plays [68]
along of me,' he says, 'and damme,
I'll make your fortune.'] Well, Cap'n, he lights a dark lantern
(which you'll find it somewhere on the floor, I reckon), and out
we goes, me follerin' his lead, as I thought was 'art-of-oak and
a true-blue mariner; and the next I knows is, here we was in
here, and him a-askin' me to 'old the glim, while he prised the
lid off of your old sea-chest with his cutlass.
GAUNT. The chest? (HE LEAPS, R., AND EXAMINES CHEST.) Ah!
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 pint,' 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.'
GAUNT. David Pew, you never set your foot on a King's ship in
all your life. There lies the road.
PEW. Ah, you was always a 'ard man, Cap'n, and a 'ard man to
believe, like Didymus the 'Ebrew prophet. But it's time for me
to go, and I'll be going. My service to you, Cap'n: and I kiss
my 'and to that lovely female.
'Time for us to go,
Time for us to go, A
nd when we'd clapped the hatches on,
'Twas time for us to go.'
SCENE IV
KIT, ARETHUSA, GAUNT
ARETHUSA. Now, Kit?
KIT. Well, sir, and now?
GAUNT. I find you here in my house at this untimely and unseemly
hour; I find you there in company with one who, to my assured
knowledge,
I'll make your fortune.'] Well, Cap'n, he lights a dark lantern
(which you'll find it somewhere on the floor, I reckon), and out
we goes, me follerin' his lead, as I thought was 'art-of-oak and
a true-blue mariner; and the next I knows is, here we was in
here, and him a-askin' me to 'old the glim, while he prised the
lid off of your old sea-chest with his cutlass.
GAUNT. The chest? (HE LEAPS, R., AND EXAMINES CHEST.) Ah!
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 pint,' 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.'
GAUNT. David Pew, you never set your foot on a King's ship in
all your life. There lies the road.
PEW. Ah, you was always a 'ard man, Cap'n, and a 'ard man to
believe, like Didymus the 'Ebrew prophet. But it's time for me
to go, and I'll be going. My service to you, Cap'n: and I kiss
my 'and to that lovely female.
'Time for us to go,
Time for us to go, A
nd when we'd clapped the hatches on,
'Twas time for us to go.'
SCENE IV
KIT, ARETHUSA, GAUNT
ARETHUSA. Now, Kit?
KIT. Well, sir, and now?
GAUNT. I find you here in my house at this untimely and unseemly
hour; I find you there in company with one who, to my assured
knowledge,