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Updated: May 1, 2025
The Oulton fishermen used to teach me the stitches. I can do herring-bone stitch. I can even put a cringle into a sail." "You're the eighth wonder of the world, I think," Mr. Jermyn said. "But choose, now. Choose a kit for yourself. You won't get a chance to change your clothes till you get to Mr. Blick's if you don't take some from here. So just look round the room here. Take whatever you want."
As we rode on into the gloom, in the still, flat, misty land, which gleamed out at whiles with water dykes, he cross-examined me in detail, in several different ways, just as a magistrate would have done it. I was soon letter-perfect about my mother. I knew Mr. Blick's past history as well as I knew my own. "Martin," said Mr. Jermyn suddenly. "Do you hear anything?" "Yes, sir," I answered.
Presently, as I began to sip some wine which he had poured out for me, he put something over my shoulders. "Here," he said, "this is the satchel, Martin. Keep the straps drawn tight always. Don't take it off till you give it into Mr. Blick's hands. His own hands, remember. Don't take it off even at night. When you lie down, lash it around your neck with spun-yarn."
Blick's sister's son, left an orphan in Holland. You'll be in mourning. Your mother died of low-fever, remember, coming over to collect a debt from her factor. Your mother was an Oulton fish-boat owner. Pay attention now. I'm going to cross-examine you in your past history."
And she say I can have pickle with the last egg." The eyes which had been critically searching the pickle-jar on the counter as the eggs were carefully taken out of a basket looked confidently in Mr. Blick's face, and a red little tongue licked two red lips in quivering expectation of the salty sourness awaiting them. "Please, sir, I'd like that one."
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