Moon (laughing). Yes, John, so have you; but you carry yours in your mouth.
Chiruca (to Drake). We are at no loss for refreshing drinks, friend Drake, in our forest (he points to a large tree). Here, friend Tom, just notch this tall trunk, and get ready your calabashes. (Drake comes forward to see.) This is one of our largest and most valuable trees. The Spaniards call it Palo de Vacca (the Cow Tree). Now friend Tom!
Moon gashes the great trunk and out rushes a stream of milk, which the Indians catch in calabashes and hand round. They all begin to drink, exclaiming. Excellent! Wonderful!
Drake. This is marvellous! In the hands of a monk it would pass for a miracle. It scarcely differs from real milk, and will not be believed in England.
Moon. It beats cow-keeping, as far as a dolphin does a flying-fish. I bethink me of bringing home some slips and setting up a dairy in old Plymouth! (laughter)
Voices. Your cows would all die of the cold, Tom.
Moon. Belike, General, if I should cut off a junk and put it to the fire, we might have a joint of roast beef. Heh!
All (with burst of laughter). Try it, Tom! Try it, Tom! You’ll find it hard to digest (cheers). You’ll need a marlin spike next to pick your teeth, Tom (cheers). Ha! Ha! The roast beef of Old England growing on a tree! (cheers and laughter).
The Curtain falls. The Orchestra striking up “The Roast Beef of Old England.”