“Sam had disremembered all ’bout the Customs, you see, sir.

“Hows’ever, et mou’t ha’ been all right, on’y Sam, though he could tackle the lingo a bit—­just enough to get along wi’ on a journey, that es—­suddenly found that he disknowledged the Spanish for ‘corpse.’  He found out, sir, afore the day was out; but just now he looks at the chap i’ the colour’d breeches and says—­

“‘No, I ha’nt.’

“‘What’s i’ that box?’ says the chap.

“Now this was azackly what Sam cudn’ tell ’un; so, for lack of anything better, he says—­

“‘What’s that to you?’

“‘I reckon I must ha’ that chest open,’ says the chap.

“‘I reckon you’ll be sorry ef you do,’ says Sam.

“‘Tell me what’s inside, then.’

“‘Why, darn your Spanish eyes!’ cries Sam, ’can’t ‘ee see I be tryin’ to think ‘pon the word for corpse?’

“But the chap cudn’, of cou’se; so he called another in breeches just as gay as hes own, on’y stripier; and then for up ten minutes ’twas Dover to pay, all talkers an’ no listeners.  I reckon ’twas as Sal said to the Frenchman, ’The less you talks, the better I understands ‘ee.’  But Sam’s blud were up by this time.  Hows’ever, nat’rally he was forced to gi’e way, and they tuk the box into the Custom House, an’ sent for hammer an’ screw-driver.

“‘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—­”

“Metaphors,” said Mr. Fogo.

“That’s et—­met-afores.  Anyway, they jest fetched a yell, an’ then went, sir.  I guess Sam knawed the Spanish for ‘corpse’ afore they was gone.  In less ‘n a minnit not a pair o’ coloured breeches cud you find, not ef you wanted them fancy articles ever so.  Sam chuckles a bit to hissel’, fas’ens down the lid so well as he cud, h’ists the Commodore aboard a wheelbarrer, an’ trundles ’un off to the train.