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The abrupt transition from the noise and light of the Square to the silent, gloomy brick room in the rear of the Meat Market seemed like the work of enchantment. We stared at each other, aghast. "Well," remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly smile, "this is a go!" "No go, I should say," whimpered Harry Blake, glancing at the bare brick walls and the heavy ironplated door.
Improperly "cured," it was strong and rancid, or, occasionally, so near a condition of putrefaction that the stench from it offended the nostrils of the whole camp. Some times it was full of "skippers," that tunneled their way through and through it, and grew fat with riotous living. Si drew the line at this point. He had an ironplated stomach, but putrid and maggoty meat was too much for it.
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