Thomas Kinkade Lakeside ManorThomas Kinkade cottage by the seaThomas Kinkade almost heaven
The last of Mort's fellow hopefuls had vanished hours ago. He was a wall-eyed young man with a stoop and a running nose, and Sheepridge's one licensed beggar had pronounced him to be ideal aterial. The lad on the other side of Mort had gone off to be a toymaker. One by one they had trooped off – the masons, the farriers, the assassins, the mercers, coopers, hoodwinkers and ploughmen. In a few minutes it would be the new year and a hundred boys would be lives of useful service rolling out in front of them.
Mort wondered miserably why he hadn't been picked. He'd tried to look respectable, and had looked all prospective masters squarely in the eye to impress them with his excellent nature and extremely likeable qualities. This didn't seem to have the right effect.
'Would you like a hot meat pie?' said his father.
'No.'
'He's selling'No. But thanks all the same.'
'Oh.' Lezek deflated a little. He danced about a bit to stamp some life back into his feet, and whistled a few tuneless bars between his teeth. He felt he ought to say something, to offer some kind of advice, to point out thatI expect. He's gone now, anyway. Tell you what, I'll save you a bit of mine.''I don't actually feel very hungry, dad.''There's hardly any gristle.'
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