CHAPTER LIII.
FARMING IN POLYNESIA THE planters were both whole-souled fellows; but, in other respects, as unlike as possible.
One was a tall, robust Yankee, hern in the backwoods of Maine, sallow, and with a long face;--the other was a short little Cockney, who had first clapped his eyes on the Monument.
The voice of Zeke, the Yankee, had a twang like a cracked viol; and Shorty (as his comrade called him), clipped the aspirate from every word beginning with one.

The latter, though not the tallest man in the world, was a good-looking young fellow of twenty-five.

His cheeks were dyed with the fine Saxon red, burned deeper from his roving life: his blue eye opened well, and a profusion of fair hair curled over a well-shaped head.
But Zeke was no beauty.

A strong, ugly man, he was well adapted for manual labour; and that was all.

His eyes were made to see with, and not for ogling.