Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. "And Jack?" "Gone too," sobbed his daughter. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. The blow was scarcely dealt, when, with a bound like that of a tiger, Blueskin sprang upon him.
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