Laughing Gas

It was a harsh, rasping voice, in its timbre not unlike a sawmill.

I shuddered from stem to stern, as stout barks do when buffeted by the waves.

If Eggy wanted to get spliced, let him, was the way I looked at it. Marriage might improve him. It was difficult to think of anything that wouldn’t.

'Didn't Frankenstein get married?'

'Did he?' said Eggy. 'I don't know. I never met him. Harrow man, I expect.'