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I told our ex-tailor, "There are drawings of this somewhere." He made enquiries and sure enough the drawings were found; there was one snag however, he couldn't read a drawing and I had to explain. The work was not finished by our shift and the next day another fatigue party had the pleasure of swinging the picks and shovelling.
Oh, just one evening—surely one evening. Well, perhaps— To-night, then? No, not to-night. To-morrow night? No, no night this week or next week, but perhaps week after next. Ah, that is so long, so long! There was no earthly way to get to the stairs or elevators except by his stove. I came to dread it. Always the Spanish ex-tailor dropped everything with a clatter and chased after me.
Also it was furnished after a fashion, and was more or less clean. This prisoner was none other than Dirk van Goorl, who had been neatly captured as he returned towards his house after making certain arrangements for the flight of his family, and hurried away to the gaol. On that morning Dirk also had been put upon his trial before the squeaky-voiced and agitated ex-tailor.
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