"Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. "It was the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. She rolled to one side. 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.
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