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Updated: June 28, 2025
I lived to construct quite a decent traveling oilcan for a Eureka sawmill, but such triumphs come through mental anguish and burned fingers. No doubt the experience extended my desultory education. The taking over of the tinshop was doubly disappointing, since I really wanted to go into the office of the Northern Californian and become a printer and journalist.
The squalid scene composed itself around him; the common accents, the burning gas-jets in the shops, odours of fish and spirits and wet sawdust, moving men and women. An old woman was about to cross the street, an oilcan in her hand. He bent down and asked her was there a chapel near. A chapel, sir? Yes, sir. Church Street chapel. Church?
The boys watched in silence while the man caught a dozen crabs, then picked one from the bait and flipped it into the water. "Too small, I guess," Rick commented. "Must be. Where does the line go?" Rick pointed. A gallon oilcan, painted blue and white, bobbed gently in the creek. "That's where he's heading." The crabber approached the can, then flipped the line off the roller.
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