If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. 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. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. “Well anyhow—I don’t see the force of your objection, you know. "What say you to carrying her off, Captain?" suggested Blueskin.
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