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She said it so quietly and decisively, standing motionless, that Lippity-Libby, coming around the corner of the lane with paste-pot and brush, and with a roll of bills tucked in his armpit, mistook the group for a chance collection of cheerful gossips.
Some weeks after the conviction of the seven hundred Pyrotists, a little, gruff, hairy, short-sighted man left his house one morning with a paste-pot, a ladder, and a bundle of posters and went about the streets pasting placards to the walls on which might be read in large letters: Pyrot is innocent, Maubec is guilty.
A butcher's boy knocked Colomban with his paste-pot, his brush, and his posters, from the top of his ladder into the gutter, and the proud Penguins then felt the greatness of their country. Colomban stood up, covered with filth, lame, and with his elbow injured, but tranquil and resolute. "Low brutes," he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.
I had not become a master in any handicraft, but I had learned with paste-pot and knife, saw, plane, and chisel nay, even axe and handspike what manual labour meant and how to use my hands.
They, stand with their backs to the firers, comfortably conscious of several feet of earth and a stout brick wall, between them and low shooters. Number one squats down, paste-pot in hand, and repairs the bullet-holes in the unemployed target with patches of black or white paper.
Then he put one hand to his forehead as if in meditation, and staggered off into a drawer, coming out presently with his arm around another cockroach, and he took him to the paste-pot, and he filled up, too, and then they locked arms and paraded up and down on the green cloth of the desk, as though singing, "We won't go home till morning," and they kicked over the steel pens, and acted a good deal like politicians after a caucus.
'Mother, I says, 'if you got anybody on your mind that you neglected t' send picture postals to, now's' your last chance. 'F I got to die I'm going out with m' scissors in one mitt, and m' trusty paste-pot by m' side! An' we hits it up for old Milwaukee. I ain't been away since, except w'en I was out with the ball team, sending in sportin' extry dope for the pink sheet.
This he bent over so as to make it into something resembling the cover of a book, then cut a lining of white unruled foolscap for this improvised cover, and taking out his paste-pot, fitted it neatly to the inside. Next he clipped up a length of linen tape and by means of wafers attached eight pieces of it as ties to the top, bottom, and sides.
"His name's Davit Curly. Ou, a crittur fu' o' maggots, an' nae great match, for he's juist the Tilliedrum bill-sticker." "Tibbie," Hendry explained to me, "is a terrible vain tid, an' doesna think the bill-stickin' genteel. Ay, they say 'at if she meets Davit in the street wi' his paste-pot an' the brush in his hands she pretends no to ken 'im."
No one dreams of moving it. There it dangles, out at elbows, disreputable, its pockets burned from many a hot pipe thrust carelessly into them, its cuffs frayed, its lapels bearing the marks of cigarette, paste-pot and pen. It is that faded old garment, more than anything else, which makes us fail to realize that its owner will never again slip into its comfortable folds.
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