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—