pete, look after the boy. (Steve seizes Sam; Pete takes Bobby by the collar.) You’re a handsome couple, you are! What have you to say for yourselves?
Bobby. Look here, contraband, don’t soil my linen. I say, gent, what kind of a scrape have you got me into?
Sam. I am innocent, I am innocent, I am innocent!
Pete. Dat’s a lie, dat’s a lie, dat’s a lie! Jest look at dat poor old gobbler; somebody’s massacred him.
Hanscomb. Take them to the station-house at once.
Sam. Oh, dear! is there no escape? Oh, Annastasia, if thou couldst only see the agony of thy unfortunate Samuel! Will nobody save me?
Capt. (outside, L.) O Sammy, Sammy! where are you, Sammy?
Sam. My uncle, the captain, at last. (Enter captain, L., his face very pale, wrapped in a blanket, and shivering.)
Capt. Oh, Sammy, oh, Sammy, I’m so sick! I want to go home, I want to go home. I went down-stairs, and a chap there as was a sailor wanted me to go over to Chelsea, and the horrid ferry-boat made me sick, and the awful pipe made me sick, and I want to go home. (Falls into Sam’s arms.)
Sam. In the “Jemima”?
Capt. No, never; don’t let me see the water again, or a ship, or a sailor. I hate the sea, and I want to go home. (Falls into Sam’s arms again.)
Sam. But I can’t go; I’m arrested for stealing.
Capt. Arrested for stealing! Who accuses the nephew of Capt. Nat Skillings of stealing?
Hanscomb. Capt. Nat Skillings, of Dismaltown, Nova Scotia?
Capt. Just so.
Hanscomb. I used to know a Capt. Skillings, of Dismaltown, but he was not a sea captain.
Capt. Well, I guess it’s the same man. I sha’n’t be one after to-day.
Hanscomb. Captain, don’t you remember your old friend, Sol Hanscomb?
Capt. To be sure I do.
Hanscomb. Well, I’m his son.
Capt. Be you, though? Why, how you have grown! But what have you been doing to my nephew?
Hanscomb. That your nephew! I thought it was John Smith.
Capt. Not a bit of it. That’s Sam Skillings.
Hanscomb. Not John Smith! I’m confounded.
Steve. Not Smith? I’m dumb.
Pete. Not Smiff? I’m (Bobby touches him with the poker, which he has rescued) scorched.
Sam. Yes, Sam Skillings, who would scorn to do a mean action, but who accidentally purloined one of this gentleman’s spoons, for which he is willing to make all possible reparation.
Capt. Oh, I see how it is; Sam has been practising the art of carving.
Hanscomb. The art of carving? Why, I’ll teach him that in twenty minutes.
Sam. Will you, though? I’ll be greatly obliged to you; so will Annastasia, and my uncle, the captain, skipper of the “Jemima”—
Capt. Sammy, sink the ship. I’ve concluded that the sea don’t agree with my constitution. I’ll sell her. (To audience.) Is there anybody here wants her? She’s A1¾, stanch and well-built, copper-bottomed, and tarred throughout, especially the cabin; Morgan stock, sound and kind in harness; will stand all winds, especially nor-nor-east, nor-east by nor, shiver my timbers—
Steve (offering tobacco-box). Have a chew, captain?
Capt. (falls into Sam’s arms.) Oh, Sam, Sam, take me home!
Hanscomb. Ladies and Gentlemen, “The Fatted Calf” has been opened under rather unfavorable circumstances, but if you will give us another call, you shall find a hospitable landlord—
Steve. Accommodating waiters—
Pete. Who—who—who will gib you ebery detention, wid—wid—
Bobby. De Union polish.
Sam. And if a word from me would not be out of place, I would recommend this house, as I expect to stop here with my Annastasia on our bridal tour, on which occasion we expect to be accompanied by that extraordinary seaman—
Capt. Oh, Sammy, don’t.
Sam. My uncle, the captain.
DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS.
L. Steve, Hanscomb, Capt., Sam, Bobby, and Pete. R.
Note.—The characters of Sam and Capt. Skillings were originally performed as “Cockney Englishmen.” The performers can use their own discretion,—make them Cockneys by placing “h’s” before the vowels and dropping the “h’s” where they belong, or they can be performed as Yankees from down East. As Artemus Ward says, “You pay your money, and you has your choice.”