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 natch my morel of bread from my mouth, the hard-earned fruit of my weat and toil? Alas! ruined man that I am for ever!’ He then underwent a furious paroxym of rage, and poured out all the abue he was mater of againt the pirit of the mountain: ‘Villain! coundrel! now thou haft taken away all I have in the world, come and throttle me.’ Indeed, at that intant, he had no more value for his life than for one of his broken glaes. Number-Nip, however, was no more to be een or heard.

The bankrupt Stephen unles he choe to carry his crate empty home, was fain to et about picking up the fragments, in order to exchange them for a couple of beer-glaes, at the glas-houe, towards raiing a new tock. Melancholy as a merchant whoe hip, with every thing on board, has been wallowed by the greedy ocean, he began to decend the mountain with a thouand dimal ideas, mingled however with various peculations, in what manner