"I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay. Its shouting now did in some occult manner convey a protest that Mr. 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. Everybody breathed a collective sigh of relief in the neighborhood, no one wanted to see how those kids would grow up. I don’t believe any one could have traced us here.
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