Jostling them almost to falling.
There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands.
Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands.
He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below:
Let her go!
Bang! Bang! Pound!
The dog-shores fall to the ground,
And the ship slides down the greased planking.
A splintering of glass,
And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers.
Success to his Majestys ship, the Bellerophon!
And the red wine washes away in the waters of the Medway.
II
Paris, March, 1814
Fine yellow sunlight down the rue du Mont Thabor.
Ten oclock striking from all the clock-towers of Paris.
Over the door of a shop, in gilt letters:
Martin -- Parfumeur, and something more.
A large gilded wooden something.
Listen! What a ringing of hammers!
Tap!
Tap!
Squeak!
Tap! Squeak! Tap-a-tap!
Blaise.
Oui, Msieu.
Dont touch the letters. My name stays.
Bien, Msieu.
Just take down the eagle, and the shield with the bees.
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