Sept. There may be; there must be. I do not feel towards you the love of a son for his father; and, until some other proof is found, I shall remain here, and bear the only name to which I feel I have a right,—that of September Gale. (Exit, L.)
Ray. But, boy—Sept., come here. Confound him! Here’s a pretty predicament. Here’s an ungrateful scamp who refuses to acknowledge his father. I’ll disinherit him—oh, pshaw! what does he care for that? He’s a noble fellow, and he must be my son. (Exit, R. Enter Captain, C., with Kitty on his arm.)
Kitty. Well, I declare, Captain, you are the most delightfulest beau that ever I saw.
Capt. No, wealy: ’pon honor, you overwhelm me; you do, wealy, you dear, delightful little nymph of the sea.
Kitty. You’re the sweetest man: your conversation is so sugary.
Capt. Yes, jest so: ’pon my honor, I don’t know the weason, but the ladies in the city are very fond of me. I am quite a flower in the city.
Kitty. (Aside.) A sunflower! Oh, I do wish that March could see us!
Capt. Yaas, you should go to the city; such a beautiful cweature is wasting her sweetness on the desert air in this howid place, that smells so of fish.
Kitty. Now, do you think so, Captain? Well, I’ve always thought I was born for a higher sphere.
Capt. You were, weally. Your beauty would be the admiration of the whole city: it would, weally.