I opened the collar of my shirt--it was a vulgar blue-and-white check such as ploughmen wear--and revealed a neck as brown as any tinker's.

I rolled up my sleeves, and there was a forearm which might have been a blacksmith's, sunburnt and rough with old scars.

I got my boots and trouser-legs all white from the dust of the road, and hitched up my trousers, tying them with string below the knee.

Then I set to work on my face.

With a handful of dust I made a water-mark round my neck, the place where Mr Turnbull's Sunday ablutions might be expected to stop.