. I 'm blowed! You
are wickeder than ol' Flint's lantern. It must be Red Joe. Him with
the smirk! There 's a young feller 'round here, Betsy, as wants ter
look out fer his wizen.

(_But Betsy has run in panic to the kitchen._)

DUKE: I does n't understand 'em. I 'm thinkin' the girl 's a fool. A
ninny I calls her. It 's Red Joe. Off a cliff! Yer said it, Darlin'.
Off a cliff!

(_He removes the sprig of flowers and tosses it into the fire._

_Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:--_

_He retires to the rear of the cabin and strokes the parrot's head. He
jerks away his hand for fear of being nipped. The ungrateful world has
turned against him._)

DUKE: Yer a spiteful bird. Yer as mean as women. Ninnies I calls 'em.
It must ha' been the moon. I should ha' waited fer a moon.

[Illustration: "Yer as mean as women"]

(_He sits on the chest at the rear of the cabin and whittles a little
ship. Women are a queer lot._

_The Captain and Patch-Eye have climbed down the ladder. They burst
with jest. The Captain sits on the chair by the fire, mimicing the
posture of the Duke. Patch-Eye perches on his knee._)

PATCH: Darlin' loves yer, Duke.

CAPTAIN: Course she does. They all does. Youngsters, too--winkin' and
givin' me the snuggle-up.

PATCH: Yer has lovely whiskers, Duke.

CAPTAIN: Yer can pull one, Betsy, fer the locket that yer wears.

(_But the Duke ends the burlesque by upsetting the chair. The Captain
and Patch-Eye, chuckling at their jest, sit to a game of cards. The
Duke returns to the chest. Once in a while he lays down the ship and
seems to be thinking. The broken crystal of the fortune-teller lies on
the floor. He picks it up and puts it to his eye, as if the future may
still show upon its face. He is preoccupied with his disappointment
and his bitter thoughts._

_Darlin', meantime, is heard singing in the kitchen with her dishes._)

Fer griddle cakes I 've a nimble wrist
And I tosses 'em 'igh on a spoon.
And the Duke and Patch yer can hardly match
Fer their breakfast they stretch till noon.
And I heaps the fire and I greases the iron,
And the Duke, he kisses me thumb.
Me Darlin', me dear, it 's perfectly clear
I 've lovin' yer better than rum.

_Patch, also sings._

She 's cooked fer sailors worn down to the bone,
Till they rolls like the Captain's gig.
At soup and stew we are