e matter, and they told him that 'twasn't vital for
Dunnabridge to be sold, though it might ease his pocket, and smooth his
future to do so, 'specially as Duchy wanted the place rather bad, and
had offered the value of it. And Jonathan's mother was on the side of
Duchy, too, and went on her knees to the man to sell; but he wouldn't.
He had a bee in his bonnet sometimes, and he said that all the Drakes
would rise out of their graves to Widecombe churchyard, and haunt his
rising up and going down if he were to do such a thing, just to suit
his own convenience, and be rid of the place. So he made a plan with the
creditors. It figured out that his father and grandfather had owed near
a thousand pound between them; and Jonathan actually set himself to pay
it off to the last penny. 'Twas the labor of years; but by the time he
was thirty-three he done it--at what cost of scrimping and screwing,
only his mother might have told. She never did tell, however, for she
died two year before the last item was paid. Some went as far as to
declare that 'twas her son's miserly ways hurried her into her grave;
and, for all I know, they may have done so, for 'tis certain, in her
husband's life, she had a better time. Tom was the large-hearted, juicy,
easy sort, as liked meat on the table, and plenty to wash it down; and
he loved Mercy Jane Drake very well; and, when he died, the only thought
that troubled him was leaving her; and the last thing he advised his son
was to sell Dunnabridge, and take his mother off the Moor down to the
"in country" where she'd come from.

But Jonathan was made of different stuff, and 'twas rumored by old
people that had known the family for several generations that he favored
an ancient forefather by name of Brimpson Drake. This bygone man was a
miser and the richest of the race. He'd lived in the days when we were
at war with France and America, and when Princetown sprang up, and a
gert war-prison was built there to cage all the chaps we got on our
hands through winning such a lot o' sea battles. And Miser Brimpson was
said to have made thousands by helping rich fellows to escape from the
prison. Truth and falsehood mixed made up his story as 'twas handed
down. But one thing appeared to be fairly true about it; which was, that
when the miser died, and Dunnabridge went to his cousin, the horseracer,
not a penny of his fortune ever came into the sight of living men. So
some said 'twas all nonsense, and he never