_Kitty._ Now, do you think so, Captain? Well, I’ve always thought I was born for a higher sphere.
_Capt._ You were, weally. Your beauty would be the admiration of the whole city: it would, weally.
_Capt._ Flatter? ’pon honor, no. Do let me take you to the city in my _wacht_: the trip would be delightful.
_Kitty._ What! (_Aside._) I do believe the man wants me to run away with him. (_Enter March, C._)
_Capt._ Yaas, we could slip away from here, go to the city, see all the sights, and return, without any of these people being the wiser.
_March._ (_Aside._) Confound his picture! he’s trying to run off with Kitty.
_Kitty._ Why, what an idea! I run off with a man!--
_Capt._ Who loves you to distraction; he does, weally.
_Capt._ Who cares what she says? ’Tis you I love, you whom I adore.
_March._ (_Coming between them._) He’ll be cursed if you do any thing of the kind.
_March._ Yes, that howid fisherman, you confounded old goggle-eyed sculpin! And as for you, Kitty Sands, I’m ashamed of you. A pretty pair you are! Want to run off, do you?
_Capt._ Come, come, sir! you’re impertinent.
_March._ Oh! I’m impertinent, am I? Wall, I ain’t near-sighted, and I don’t wear eye-glasses, and I can see your nose plainly. (_Takes off his coat, and rolls up his sleeves._)
_March._ I’m just going to open your nose in the most approved style of the manly art! (_Squares off._)
_Capt._ Lord, gwacious! I believe the fellah’s going to fight!
_Kitty._ March, if you touch him, I’ll call father just as loud as ever I can.
_March._ Well, you call: you’ll get a pretty talking to, I tell you. (_Advances to Capt._)
_Capt._ Here, you stop, you fellah! Stop, I say! (_Retreating towards door, C._)
_March._ I’ll teach you to skulk round here with your airs! (_Advances._)
_Capt._ That’s right: call your father, or I’m a dead man! (_Enter, C., Jean Grapeau with a large bundle._)
_Grap._ Ha! ze top of ze morning, gentlefolks! How you vas? how you vas?
_March._ Hallo, Frenchy! where did you drop from?
_Capt._ (_Aside._) They seem to be busy: I’ll just step out. (_Exit, L._)
_Grap._ Ah, sacre! I am ver mouch fatigue, ver mouch all ovar. I have travel all ze day wiz my pack, and not sell ze fust thing; and I see your door open, and I slip in to show you my goods. You pardon me ver mouch.