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Updated: June 26, 2025
"I'll back Vermont bone an' muscle agin' the hull passel of ye, even if I be a deacon. The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him." "The angel needn't hurry hisself," said Tom Dosser, picking himself up, one joint at a time. "Ef that's the crowd yer travelin' with, and they've got a grip anything like yourn, I don't want nothin' to do with 'em."
He only sleeps on the pavement on sufferance, and when the policeman finds the small hours hang heavily on him, he can root up the unemployed with his big foot and move him on or arrest him for being around with the intention to commit a felony; and, when the wretched "dosser" rises in the morning, he cannot shoulder his swag and take the track he must cadge a breakfast at some back gate or restaurant, and then sit in the park or walk round and round, the same old hopeless round, all day.
They were all far out in the fields. Even the old people and the children had gone out with the others. The children, dancing ahead of the wagons, stirring up the dust of the street, the old people plodding along after, the infant, or the loaf of bread and the jug of coffee in the dosser.
One of them was dressed like a monk in his frock, draggle-tailed, and booted; the other like a falconer, with a lure, and a long-winged hawk on his fist; the third like a solicitor, with a large bag, full of informations, subpoenas, breviates, bills, writs, cases, and other implements of pettifogging; the fourth looked like one of your vine-barbers about Ocleans, with a jaunty pair of canvas trousers, a dosser, and a pruning knife at his girdle.
That was wrong, too, and he tried again, forcing his reluctant tongue around the syllables. "Bull dosser!" Damn it, couldn't he even pronounce simple Engaliss? The language wasn't English, however. Nor was it Canadian French, the only other speech he could make any sense of. Yet he understood it had even spoken it, he realized.
"Vell, I didn't go because of bein' axed to go, you may be sure o' that, but my little dosser, Tim Lumpy, you remember 'im? The cove wi' the nose like a button, an' no body to speak of all legs an' arms, like a 'uman win'-mill; vell, you must know they've nabbed 'im, an' given 'im a rig-out o' noo slops, an' they're goin' to send 'im to Canada.
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