CHIEF.  Concertina.

STEWARD (going out).  Yes, sir, going, sir.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS).  Can you dance a hornpipe?

GOVERNESS.  No, I—–­

CHIEF.  Dancing dubious.

1ST PIRATE (writing).  Dancing dubious.

STEWARD (coming in).  Concertina, sir.

CHIEF.  Give it to the woman. (He takes it to her.)

GOVERNESS.  I’m afraid I—–­(She produces one ghastly noise and drops the concertina in alarm.)

1ST PIRATE (writing).  What shall I say, sir?  Music mouldy or music measly?

CHIEF (standing up).  Gentlemen, I think you will agree with me that the woman Pinniger has proved that she is utterly incapable of teaching anybody anything.  Twenty-five years, man and boy, I have sailed the Spanish Main, and with the possible exception of a dumb and half-witted negro whom I shipped as cook in ’64, I have never met any one so profoundly lacking in intellect.  I propose, therefore, that for the space of twenty-four hours the woman Pinniger should be incarcerated in the smuggler’s cave, in the company of a black beetle of friendly temperament.

GOVERNESS.  Mercy!  Mercy!

1ST PIRATE.  I should like to second that.

CHIEF.  Those in favour—­ay! (They all say “Ay.”) Contrary—­No! (The
GOVERNESS says “No.”) The motion is carried.

(One of the Pirates opens the door of the cave.  The GOVERNESS rushes to the CHIEF and throws herself at his feet.  OLIVER and JILL appear in the nick of time.)

OLIVER.  A maiden in distress!  I will rescue her. (She looks up and
OLIVER recognises her) Oh!  Carry on, Commodore.

(The GOVERNESS is lowered into the cave and the door is shut.)

CHIEF (to his men).  Go, find that black beetle, and having found it, introduce it circumspectly by the back door.

PIRATES.  Ay, ay, sir. [They go out.

OLIVER.  All the same, you know, I jolly well should like to rescue somebody.

JILL (excitedly).  Oo, rescue me, Oliver.

CHIEF (solemnly).  Two-toed Thomas, Terror of the Dyaks, and Pest of the North Pacific, truly thou art a well-plucked one.  Wilt fight me for the wench? (He puts an arm round JILL.)

OLIVER.  I will.

CHIEF.  Swords?

OLIVER.  Pistols.

CHIEF.  At twenty paces?

OLIVER.  Across a handkerchief.

CHIEF.  Done! (Feeling in his pockets) Have you got a handkerchief?  I think I must have left mine on the dressing-table.

OLIVER (bringing out his and putting it hastily back again).  Mine’s rather—­Jill, haven’t you got one?

JILL (feeling).  I know I had one, but I——­

CHIEF.  This is an ill business.  Five-and-thirty duels have I fought—­and never before been delayed for lack of a handkerchief.

JILL.  Ah, here it is. (She produces a very small one and lays it on the ground.  They stand one each side of it, pistols ready.)