The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson

Mrs. Drake. I think you’ve had enough.

Pew. I don’t; so bear a hand. (Exit Mrs. Drake; Pew empties the glass.) Rum, ah, rum, you’re a lovely creature; they haven’t never done you justice. (Proceeds to fill and light pipe; re-enter Mrs. Drake with rum.)] And now, ma’am, since you’re so genteel and amicable-like, what about my old commander? Is he, in a manner of speaking, on half pay? or is he living on his fortune, like a gentleman slaver ought?

Mrs. Drake. Well, sailor, people talk, you know.

Pew. I know, ma’am; I’d have been rolling in my coach, if they’d have held their tongues.

Mrs. Drake. And they do say that Captain Gaunt, for so pious a man, is little better than a miser.

Pew. Don’t say it, ma’am; not to old Pew. Ah, how often have I up and strove with him! ‘Cap’n, live it down,’ says I. ‘Ah, Pew,’ says he, ‘you’re a better man than I am,’ he says; ‘but dammne,’ he says, ‘money,’ he says, ‘is like rum to me.’ (Insinuating.) And what about a old sea-chest, hey? a old sea-chest, strapped with brass bands?

Mrs. Drake. Why, that’ll be the chest in his parlour, where he has it bolted to the wall, as I’ve seen with my own eyes; and so might you, if you had eyes to see with.

Pew. No, ma’am, that ain’t good enough; you don’t bam old Pew. You never was in that parlour in your life.

Mrs. Drake. I never was? Well, I declare!

Pew. Well then, if you was, where’s the chest? Beside the chimbley, hey? (Winking.) Beside the table with the ’oly Bible?

Mrs. Drake. No, sailor, you don’t get any information out of me.

Pew. What, ma’am? Not to old Pew? Why, my god-child showed it me herself, and I told her where she’d find my name – P, E, W, Pew – cut out on the starn of it; and sure enough she did. Why, ma’am, it was his old money-box when he was in the Guinea trade; and they do say he keeps the rhino in it still.

Mrs. Drake. No, sailor, nothing out of me! And if you want to know, you can ask the Admiral himself! (She crosses, L.)

Pew. Hey? Old girl fly? Then I reckon I must have a mate, if it was the parish bull.

SCENE II

To these, Kit, a little drunk

Kit (looking in over half-door). Mrs. Drake! Mother! Where are you? Come and welcome the prodigal!

Mrs. Drake (coming forward to meet him as he enters; Pew remains concealed by the settle, smoking, drinking, and listening). Lord bless us and save us, if it ain’t my boy! Give us a kiss.

Kit. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. (Kisses her.)

Mrs. Drake. O Kit, Kit, you’ve been at those other houses, where the stuff they give you, my dear, it is poison for a dog.

[Kit. Round with friends, mother: only round with friends.

Mrs. Drake. Well, anyway, you’ll take a glass just to settle it, from me. (She brings the bottle, and fills for him.) There, that’s pure; that’ll do you no harm.] But O, Kit, Kit, I thought you were done with all this Jack-a-shoring.

Kit. What cheer, mother? I’m only a sheet in the wind; and who’s the worse for it but me?

Mrs. Drake. Ah, and that dear young lady; and her waiting and keeping single these two years for the love of you!

Kit. She, mother? she’s heart of oak, she’s true as steel, and good as gold; and she has my ring on her finger, too. But where’s the use? The Admiral won’t look at me.

Mrs. Drake. Why not? You’re as good a man as him any day.

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.

Pew. Right you are, and so I am. But what is looks? It’s the ’art that does it: the ’art is the seaman’s star; and here’s old David Pew’s, a matter of fifty years at sea, but tough and sound as the British Constitootion.

Kit. You’re right there, Pew. Shake hands upon it. And you’re a man they’re down upon, just like myself, I see. We’re a pair of plain, good-hearted, jolly tars; and all these ’longshore fellows cock a lip at us, by George. What cheer, mate?

Arethusa (without). Mrs. Drake! Mrs. Drake!

Pew. What, a female? hey? a female? Board her board her, mate! I’m dark. (He retires again behind, to table, R., behind settle.)

Arethusa (without). Mrs. Drake!

Mrs. Drake (re-entering and running to door). Here I am, my dear; come in.

SCENE III

To these, Arethusa

Arethusa. Ah, Kit, I’ve found you. I thought you would lodge with Mrs. Drake.

Kit. What? are you looking for your consort? Whistle, I’m your dog; I’ll come to you. I’ve been toasting you fathom deep, my beauty; and with every glass I love you dearer.

Arethusa. Now Kit, if you want to please my father, this is not the way. Perhaps he thinks too much of the guineas: well, gather them – if you think me worth the price. Go you to your sloop, clinker built, eighty tons burthen – you see I remember, Skipper Kit! I don’t deny I like a man of spirit; but if you care to please Captain Gaunt, keep out of taverns; and if you could carry yourself a bit more – more elderly!

[Kit. Can I? Would I? Ah, just couldn’t and just won’t I, then!

Mrs. Drake. I hope, madam, you don’t refer to my house; a publican I may be, but tavern is a word that I don’t hold with; and here there’s no bad drink, and no loose company; and as for my blessedest Kit, I declare I love him like my own.

Arethusa. Why, who could help it, Mrs. Drake?]