Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. “Don’t you care for Mr. '—'They can't,' says I. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. I'll tell you what. Thames Darrell, I've said, is at Mr. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man.
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