The face was the bad image of my father's.

A lowered, and vicious, and ill-bred image of a noble countenance--such as it was just possible to dream that my dear father's might have fallen to, if his mind and soul had plunged away from the good inborn and implanted in them.

The figure was that of a tall strong man, with shoulders rather slouching, and a habit of keeping his head thrown back, which made a long chin look longer.

Altogether he seemed a perilous foe, and perhaps a friend still more perilous.
Be he what he might, he was working very hard.

Not one of all Uncle Sam's men, to my knowledge, least of all Martin, would have worked so hard.