XXXIV 



OF AN ONLY CHUB 



THIS morning, on my_way to the water, I met 

 James, son of Joe, aged eighteen, gardener, 

 coachman, boot-cleaner, knife-polisher, chicken- 

 master, duck -expert, bacon -raiser, dog -herd, 

 glazier, locksmith, and joiner, to my friend 

 Slattery. James, son of Joe, reminds me of a 

 certain knife which I never owned. It was sold 

 over my head out of its shop-window so splendid 

 was this knife that it seemed to possess its environ- 

 ment as certain men seem to possess the hotels 

 and railway carriages in which they magnificently 

 dine or superbly sit it was sold, I say, over my 

 head, by the mercenery brute King was his 

 name, a vile name of whose stock it was the 

 glory, to some person or persons (probably a 

 syndicate) furnished with the impossible sum of 

 money which was marked upon it. That knife 

 was suitable for everything. The Pioneer was its 

 name. It would open champagne bottles (I have 

 often handled it), it would draw corks, it would 

 clean, ay ! and file finger-nails. It had, cunningly 



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