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I was eleven years old when Jack Folsom came into my life. It seemed like any ordinary day. I came home from school, dumped my bag and headed for the yabby-hole with a string line and some bait.
The yabby-hole was my favourite place because I used to go there with my Dad until he went down to Melbourne two years before and got run over and killed.
The hole was about eighteen feet across and lay just over the rim of a low hill that rose in a long gentle slope from the side of our fatal I always fished from the opposite side of the hole because about nine inches below its edge, at water level, a wide flat rock jutted out. You could put your feet on it ...