SCENE II.

_Another part of the Forest.--A ship at anchor in the bay at a small distance.--Mouth of a cave._

_Enter SAILORS and MATE, as returning from foraging._

_Mate._ Come, come, bear a hand, my lads. Tho'f the bay is just under our bowsprits, it will take a damned deal of tripping to come at it--there's hardly any steering clear of the rocks here. But do we muster all hands? All right, think ye?

_1st. Sail._ All to a man----besides yourself, and a monkey----the three land lubbers, that edged away in the morning, goes for nothing, you know--they're all dead, may-hap, by this.

_Mate._ Dead! you be--Why they're friends of the captain; and if not brought safe aboard to-night, you may all chance to have a salt eel for your supper--that's all--Moreover the young plodding spark, he with the grave, foul weather face, there, is to man the tight little frigate, Miss Narcissa--what d'ye call her? that is bound with us for Barbadoes. Rot'em for not keeping under weigh, I say! But come, let's see if a song will bring 'em too. Let's have a full chorus to the good merchant ship, the Achilles, that's wrote by our captain.

SONG.

_The Achilles, though christen'd, good ship, 'tis surmis'd,_ _From that old man of war, great Achilles, so priz'd,_ _Was he, like our vessel, pray fairly baptiz'd?_ _Ti tol lol, &c._

_Poets sung_ that _Achilles--if, now, they've an itch_ _To sing_ this, _future ages may know which is which;_ _And that one rode in Greece--and the other in pitch._ _Ti tol lol, &c._

_What tho' but a merchant ship--sure our supplies:_ _Now your men of war's gain in a lottery lies,_ _And how blank they all look, when they can't get a prize!_ _Ti tol lol, &c._

_What are all their fine names? when no rhino's behind,_ _The Intrepid, and Lion, look sheepish you'll find;_ _Whilst, alas! the poor Æolus can't raise the wind!_ _Ti tol lol, &c._

_Then the Thunderer's dumb; out of tune the Orpheus;_ _The Ceres has nothing at all to produce;_ _And the Eagle I warrant you, looks like a goose._ _Ti tol lol, &c._

_1st. Sail._ Avast! look a-head there. Here they come, chased by a fleet of black devils.

_Midsh._ And the devil a _fire_ have I to give them. We han't a grain of powder left. What must we do, lads?

_2d. Sail._ Do? Sheer off to be sure.

_Midsh._ [_Reluctantly._] Well, if I must, I must. [_Going to the other side, and holloing to INKLE, &c._] Yoho, lubbers! Crowd all the sail you can, d'ye mind me!

[_Exeunt_ SAILORS.

_Enter MEDIUM, running across the stage, as pursued by the Blacks._

_Med._ Nephew! Trudge! run--scamper! Scour--fly! Zounds, what harm did I ever do to be hunted to death by a pack of bloodhounds? Why nephew! Oh, confound your long sums in arithmetic! I'll take care of myself; and if we must have any arithmetic, dot and carry one for my money.

[_Runs off._

_Enter INKLE and TRUDGE, hastily._

_Trudge._ Oh! that ever I was born, to leave pen, ink, and powder for this!

_Inkle._ Trudge, how far are the sailors before us?

_Trudge._ I'll run and see, sir, directly.

_Inkle._ Blockhead, come here. The savages are close upon us; we shall scarce be able to recover our party. Get behind this tuft of trees with me; they'll pass us, and we may then recover our ship with safety.

_Trudge._ [_Going behind._] Oh! Threadneedle-street, Thread--

_Inkle._ Peace.

_Trudge._ [_Hiding._]--Needle-street. [_They hide behind trees. Natives cross. After a long pause, INKLE looks from the trees._]

_Inkle._ Trudge.

_Trudge._ Sir. [_In a whisper._]

_Inkle._ Are they all gone by?

_Trudge._ Won't you look and see?

_Inkle._ [_Looking round._] So all is safe at last. [_Coming forward._] Nothing like policy in these cases; but you'd have run on, like a booby! A tree, I fancy, you'll find, in future, the best resource in a hot pursuit.

_Trudge._ Oh, charming! It's a retreat for a king, sir: Mr. Medium, however, has not got up in it; your uncle, sir, _has run on like a booby_; and has got up with our party by this time, I take it; who are now most likely at the shore. But what are we to do next, sir?

_Inkle._ Reconnoitre a little, and then proceed.

_Trudge._ Then pray, sir, proceed to reconnoitre; for the sooner the better.

_Inkle._ Then look out, d'ye hear, and tell me if you discover any danger.

_Trudge._ Y----Ye--s--Yes.

_Inkle._ Well, is the coast clear?

_Trudge._ Eh! Oh lord!--Clear! [_Rubbing his eyes._] Oh dear! oh dear! the coast will soon be clear enough now, I promise you----The ship is under sail, sir!

_Inkle._ Confusion! my property carried off in the vessel.

_Trudge._ All, all, sir, except me.

_Inkle._ They may report me dead, perhaps, and dispose of my property at the next island. [_The vessel appears under sail._]

_Trudge._ Ah! there they go. [_A gun fired._]----That will be the last report we shall ever hear from 'em I'm afraid.--That's as much as to say, Good bye to ye. And here we are left--two fine, full-grown babes in the wood!

_Inkle._ What an ill-timed accident! Just too, when my speedy union with Narcissa, at Barbadoes, would so much advance my interests.--Ah, my Narcissa, I never shall forget thy last adieu.--Something must be hit upon, and speedily; but what resource? [_Thinking._]

_Trudge._ The old one--a tree, sir.--'Tis all we have for it now. What would I give, now, to be perched upon a high stool, with our brown desk squeezed into the pit of my stomach--scribbling away an old parchment!----But all my red ink will be spilt by an old black pin of a negro.

SONG.

[Last Valentine's Day.]

_A voyage over seas had not entered my head,_ _Had I known but on which side to butter my bread,_ _Heigho! sure I--for hunger must die!_ _I've sail'd like a booby; come here in a squall,_ _Where, alas! there's no bread to be butter'd at all!_ _Oho! I'm a terrible booby!_ _Oh, what a sad booby am I!_

_In London, what gay chop-house signs in the street!_ _But the only sign here is of nothing to eat._ _Heigho! that I----for hunger should die!_ _My mutton's all lost; I'm a poor starving elf!_ _And for all the world like a lost mutton myself._ _Oho! I shall die a lost mutton!_ _Oh! what a lost mutton am I!_

_For a neat slice of beef, I could roar like a bull;_ _And my stomach's so empty, my heart is quite full._ _Heigho! that I--for hunger should die!_ _But, grave without meat, I must here meet my grave,_ _For my bacon, I fancy, I never shall save._ _Oho! I shall ne'er save my bacon!_ _I can't save my bacon, not I!_

_Trudge._ Hum! I was thinking----I was thinking, sir--if so many natives could be caught, how much they might fetch at the West India markets!

_Inkle._ Scoundrel! is this a time to jest?

_Trudge._ No, faith, sir! Hunger is too sharp to be jested with. As for me, I shall starve for want of food. Now you may meet a luckier fate: you are able to extract the square root, sir; and that's the very best provision you can find here to live upon. But I! [_Noise at a distance._] Mercy on us! here they come again.

_Inkle._ Confusion! Deserted on one side, and pressed on the other, which way shall I turn?--This cavern may prove a safe retreat to us for the present. I'll enter, cost what it will.

_Trudge._ Oh Lord! no, don't, don't----We shall pay too dear for our lodging, depend on't.

_Inkle._ This is no time for debating. You are at the mouth of it: lead the way, Trudge.

_Trudge._ What! go in before your honour! I know my place better, I assure you--I might walk into more mouths than one, perhaps. [_Aside._]

_Inkle._ Coward! then follow me. [_Noise again._]

_Trudge._ I must, sir; I must! Ah, Trudge, Trudge! what a damned hole are you getting into!

[_Exeunt into a Cavern._