"I think," I replied, "we had better look at the tin box."
"Bless my soul! There's something in the boy, after all. I had clean forgotten it."
The box was about six inches by four, and some four inches in depth. The tin was tarnished by the sea, but the cover had been tightly fastened down and secured with a hasp and pin. Uncle Loveday drew out the pin, and with some difficulty raised the lid. Inside lay a tightly-rolled bundle of papers, seemingly uninjured. These he drew out, smoothed, and carefully opened.
As his eyes met the writing, his hand dropped, and he sank back—a very picture of amazement—in his chair.
"My God!"
"What's the matter?"
"It's your father's handwriting!"
I looked at this last witness cast up by the sea and read, "The Journal of Ezekiel Trenoweth, of Lantrig."