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"It's hard to think," rejoined Malcolm, "what w'y the God 'at made them can luik efter them a' in sic a tumult. But they say even the sheep dog kens ilk sheep i' the flock 'at 's gien him in chairge." "Ay, but ye see," said Blue Peter, "they're mair like a shoal o' herrin' nor a flock o' sheep." "It's no the num'er o' them 'at plagues me," said Malcolm.
Tom Brian!" muttered Dunbar aside to Sowerby. "Wotcher say, guv'nor?" inquired the cabman, looking from one to the other. "I say, no doubt you can save us the trouble of looking out Brian's license, and give us his private address?" replied Dunbar. "Course I can. 'E lives hat num'er 36 Forth Street, Brixton, and 'e's out o' the big Brixton depot." "Oh!" said Dunbar, dryly.
Yo' is num'er fo' eleben. Reckin ain't no 'stake 'bout it!" "I am Number 411, certainly," said Faith, politely, "but I can't imagine who would write me a letter; still, if you are sure it's for me, I suppose I must accept." "Oh, it's fo' you all right," said the negro, decidedly, "fo' de capting p'inted yo' out on de street las' ebenin'." Faith took the letter and opened it hastily.
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