"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