On their way they eyed the cottages and gardens to right
and left with a lively curiosity; but "Lord, Bill," said the shorter
seaman, misquoting Wordsworth unawares, "the werry houses look
asleep!"
At the "Punch-Bowl" Inn, kept by J. Coyne, they halted by silent
consent. Mr. William Adams, who had been trundling the barrow, set
it down, and Mr. Benjamin Jope--whose good-natured face would have
recommended him anywhere--walked into the drinking-parlour and rapped
on the table. This brought to him the innkeeper's daughter, Miss
Elizabeth, twenty years old and comely. "What can I do for you,
sir?" she asked.
"Two pots o' beer, first-along," said Mr. Jope.
"Two?"
"I got a shipmate outside."
Miss Elizabeth fetched the two pots.
"Here, Bill!" he called, carrying one to the door. Returning, he
blew at the froth on his own pot meditatively. "And the next thing
is, I want a house."
"A house?"
"'Stonishing echo you keep here. . . . Yes, miss, a house. My name's
Jope--Ben Jope--o' the _Vesuvius_ bomb, bo's'un; but paid off at
eight this morning. My friend outside goes by the name of Bill
Adams; an' you'll find him livelier than he looks.
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