“I think,” interrupted Newton, “it would not be advisable to acquaint my mother with the circumstance; but how to satisfy her curiosity on that point, I must leave to you.”

“To me, boy! no; I think that you had better manage that, for you know you are only occasionally at home.”

“Well, father, be it so,” replied Newton, laughing:  “but here comes Mr Dragwell and Mr Hilton, to consult with us what ought to be done relative to the effects of poor old Thompson.  He has neither kith nor kin, to the ninety-ninth degree, that we can find out.”

Mr Dragwell was the curate of the parish; a little fat man with bow-legs, who always sat upon the edge of the chair, leaning against the back, and twiddling his thumbs before him.  He was facetious and good-tempered, but was very dilatory in everything.  His greatest peculiarity was, that although he had a hearty laugh for every joke, he did not take the jokes of others at the time that they were made.  His ideas seemed to have the slow and silent flow ascribed to the stream of lava (without its fire):  and the consequence was, that although he eventually laughed at a good thing, it was never at the same time with other people; but in about a quarter or half a minute afterwards (according to the difficulty of the analysis), when the cause had been dismissed for other topics, he would burst out in a hearty Ha, ha, ha!

Mr Hilton was the owner of the sloop:  he was a tall, corpulent man, who for many years had charge of a similar vessel, until by “doing a little contraband,” he had pocketed a sufficient sum to enable him to purchase one for himself.  But the profits being more than sufficient for his wants, he had for some time remained on shore, old Thompson having charge of the vessel.  He was a good-tempered, jolly fellow, very fond of his pipe and his pot, and much more fond of his sloop, by the employment of which he was supplied with all his comforts.  He passed most of the day sitting at the door of his house, which looked upon the anchorage, exchanging a few words with everyone that passed by, but invariably upon one and the same topic—­his sloop.  If she was at anchor—­“There she is,” he would say, pointing to her with the stem of his pipe.  If she was away, she had sailed on such a day;—­he expected her back at such a time.  It was a fair wind—­it was a foul wind for his sloop.  All his ideas were engrossed by this one darling object, and it was no easy task to divert him from it.

I ought to have mentioned that Mr Dragwell, the curate, was invariably accompanied by Mr Spinney, the clerk of the parish, a little spare man, with a few white hairs straggling on each side of a bald pate.  He always took his tune, whether in or out of church, from his superior, ejecting a small treble “He, he, he!” in response to the loud Ha, ha, ha! of the curate.

“Peace be unto this house!” observed the curate as he crossed the threshold, for Mrs Forster’s character was notorious; then laughing at his own wit with a Ha, ha, ha!