She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. He was in a position to help her. 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. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. He's young and sound.
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