Arrr, despite th' fog across th' road this mornin', I sped on toward a destination me hearties could nere've imagined: How blind me luck, t' be deliverin` three one good eye t' four lasses in th' infirmary 'ere a terrible accident had rendered each o' them sightless an' one o' them th' mother o' me only lad, th' future Puffin' Knight o' Curiously Circumstantial Happenings. T' such shame, she`d named th' lad with th' moniker o' Kip.

Gar, wot a morn.

Arr.

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