There was only one decent thing which still clung to him in rags and tatters--the fact that he was a Frenchman.

He had made himself hated on the ship--having none of the cunning tact of Bucklaw.
As Phips and Bucklaw went below, a sudden devilry entered into him.

He was ripe for quarrel, eager for battle.

His two black eyes were like burning beads, his jaws twitched.

If Bucklaw had but met him without this rough, bloodless irony, he might have thrown himself with ardour into the work of the expedition; but he stood alone, and hatred and war rioted in him.
Below in the cabin Phips and Bucklaw were deep in the chart of the harbour and the river.