ck dead.

"Well, sir, Sam was 'most out o' hes wits, fust along, for grief to
lose hes maaster; but he warn't the man to go back 'pon hes word.
So he loses no time, but, bein' a handy man, rigs up a wooden chest
wi' the help o' a ship's carpenter, an' a tin case to ship into this,
an' dresses up the Commodore inside, an' nails 'un down proper; an'
wi'in twenty-four hours puts across in a boat, 'long wi' hes charge,
for to catch the train.

"He hadn' barely set foot on shore, an' was givin' orders about
carryin' the chest up to the stashun, un' thinkin' 'pon the
hollerness o' earthly ways, as was nat'ral, when up steps a chap in
highly-coloured breeches an' axes 'un ef he'd anything to declare.

"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.