Kit. Am I? He says I’m a devil, and swears that none of his flesh and blood—that’s what he said, mother!—should lie at my mercy. That’s what cuts me. If it wasn’t for the good stuff I’ve been taking aboard, and the jolly companions I’ve been seeing it out with, I’d just go and make a hole in the water, and be done with it, I would, by George!
Mrs. Drake. That’s like you men. Ah, we know you, we that keeps a public-house—we know you, good and bad: you go off on a frolic and forget; and you never think of the women that sit crying at home.
Kit. Crying? Arethusa cry? Why, dame, she’s the bravest-hearted girl in all broad England! Here, fill the glass! I’ll win her yet. I drink to her; here’s to her bright eyes, and here’s to the blessed feet she walks upon!
Pew (looking round the corner of the settle). Spoke like a gallant seaman, every inch. Shipmate, I’m a man as has suffered, and I’d like to shake your fist, and drink a can of flip with you.
Kit (coming down). Hullo, my hearty! who the devil are you? Who’s this, mother?
Mrs. Drake. Nay, I know nothing about him. (She goes out, R.)
Pew. Cap’n, I’m a brother seaman, and my name is Pew, old David Pew, as you may have heard of in your time, he having sailed along of ’Awke and glorious Benbow, and a right-’and man to both.
Kit. Benbow? Steady, mate! D’ye mean to say you went to sea before you were born?
Pew. See now! The sign of this here inn was running in my ’ed, I reckon. Benbow, says you? no, not likely! Anson, I mean; Anson and Sir Edward ’Awke: that’s the pair: I was their right-’and man.
Kit. Well, mate, you may be all that, and more; but you’re a rum ’un to look at, anyhow.