Mrs. Gale. Gracious goodness! the man is crazy: I spiled ’em?
John. Yes, you.
Mrs. Gale. John Gale, you’re a brute.
John. You’re another.
March. (Aside.) Hallo! it’s getting squally here.
John. Here I find these ’ere lads left to die on the shore: and, in the goodness of my heart, I brings ’em home, and tries to make good, honest men on ’em; but what have you done? You’ve made one a fine gentleman, that don’t know us; and the other a sassy chap, that’s eternally squalling when we want peace and quiet.
Mrs. Gale. Well, I never, John Gale! if I had a skillet, I’d comb your hair for you, you brute. (Enter Sept., C.)
Sept. Hallo! hallo! what’s the matter now? Silent! no word of welcome for me! Well, well, what’s gone wrong, father? what’s gone wrong?
John Gale. Now, what’s the use of calling me father? I ain’t yer father. You’ve got a rich father, rolling in riches; and you’re a great man now. Of course you look down on us poor fishing-folks: it’s what we expected.
Sept. Indeed!