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Imagine an English Bishop with attending parson cutting into the water up to their knees to disentangle their cart-horses from the harness in full view of every person on the beach. "This is your first lesson in mudlarking, Coley," was the remark of the Bishop as we laughed over our respective appearance. 'July 21. I was finishing my sermon for the soldiers to-morrow at 11.30, when Mr.
After a while the Bishop and I went off to shore, in one of his boats, pulled by two of the crew, Lowestoft fishermen, fine young fellows as you ever saw. Then we bought fresh meat, onions, bread, etc., for them, and so home by 7 P.M. "Mudlarking" very slight on this occasion, only walking over the flat swamp of low-water marsh for a quarter of a mile; but on Tuesday we had a rich scene.
At 3 P.M. the Bishop came in: "Come along, Coley; I do believe it is the 'Southern Cross." So I hurried on waterproofs, knowing that we were in for some mudlarking. Off we went, lugged down a borrowed boat to the water, tide being out. I took one oar, a Maori another, and off we went, Bishop steering.
Every bush around him was decorated with clothes laid out on their leafy surfaces, where the sun could best operate its hygienic drying process. He saw the bobbing heads of the mudlarking children a few yards away where the low cut-bank hid their small bodies from view. And somehow an unusual pity stirred his hard, world-worn heart. And yet no one could have called him a sentimental man.
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