Amid the press we'd all be drowned;
And then where would the profit be?
Monsieur Ballon.
Accurst! So near to fortune's summit,
And now stopped short beside its grave!
Mr. Cotton.
[Shakes his fist towards the yacht.]
That long black chest holds coffered up The nabob's golden nigger-sweat! Von Eberkopf. A royal notion! Quick! Away! It's all up with his empire now! Hurrah! Monsieur Ballon. What would you? Von Eberkopf. Seize the power! The crew can easily be bought. On board then. I annex the yacht! Mr. Cotton. You—what? Von Eberkopf. I grab the whole concern!
[Goes down to the jolly-boat.
Mr. Cotton. Why then self-interest commands me To grab my share. [Goes after him.
Trumpeterstråle.
What scoundrelism!
