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'Have you seen my new book?; or, 'I noticed you published that article of mine yesterday! Presently I found myself in open, scrub-covered country, and singing, quite loudly, the old sailor's doggerel about its being a braw thing to be a 'clairk in an orfiss'; my real thought being that it was a braw thing to be Nicholas Freydon, a clerk in an office, who was very soon to be something quite otherwise.
As I realised this I smiled down as from a great height upon a recollection of the chorus of a Scots ditty sung by a sailor on board the Ariadne. I have no notion of how to spell the words, but they ran somewhat in this wise: 'Wi' a Hi heu honal, an' a honal heu hi, Comelachie, Ecclefechan, Ochtermochty an' Mulgye, Wi' a Hi heu honal, an' a honal heu hi, It's a braw thing a clairk in an orfiss.
Let out yer main-suls, reef hum the forecastle & throw yer jib-poop over-board! I can't possibly look at it now. Indeed, I can't. It's onpossible, sir!" "Mr. Linkin, who do you spect I air?" sed I. "A orfice-seeker, to be sure," sed he. "Wall, sir," sed I, "you's never more mistaken in your life. You hain't gut a orfiss I'd take under no circumstances. I'm A. Ward. Wax figgers is my perfeshun.
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