he announces, and the crew returns:
|
And a right good Captain too. You're very, very good, And be it understood, I command a right good crew, |
he assures them.
|
Tho' related to a peer, I can hand, reef and steer, Or ship a selvagee; I'm never known to quail At the fury of a gale,— And I'm never, never sick at sea! |
But this is altogether too much. The crew haven't summered and wintered with this gallant Captain for nothing.
"What, never?" they admonish him.
"No,—never."
"What!—NEVER?" and there is no mistaking their emphasis.
"Oh, well—hardly ever!" he admits, trimming his statement a little: and thus harmony is restored. Now when he has thus agreeably said good morning to his crew, they leave him to meditate alone, and no one but Little Buttercup remains. For some reason she perceives that the Captain is sad. He doesn't look it, but the most comic moments in comic opera are likely enough to be the saddest. Hence Little Buttercup reminds him that she is a mother (she doesn't look it) and therefore to be confided in.
"If you must know, Little Buttercup, my daughter Josephine! the fairest flower that ever blossomed on ancestral timber"—which is very neat indeed—"has received an offer of marriage from Sir Joseph Porter. It is a great honour, Little Buttercup, but I am sorry to say my daughter doesn't seem to take kindly to it."