“More than you’ve got, sir?” said the mate.
“Twice as much, lufftenant. But hullo, what have you got there—barrel o’ brandy?”
“No,” said the mate roughly; “it isn’t juicy: it’s dry.”
“That’s queer, lufftenant, but so it is: there’s holes in the top. What do they mean?”
“I haven’t been inside, sir,” said the mate roughly.
“Ain’t you though? Well, I s’pose not. Ain’t anything alive, though, is it?”
“Alive? Pooh! Ventilation holes to keep the things from fermenting. I dessay it’s something in the eating line.”
“Be nice too, I dessay,” said the American. “Wish I was going. I should like to have had some of that. Anyhow, mister, I think I’d be careful with that hogshead in case your men might let it go down. It’d be a pity to spoil it by letting it slip ’twixt the wharf and the ship.”
“We’ll take care of that, sir,” said the mate, as the chains were hitched to the barrel and it rose slowly from the stones of the wharf, swinging slowly in a half-circle, and was lowered through the deck of the brig.
“There we are,” said the mate, with a laugh, as he turned to the American.