On they came, square--shouldered,
narrow--flanked, tall, strapping fellows, tumbling and rolling about the
piazzas in knots of three and four, until, at the corner of King Street,
they came bolt up upon a well--known large, fat, brown lady, famous for
her manufacture of spruce beer.
"Avast, avast a bit"--sung out one of the topmen--"let the nobs heave a
head, will ye, and let's have a pull."
"Here, old mother Slush," sung out another of the cutter's crew. "Hand
us up a dozen bottles of spruce, do you hear?"
"Dozen battle of pruce!" groaned the old woman--"who shall pay me?"
"Why, do you think the Firebrands are thieves, you old canary, you?"
"How much, eh?" said the boatswain's mate.
"Twelve feepennies," quoth the matron.
"Oh, ah!" said one of the men--"Twelve times five is half a crown;
there's a dollar for you, old mother Popandchokem--now give me back five
shillings."
"Eigh, oh!" whined out the spruce merchant; "you dem rascal, who tell
you dat your dollar more wort den any one else money eh? How can give
you back five shilling and keep back twelve feepenny--eh?" The culprit,
who had stood the Cocker of the company, had by this time gained his
end, which was to draw the fat damsel a step or two from the large tub
half--full of water, where the bottles were packed, and to engage her
attention by stirring up her bile, or corruption, as they call it in
Scotland, while his messmates instantly seized the opportunity, and a
bottle a--piece also, and, as I turned round to look for them, there
they all were in a circle taking the meridian altitude of the sun, or as
if they had been taking aim at the pigeons on the eaves of the houses
above them with Indian mouth tubes.
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