It was a real figure of the river, buoyant, daring, almost vicious.

The head was bare; there were plain gold rings in the ears; and the stark, half-malevolent eyes looked out, as though searching for a jam of logs or some peril of the river.

In the horny right hand was a defiant pike-pole, its handle thrust forward, its steel spike stabbing the ground.
At first glance, Carnac saw that John Grier was getting worn and old.
The eyes were not so flashing as they once were; the lips were curled in a half-cynical mood.

The old look of activity was fading; something vital had struck soul and body.

He had had a great year.