Pew. Leastways, I was to ’elp him, by his account of it, while he nailed the rhino, and then took and carried off that lovely maid of yours; for a lovely maid she is, and one as touched old Pew’s ’art. Cap’n, when I ’eard that, my blood biled. “Young man,” I says, “you don’t know David Pew,” I says; and with that I ups and does my dooty by him, cutlass and all, like a lion-’arted seaman, though blind. (And then in comes you, and I gives him up: as you know for a fack is true, and I’ll subscribe at the Assizes. And that, if you was to cut me into junks, is the truth, the ’ole truth, and nothing but the truth, world without end, so help me, amen; and if you’ll ’and me over the ’oly Bible, me not having such a thing about me at the moment, why, I’ll put a oath upon it like a man.)
Arethusa. Father, have you heard?
Gaunt. I know this man, Arethusa, and the truth is not in him.
Arethusa. Well, and why do we wait? We know Kit, do we not?
Kit. Ay, Captain, you know the pair of us, and you can see his face and mine.
Gaunt. Christopher, the facts are all against you. I find you here in my house at midnight: you who at least had eyes to see, and must have known whither you were going. It was this man, not you, who called me up: and when I came in, it was he who was uppermost and who gave you up to justice. This unsheathed cutlass is yours; there hangs the scabbard, empty; and as for the dark lantern, of what use is light to the blind? and who could have trimmed and lighted it but you?
Pew. Ah, Cap’n, what a ’ed for argyment!
Kit. And now, sir, now that you have spoken, I claim the liberty to speak on my side.
Gaunt. Not so. I will first have done with this man. David Pew, it were too simple to believe your story as you tell it; but I can find no testimony against you. From whatever reason, assuredly you have done me service. Here are five guineas to set you on your way. Begone at once; and while it is yet time, think upon your repentance.
Pew. Cap’n, here’s my respecks. You’ve turned a pious man, Cap’n; it does my ’art good to ’ear you. But you ain’t the only one. O no! I came about and paid off on the other tack before you, I reckon: you ask the Chaplain of the Fleet else, as called me on the quarter-deck before old Admiral ’Awke himself (touching his hat), my old commander. (“David Pew,” he says, “five-and-thirty year have I been in this trade, man and boy,” that chaplain says, “and damme, Pew,” says he, “if ever I seen the seaman that could rattle off his catechism within fifty mile of you. Here’s five guineas out of my own pocket,” he says; “and what’s more to the p’int,” he says, “I’ll speak to my reverend brother-in-law, the Bishop of Dover,” he says; “and if ever you leave the sea, and wants a place as beadle, why, damme,” says he, “you go to him, for you’re the man for him and him for you.”)