"''Tes a brave long way from here to England,' says Sam. "'I knaws what you be thinkin' 'bout,' says the Commodore. 'You'm reckonin' I'll spile on the way. But I don't mean 'ee to go by say. You mus' take me 'cross the bay an' then ship aboard a train, as'll take 'ee dro Seville, an' Madrid, an' Paris, to Dover. 'Tes a fast train,' says he, 'as trains go i' these parts; but I'm doubtin' ef et starts ivery day or only dree times a week. I reckon, tho', ef you finds out, I can manage so's my dyin' shan't interfere wi' that.' "Well, Sam was forced to promise, an' the Commodore seemed mighty relieved, an' lay still while Sam read to 'n out o' the books that th' ould man had by 'n. There was the Bible, and the Pellican's Progress, an' Philip Quarles, an' Hannah Snell, the female sodger. Sam read a bit from each, an' when he comes to that part about Christ'n crossing the river, th' ould man sets up sudden an' calls, 'Land, Sam, land! Fetch a glass, lad!'--just like that, sir; an' wi' that falls back 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.