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.