Newton Forster. Фредерик Марриет

turning his face to the wind, which lifted up his grey curling locks, and bore them out horizontally from his fur cap, "and it's a devil of a gale, sure enough.—It may last a month of Sundays for all I know.—Up with the helm, Tom.—Ease off the main sheet, handsomely, my lad—not too much. Now, take in the slack, afore she jibes;" and the master ducked under the main boom and took his station on the other side of the deck. "Steady as you go now.—Newton, take the helm.—D'ye see that bluff?—keep her right for it. Tom, you and the boy rouse the cable up—get about ten fathoms on deck, and bend it.—You'll find a bit of seizing and a marling-spike in the locker abaft." The sloop scuddled before the gale, and in less than two hours was close to the headland pointed out by the master. "Now, Newton, we must hug the point or we shall not fetch—clap on the main sheet here, all of us. Luff, you may, handsomely.—That's all right; we are past the Sand-head and shall be in smooth water in a jiffy.—Steady, so-o.—Now for a drop of swizzle," cried Thompson, who considered that he had kept sober quite long enough, and proceeded to the cask of rum lashed to leeward. As he knelt down to pull out the spile, the sloop which had been brought to the wind, was struck on her broadside by a heavy sea, which careened her to her gunnel: the lashings of the weather cask gave way, and it flew across the deck, jamming the unfortunate Thompson, who knelt against the one to leeward, and then bounding overboard. The old man gave a heavy groan, and fell upon his back; the man and boy ran to his assistance, and by the directions of Newton, who could not quit the helm, carried him below, and placed him on his bed. In a few minutes the sloop was safe at anchor, in smooth water, and Newton ran down into the cabin. Thompson's head had been crushed against the chime of the cask; for an hour or two he breathed heavily; and then—he was no more!

Chapter VI

       Table of Contents

      "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 spirits, which with vapours bland

       It gently mitigates—companion fit

       Of 'a good pot of porter.'" PHILLIPS.

      "There 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 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!

      "He, he, he!"

      "Good morning, Mr. Forster, how is your good lady?"

      "She's safe moored at last," interrupted Mr. Hilton.

      "Who?" demanded the curate, with surprise.

      "Why the sloop, to be sure."

      "Oh! I thought you meant the lady—Ha, ha, ha!"

      "He, he, he!"

      "Won't you sit down, gentlemen?" said Nicholas, showing the way from the shop into the parlour, where they found Mrs. Forster, who had just come in from the back premises.

      "Hope you're well, Mr. Curate," sharply observed the lady, who could not be persuaded, even from respect for the cloth, to be commonly civil—"take a chair; it's all covered with dust; but that Betsy is such an idle slut!"

      "Newton handles her as well as any man going," observed Hilton.

      "Newton!" screamed the lady, turning to her son, with an angry inquiring look—"Newton handles Betsy!" continued she, turning round to Hilton.

      "Betsy! no; the sloop I meant, ma'am."

      Newton burst out into a laugh, in which he was joined by Hilton and his father.

      "Sad business—sad indeed!" said Hilton, after the merriment had subsided, "such an awful death!"

      "Ha, ha, ha!" roared the curate, who had but just then taken the joke about Betsy.

      "He, he, he!"

      "Nothing to laugh at, that I can see," observed Mrs. Forster, snappishly.

      "Capital joke, ma'am, I assure you!" rejoined the curate. "But, Mr. Forster, we had better proceed to business. Spinney, where are the papers?" The clerk produced