\"His name is John Diedermayer. ” They clambered down the hill together. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate.
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