k; for an
hour or two he breathed heavily; and then--he was no more!

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER SIX.

The Indian weed, unknown to ancient times,
Nature's choice gift, whose acrimonious fume
Extracts superfluous juices, and refines
The blood distemper'd from its noxious salts;
Friend to the spirit, which with vapours bland
It gently mitigates--companion fit
Of a _good pot of porter_.
PHILLIPS.

There's a pot of good double beer, neighbour,
Drink--
SHAKESPEARE.

The next day the remains of old Thompson were carried on shore in the
long-boat, and buried in the churchyard of the small fishing town that
was within a mile of the port where the sloop had anchored. Newton
shipped another man, and when the gale was over, continued his voyage;
which was accomplished without further adventure.

Finding no cargo ready for him, and anxious to deliver up the vessel to
the owner, who resided at Overton, he returned in ballast, and
communicated the intelligence of Thompson's death; which in so small a
town was long the theme of conversation, and the food of gossips.

Newton consulted with his father relative to the disposal of the trunk;
but Nicholas could assist him but little with his advice. After many
_pros_ and _cons_, like all other difficult matters, it was
postponed.--"Really, Newton, I can't say. The property certainly is not
yours, but still we are not likely to find out the lawful owner. Bring
the trunk on shore, we'll nail it up, and perhaps we may hear something
about it by and bye. We'll make some inquiries--by and bye--when your
mother--"

"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 every thing. His greatest
peculiarity was, that although he had a