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Roylsden #348

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As he leftt the kitchen, carefully carrying the tray close to his body in front of him, a faint smile played around his lips. It reminded him of when he was much younger, eight or nine years old maybe, he'd earn himself twenty cents on a Saturday fetching and carrying at the Waterhole Saloon. Many times he'd be taking trays of food or drink, or empty plates or glasses between the Saloon's kitchen and the tables.
He'd work until just before sundown, no later, that was his Ma's firm instruction. If he wasn't home by dark, he'd be for it.

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