It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to. "He's dead," exclaimed Austin. "Plague on't!" added he: "I never meant to take your babby from you. 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. The Bitchster strikes again. Sheppard.
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