"Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. Wood. ” He stood up with his legs parted in an inverted “V”, puffing up, trying to make himself look bigger. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. “You are an impostor. I had a vague sort of idea that this was the region where one finds apartments, so I told my cabman to drive in this direction while I sat inside his vehicle and endeavoured to form a plan of campaign. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. I suppose because it IS the chief thing in life.
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