"'Seems to me,' says the chap, prizin' the lid open a bit, an' snifnn', 'et smells oncommon like sperrits.'
"'I'm thinkin',' says Sam, ef you'd been kep' goin' on brandy-an'-milk for a week an' more, you'd smell like sperrits.'
"'I guess 'tes sperrits,' says wan.
"'Or 'baccy,' says anuther.
"'Or furrin fruits,' says a third.
"'Well, you'm wrong,' says Sam, ''cos 'tes a plain British Commodore; an' I reckon ef you taxes that sort o' import, you dunno what's good for 'ee.'
"At las', sir, they prizes open the chest an' the tin case, an' there, o' cou'se, lay th' ould man, sleepin' an' smilin' so paiceful-like he looked ha'f a Commodore an' ha'f a cherry-bun."
"I suppose you mean 'cherubim,' Caleb?" corrected Mr. Fogo.
"I s'pose I do, sir; tho' I reckon th' ould man seemed happier than he were, havin' been a 'nation scamp in hes young days, an' able to swear to the las' so's t'wud pretty nigh fetch the mortar out'n a brick wall. Hows'ever, that's not to the p'int here.
"Aw, sir, you may fancy how them poor ign'rant furriners left that Custom House. Sam told me arterwards 'twere like shellin' peas— spakin' in pinafores—"