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?