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In the evening we arrived at an estate under Mr Fyall's management, having passed a party of maroons immediately before.
"Thank you, Tom," said Fyall; "I owe you a good turn for that, my boy." "Fyall's story Mr Fyall's story!" resounded on all hands. Fyall, glad to escape the song and wet nightcap, instantly began. "Why, my friends, you all know Isaac Grimm, the Jew snuff merchant and cigar maker, in Harbour Street.
The fun now "grew fast and furious," a large wash tub was ordered in, placed under a beam at the corner of the room, and filled with water; a sack and a three inch rope were then called for, and promptly produced by the blackies, who, apparently accustomed to Fyall's pranks, grinned with delight.
One of the party was a little red faced gentleman, Peregrine Whiffle, Esquire, by name who, in Jamaica parlance, was designated an extraordinary master in Chancery; the overseer of the pen, or breeding farm, in the great house as it is called, or mansionhouse of which Mr Fyall resided, and a merry, laughing, intelligent, round, red faced man, with a sort of Duncan Knockdunder nose, through the wide nostrils of which you could see a cable's length into his head; he was either Fyall's head clerk, or a sort of first lieutenant; these personages and myself composed the party.
Now, I had never met the said Peregrine Whiffle but twice in my life; once at Mr Fyall's, and once during the few days I remained in Kingston, before I set out on my travels; but he was a warm hearted kindly old fellow, and, from knowing all my friends there very intimately, he, as a matter of course, became equally familiar with me. "Why the diable came you not to see me, man?
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