John. Yes, our Sept. A precious tough time he had of it, I can tell you: we thought he’d die; but mother’s care and a healthy constitution brought him through, and there is not a smarter boatmen or a better lad on all the coast than our Sept., if I do say it.
Mrs. Gale. Why, John, you said just now—
John. What’s the use of talking about what I said just now? You never did take kindly to him; but I say he’s the best lad—
Mrs. Gale. John Gale, you’re stark, staring mad! Don’t I idolize ’em both?
Ray. But the other, Gale?
John. Well, he came in the same way. ’Twas very queer; but the very next March, in a blinding storm, we were again turned out at night by the booming of guns. Another ship in the sands; more blue lights; in the morning, more wreck, more dead bodies, and another live baby.
Ray. March? (Enter, March, C.)
John. Yes, March; and he was a roarer, I tell you. We haven’t had a shipwreck since: the squalls of that brat, night after night, was enough to scare off all the ships in creation. He weathered it; and though I do say he’s a smart clever— (sees March, L.) You confounded scoundrel! where have you been?
March (Aside). My! touching biography. (Aloud.) Where have I been? been looking for you.