"Bad language, too . . . that's not like Bill, as a rule.
Ahoy there, Bill!"
"Ahoy!" answered the voice of Mr. Adams.
"What's up?" Without waiting for an answer Mr. Jope ran the barber
before him up the beach to the doorway, the Parson following.
"What's up?" he demanded again, as he drew breath.
"Take an' see for yourself," answered Mr. Adams darkly, pointing with
his chisel.
A fine fragrance of rum permeated the store.
Mr. Jope advanced, and peered into the staved cask.
"Gone?" he exclaimed, and gazed around blankly.
Bill Adams nodded.
"But _where?_ . . . You don't say he's _dissolved?_"
"It ain't the usual way o' rum. An' it _is_ rum?"
Bill appealed to the Parson.
"By the smell, undoubtedly."
"I tell you what's happened. That fool of a Wilkins has made a
mistake in the cask. . . ."
"An' Eli?--oh, Lord!" gasped Mr. Jope.
"They'll have returned Eli to the Victuallin' Yard before this," said
Bill gloomily. "I overheard Wilkins sayin' as he was to pass over
all stores an' accounts at nine-thirty this mornin'."
"An', once there, who knows where he's got mixed? . . . He'll go the
round o' the Fleet, maybe.
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