He was a most extraordinary built man; he had absolutely no body,
his bottom being placed between his shoulders, but what was wanted in
corpus was made up in legs, indeed he looked like a pair of compasses,
buttoned together at the shoulders, and supporting a yellow phiz half a
yard long, thatched with a fell of sandy hair, falling down lank and
greasy on each side of his face. Fyall called him Buckskin, which, with
some other circumstances, made me guess that he was neither more nor less
than an American smuggler.
After supper, a glass of punch was filled for each person, the overseer
gave a rap on the table with his knuckles, and off started the
bookkeepers, like shots out of shovels, leaving the Yankee, Mr Fyall, the
overseer, and myself, at table.
I was very tired, and reckoned on going to bed now--but no such thing.
Fyall ordered Jupiter to bring a case from his gig--box, containing some
capital brandy. A new brewage of punch took place, and I found about the
small hours that we were all verging fast towards drunkenness, or
something very like that same. The Yankee was specially plied by Fyall,
evidently with an object, and he soon succeeded in making him helplessly
drunk.
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.
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