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small bag into his big bag. There was never very much, bits of bread, egg –shells,
old papers perhaps, some dust from the floor.
I never asked him his name, and he never asked me mine.
One day I got a letter from my mother. “Come home”, she wrote. “Your father
is ill. He wants to see you before ”
The next morning the dustman came with his bag. We shook hands and talked. I
emptied my bag into his. Then I said, “I must leave this cottage today. My father
is ill and wants to see me. Come inside for a minute ”
He said, “God will be kind to your father:”
I said, “God’s kindness is great. Look, I have these few things. “ I pointed
to my bed, the small table, an old cooker “I can’t take them with me in the bus.
Will you have them?”
He said, “God puts kindness into his children.”
My fishing-rod was behind the door. “Take the rod too,” I said, and I put
it on the bed.
We carried the things outside.
He said, “I’ll hold the rod every day. It will be your hand.”
I left the place on the afternoon bus.