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 environment 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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