I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. Twice he cleaned the old briar; still there was no improvement. I was helpless. But I must, they say, and try to make me with the punishments.
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