Sunnyside was under construction when Ponce first encountered Washington Irving. It was a cool, damp morning and Ponce's rough footwrappings were soaked through. He sniffed the remains of someone's morning breakfast fire and headed in it's general direction. Nose in the air, JP did not notice the legs splayed across his path and promptly tripped onto their owner, who was fast asleep. A tankard empty but still smelling strongly of ale clattered away from it's last user, who snored deeply uninterrupted by Ponce's sudden collision. Ponce righted himself and took a long look at this log of a man. Nudging him with his foot, Ponce took in the velvet waistcoat and linen shirt, still stiff but wrinkled and stained with the previous evenings repast. The man seemed abandoned in the muddy lane. As the Spaniard's wet toe was about to poke him for the fifth time, Washington Irving rolled over. "Tell me, sir, what day is it?"
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