He replied, \"Want to go sit down somewhere?\" \"Sure. Mr. That’s— that’s my private life. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. She pointed hither and yon, smiled and shook her head. "Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him. He speaks English. Poor Ben was not so fortunate.
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