“Delia!”

“Dost feel heroical at all?”

“Not one whit. There’s a trickle of water running down my back, to begin with.”

“And my nose it itches; and oh, what a hateful smell! Say something to me, Jack.”

“My dear,” said I, “there is one thing I’ve been longing these weeks to say: but this seems an odd place for it.”

“What is’t?”

I purs’d up my lips to the bunghole, and—

“I love you,” said I. There was silence for a moment: and then, within Delia’s cask, the sound of muffled laughter.

“Delia,” I urg’d, “I mean it, upon my oath. Wilt marry me, sweetheart?”

“Must get out of this cask first. Oh, Jack, what a dear goose thou art!” And the laughter began again.