Mr.Abraham Mollett was perhaps some thirty years of age, or rather more.

He was a very smart man, with a profusion of dark, much-oiled hair, with dark, copious mustachoes--and mustachoes being then not common as they are now, added to his otherwise rakish, vulgar appearance--with various rings on his not well-washed hands, with a frilled front to his not lately washed shirt, with a velvet collar to his coat, and patent-leather boots upon his feet.
Free living had told more upon him, young as he was, than upon his father.

His face was not yet pimply, but it was red and bloated; his eyes were bloodshot and protruding; his hand on a morning was unsteady; and his passion for brandy was stronger than that for beefsteaks; whereas his father's appetite for solid food had never flagged.

Those who were intimate with the family, and were observant of men, were wont to remark that the son would never fill the father's shoes.

These family friends, I may perhaps add, were generally markers at billiard-tables, head grooms at race-courses, or other men of that sharp, discerning class.