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An oil-begrimed wiper crawled from under the 1031, spat at the dope-bucket and flung his bunch of waste therein. "Gur-r-r! Let 'em stop," he rasped. "The dope's bad, and the waste's bad; and the old man has cut out the 'lectrics and put us back on them," kicking a small jacket lamp to the bottom of an empty stall. "Give 's a chaw o' yer smokin' plug, Mr. Callahan," and he held out his hand.
Turn on thy path, O fair-foot maiden, And come our ways by the pathless road; Look how the clouds hang low and laden Over the walls of the old abode! She singeth. Bare are my feet for the rough waste's wending, Wild is the wind, and my kirtle's thin; Faint shall I be ere the long way's ending Drops down to the Dale and the grief therein. He singeth.
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