A chap named Eleazir Kendrick and I had chummed in together the summer afore and built a fish-weir and shanty at Setuckit Point, down Orham way. For a spell we done pretty well.
‘No. I only opened the door a foot and put my head in. The street lamps shine into that room. I could see him. He was all right. Sleeping like a great grampus. Poor, poor chap.’
Who’s that chap over there?
If you want to sell, here is your chap.
Then would unbalanced heat licentious reign, / Crack the dry hill, and chap the russet plain.
Nor winter's blast chap her fair face.
The door was shut into my class. I had to chap it and then Miss Rankine came and opened it and gived me an angry look [...].
Many clefts and chaps in our council board.
This wide-chapp'd rascal—would thou might'st lie drowning / The washing of ten tides!