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"Here!" sounded the voice of Bill, very faint in the darkness. "Here! fetch along the light, quick!" "Wot's it?" "Casks." "Casks?" "Kegs, then. I ought to know," responded Bill plaintively, "seeing as I pretty near broke my leg on one!" Mr. Jope peered forward, holding the light high. In the middle of the cellar stood the quarter-puncheon and around it a whole regiment of small barrels.
The real question was, what to do with Eli? Whereby, the purser and me bein' friends, I goes to him an' says, 'Look here, I says, 'we'll be paid off in ten days or so, an' there's a trifle o' prize-money, too. 'What price'll you sell us a cask o' the ship's rum say a quarter-puncheon for choice? 'What for? says he.
Rum it is, an' a quarter-puncheon. Bill and me clubbed an' bought it off the purser las' night, the chaplain havin' advised us not to waste good prize-money ashore but invest it in something we really wanted. But I don't know if you've ever noticed how often one thing leads to another. You can't go drinkin' out a quarter-puncheon o' rum in the high road, not very well.
And while you're prizin' him open, I'd best explain to his Reverence and the barber. Here, unship 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-spirits. Tilt her this way, . . . Ready? . . . then w'y-ho! and away she goes!"
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