Холодный дом

Sharpshooters

           Itwasn’tmuchofabeatroundSaffronHill,HattonGarden,Clerkenwell,Smiffeld,andtherepoorneighbourhood,wheretheyusesupthekettlestillthey’repastmending.Mostofthetrampingtinkersusedtocomeandlodgeatourplace;thatwasthebestpartofmymaster’searnings.Buttheydidn’tcometome.Iwarn’tlikehim.Hecouldsing’emagoodsong.Icouldn’t!Hecouldplay’ematuneonanysortofpotyouplease,soasitwasironorblocktin.Inevercoulddonothingwithapotbutmenditorbileitneverhadanoteofmusicinme.Besides,Iwastooill-looking,andtheirwivescomplainedofme.""Theyweremightyparticular.Youwouldpassmusterinacrowd,Phil!"saysthetrooperwithapleasantsmile."No,guv’ner,"returnsPhil,shakinghishead."No,Ishouldn’t.IwaspassableenoughwhenIwentwiththetinker,thoughnothingtoboastofthen;butwhatwithblowingthefirewithmymouthwhenIwasyoung,andspileingmycomplexion,andsingeingmyhairoff,andswalleringthesmoke,andwhatwithbeingnat’rallyunfort’nateinthewayofrunningagainsthotmetalandmarkingmyselfbysichmeans,andwhatwithhavingturn-upswiththetinkerasIgotolder,almostwheneverhewastoofargoneindrinkwhichwasalmostalwaysmybeautywasqueer,weryqueer,evenatthattime.

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