Hows'ever, that's not to the p'int here.
"Aw, sir, you may fancy how them poor ign'rant furriners left that Custom House.

Sam told me arterwards 'twere like shellin' peas-- spakin' in pinafores--" "Metaphors," said Mr.Fogo.
"That's et--met-afores.

Anyway, they jest fetched a yell, an' then _went_, sir.

I guess Sam knawed the Spanish for 'corpse' afore they was gone.

In less 'n a minnit not a pair o' coloured breeches cud you find, not ef you wanted them fancy articles ever so.
Sam chuckles a bit to hissel', fas'ens down the lid so well as he cud, h'ists the Commodore aboard a wheelbarrer, an' trundles 'un off to the train.
"He cotches the train jest as 'twere startin', an' sails away in a fust-class carr'ge all to hissel', wi' the Commodore laid 'long the seat opposite; 'for,' said Sam, 'drat expense when a fun'ral's goin'!' An' all the way he chuckles an' grins to hissel', to think o' the start he'd gi'ed they Custom House rascals; an' at las' he gets that tickled he's bound to lie back an' fairly hurt hissel' wi' laffin'.
"I reckon, tho', he laffed a bit too early; for jest then the train slowed down, and pulled up at a stashun.