“Trunk!—well, what then? Trunk!—oh, damn the trunk!—let me go to sleep,” muttered the master.
“There’s two large casks, too, sir; I’ve spiled them, and they prove to be puncheons of rum,” bawled Newton, who pertinaciously continued.
“Eh; what?—casks! what casks?”
“Two puncheons of rum.”
“Rum!—did you say rum?” cried old Thompson, lifting his head off the pillow, and staring stupidly at Newton; “where?”
“On deck. Two casks: we picked them up as we were standing off the land.”
“Picked them up?—are they on board?” inquired the master, sitting upright in his bed, and rubbing his eyes.
“Yes, they’re safe on board. Won’t you come on deck?”
“To be sure, I will. Two puncheons of rum, you said?”—and old Thompson gained his feet, and reeled to the companion ladder, holding on by all fours, as he climbed up without his shoes.
When the master of the sloop had satisfied himself as to the contents of the casks, which he did by taking about half a tumbler of each, Newton proposed that the trunk should be opened. “Yes,” replied Thompson, who had drawn off a mug of the spirits, with which he was about to descend to the cabin, “open it, if you like, my boy. You have made a bon prize to-day, and your share shall be the trunk; so you may keep it, and the things that are stowed away in it, for your trouble: but don’t forget to secure the casks till we can stow them away below. We can’t break bulk now; but the sooner they are down the better; or we shall have some quill-driving rascal on board, with his flotsam and jetsam, for the Lord knows who;” and Thompson, to use his own expression, went down again “to lay his soul in soak.”