thin' ter do--(_reflectively_) nothin' 'cept
cookin' and washin' and darnin'. Does yer jump at me, Betsy?

(_I confess, myself, a mere man, unable to analyze Betsy's emotions.
She stands staring at the Duke, as you or I might stare at a
hippopotamus in the front hall. I have bitten my pencil to a pulp--the
maker's name is quite gone--but I can think of no lines that are
adequate. Her first surprise, however, turns to amusement._)

DUKE: Ain 't yer a kind o' hankerin' fer me? Come ter me arms,
sweetie, and confess yer blushin' love. I 'm askin' yer. I 'm askin'
yer ter be the Duchess.

BETSY: But I do not love you, Duke.

(_In jest, however, the little rascal perches on his knee._)

DUKE: Make yerself comfertable. Yer husband 's willin'. When I cramps,
I shifts yer. Kiss me, when yer wants.

BETSY: You are an old goose.

DUKE: Did I hear yer? Does yer hold off fer me ter nag yer? The ol'
Duke 's waitin' ter fold yer in his lovin' arms.

BETSY: I do not love you, Duke.

(_The Captain and Patch-Eye have thrust their heads through the
opening above the ladder, and they listen with amusement._)

DUKE: I 'm blowed. I 'm a better man than Patch. I 'm tellin' yer. Is
it me stump, Betsy? I has n't a hook hand like the Captain. Yer has
got ter be linked all 'round. There 's no fun, I says, in bein' hugged
by a one-armed man. Yer would be lop-sided in a week.

BETSY: It 's just that I do not love you, Duke.

DUKE: Yer wounds me feelin's. Does n't I ask yer pretty? Should I have
waited fer a moon and took yer walkin'? And perched with yer on the
rocks, with the ol' moon winkin' at yer, shovin' yer on? The Duke 's
never been refused before. A number o' wery perticerler ladies, arter
breakfast even, has jest come scamperin'. 'T ain 't Patch, is it
Betsy? A pretty leetle girl would n't love a feller as has one eye. It
ain 't the Captain. He ain 't no hand with the ladies. Yer not goin'
ter tell me it 's Petey? I would n't want yer ter fall in love with a
blinkin' light.

BETSY: You have lovely whiskers, Duke.

DUKE: Yer can pull one fer the locket that yer wears. Are yer makin'
fun o' me?

BETSY: I would n't dare.

DUKE: Does yer mean it, Betsy? Are yer relentin'? Are yer goin' ter
say the 'appy word as splices us from keel to topsail? Yer ain 't jest
a cruel syren are yer, wavin' me on, hopin' I 'll smash meself? Are
yer winkin' at me like ol' Flint's lantern--me thinkin' it 's love I
see, shinin' in yer laughin'