ger on the ill-fated ship, who was certainly not very well adapted to a Robinson Crusoe life. Mr. Davies, on a desert island, was about as much at home as "a whale in a field of clover." He was a man who had always acted on the principle, that to have a new hat once a week, new lavender kid-gloves every day, innumerable suits of clothes, no one of which he ever wore more than three times, to smoke the most expensive cigars, to drink the rarest wines, to eat the most costly meats, and consume fruits and vegetables only when they were entirely out of season, was good for trade. He now found, however, that this way of encouraging trade was not appreciated by his companions; he expected that the best of everything on the island would be brought to him for his acceptance, and that if he approved it he would have the opportunity of buying it and paying for it with a cheque drawn on a New York banker. His disgust, when his cheques were refused, and when the dainties he coveted became the possession of those who could give either labour or other commodities
