PHOEBE. There'll be murder to a certainty. Help--help!--police!
_Runs out after ARABELLA, L._
_CAROLINE enters from door L. flat, in ball dress._
CARO. Mercy on me! what can be the matter?
_Enter CAPTAIN HARDAPORT, at the side, hurriedly, R._
CAPT. H. (_advancing towards CAROLINE_) Beg pardon, miss, but if I can
be of any service----
CARO. (_who has started, and turned round towards the CAPTAIN_)
Captain Hardaport!
CAPT. H. Beg pardon, I'm sure, miss; but hearing you, as I thought,
holding out signals of distress----
CARO. No such thing! Me!--oh, dear, no; no such thing.
CAPT. H. Well, miss, I've a little matter to overhaul with you. Ever
since I saw you at Plymouth, I've been thinking that you are just the
sort of craft that I should like to sail in company with.
CARO. (_modestly_) Oh, Captain!
CAPT. H. Yes, miss; so I bore up for London, and the first thing I
hear is that you're going to be spliced to some other lubber from
Cambridge.
CARO. Really, sir, I know very little about the matter; everything has
been arranged by my pa and Mr. Cockletop.
CAPT. H. Who's Cocklepot?
CARO. (_modestly_) He is the uncle of--the young man.
CAPT. H. And you love him?
CARO. I've never seen him yet.
CAPT. H. Then perhaps you wouldn't break your heart if I was to send
him to Davy Jones? (_savagely_)
CARO. Not I, indeed!