I might as well be at Morningside Park. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. 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 manager stared at the empty doorway for a space, shrugged, and returned to his ledgers.
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