Jope's face fell again.
"Well-a-well! I dare say the size don't matter, once you've got the
knack. We've brought him along, anyway; and, what's more, we've made
him bring all his tools. By his talk, he reckons it to be a shavin'
job, and we agreed to wait before we undeceived him."
"But--you'll excuse me--I don't quite follow--"
Mr. Jope pressed a forefinger mysteriously to his lip, then jerked a
thumb in the direction of the river.
"If your Reverence wouldn' mind steppin' down to the creek with me?"
he suggested respectfully.
Parson Spettigew fetched his hat, and together the pair descended the
vale beneath the dropping petals of the cherry. At the foot of it
they came to a creek, which the tide at this hour had flooded and
almost overbrimmed. Hard by the water's edge, backed by tall elms,
stood a dilapidated fish-store, and below it lay a boat with nose
aground on a beach of flat stones. Two men were in the boat.
The barber--a slip of a fellow in rusty top-hat and suit of rusty
black--sat in the stern-sheets face to face with a large cask; a cask
so ample that, to find room for his knees, he was forced to crook
them at a high, uncomfortable angle.
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