"
"Would you, Miss?" said I, "well, then, you shall have one, for I have
a copy on board I believe, and I shall be only too proud if you will
read it to remember me by. But my best stories ain't in my books.
Somehow or another, when I want them they won't come, and at other
times when I get a goin talkin, I can string them together like
onions, one after the other, till the twine is out. I have a heap of
them, but they are all mixed and confused like in my mind, and it
seems as if I never could find the one I need. Do you work in worsted,
Miss?"
"Well, a little," sais she. "It is only town-bred girls, who have
nothing to attend to but their dress and to go to balls, that have
leisure to amuse themselves that way; but I can work a little, though
I could never do anything fit to be seen or examined."
"I shouldn't wonder," said I, and I paused, and she looked as if she
didn't over half like my taking her at her word that way. "I shouldn't
wonder," said I, "for I am sure your eyes would fade the colour out of
the worsted."
"Why, Mr Slick," said she, drawing herself up a bit, "what nonsense
you do talk, what a quiz you be."
"Fact," sais I, "Miss, I assure you, never try it again, you will be
sure to spoil it. But as I was a sayin, Miss, when you see a thread of
a particular colour, you know whether you have any more like it or
not, so when a man tells me a story, I know whether I have one of the
same kind to match it or not, and if so, I know where to lay my hand
on it; but I must have a clue to my yarns.
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