Well, buy one of them--they were invented here--and carry it to some dismal cavern, where the foot of man never treads: make Cheetham grind your blades in another county: and who will ever know?
Go to him, and don't say a word, but just ask him for your month's salary.

Then he will open the door of business himself--safe.
I'll drink his health.

He's not a bad sort, Cheetham: only he'd sell his soul for money.

I hate such rubbish.

Here's 'Perdition to the lot; and no heel-taps.'" These words of fire set Henry pondering deeply; and, as he pondered, Bayne stuck to the port, and so effectually, that, at last, after an interval of silence, he came out in a new character.