“But—you’ll excuse me—I don’t quite follow—”
Mr. Jope pressed a forefinger mysterious to his lip, then jerked a thumb in the direction of the river. “If your reverence wouldn’ mind steppin’ down to the creek with me?” he suggested, respectfully.
Parson Spettigew fetched his hat, and together the pair descended the vale beneath the dropping petals of the cherry. At the foot of it they came to a creek, which the tide at this hour had flooded and almost overbrimmed. Hard by the water’s edge, backed by tall elms, stood a dilapidated fish store, and below it lay a boat with nose aground on a beach of flat stones. Two men were in the boat. The barber, a slip of a fellow in rusty top hat and suit of rusty black, sat in the stern sheets face to face with a large cask: a cask so ample that, to find room for his knees, he was forced to crook them at a high, uncomfortable angle. In the bows, boathook in hand, stood a tall sailor, arrayed in shore-going clothes, similar to Mr. Jope’s. His face was long, sallow, and expressive of taciturnity, and he wore a beard, not where beards are usually worn, but as a fringe beneath his clean-shaven chin and lantern jaw.
“Well, here we are!” asserted Mr. Jope, cheerfully. “Your reverence knows A. Grigg and Son, and the others you can trust in all weathers, bein’ William Adams, otherwise Bill, and Eli Tonkin: friends o’ mine an’ shipmates both.”
The parson, perplexed, stared at the tall seaman, who touched his hat by way of acknowledging the introduction.
“But—but I only see one!” he protested.
“This here’s Bill Adams,” said Mr. Jope, and again the tall seaman touched his hat. “Is it Eli you’re missin’? Eli’s in the cask.”
“Oh!”
“We’ll hoick him up to the store, Bill, if you’re ready. It looks a nice cool place. And while you’re prizin’ him open, I’d best explain to his reverence and the barber. Here, ship out the shore plank; and you, A. Grigg and Son, lend a hand to heave. . . . Aye, you’re right; it weighs more’n a trifle—bein’ a quarter-puncheon, an’ the best proof sperrits. Tilt her this way. . . . Ready? . . . Then w’y-ho! and away she goes!”
With a heave and a lurch that canted the boat until the water poured over her gunwale, the huge tub was rolled overside into shallow water. With a run and a tremendous lift they hoisted it up to the turfy plat, whence Bill Adams steered it with ease through the ruinated doorway of the store, while Mr. Jope returned, smiling and mopping his brow.