He could not have it in his heart to take credit for his success; it would have been like sneering over their poor graves.
Jeremiah Madden was now fifty-three--a little man of a reddened, weather-worn skin and a meditative, almost saddened, aspect.

He had blue eyes, but his scanty iron-gray hair showed raven black in its shadows.
The width and prominence of his cheek-bones dominated all one's recollections of his face.

The long vertical upper-lip and irregular teeth made, in repose, an unshapely mouth; its smile, though, sweetened the whole countenance.

He wore a fringe of stiff, steel-colored beard, passing from ear to ear under his chin.

His week-day clothes were as simple as his workaday manners, fitting his short black pipe and his steadfast devotion to his business.