Between rheumatism and constant handling the rod and gun, his fingers were crooked like a hawk's claws.

He kept his left eye always shut, apparently to save trouble in shooting; and squinted, and sniffed, and peered, with a stooping back and protruded chin, as if he were perpetually on the watch for fish, flesh, and fowl, vermin and Christian.

The friendship between himself and the Scotch terrier at his heels would have been easily explained by Lessing, for in the transmigration of souls the spirit of Harry Verney had evidently once animated a dog of that breed.

He was dressed in a huge thick fustian jacket, scratched, stained, and patched, with bulging, greasy pockets; a cast of flies round a battered hat, riddled with shot-holes, a dog- whistle at his button-hole, and an old gun cut short over his arm, bespoke his business.
'I seed that 'ere Crawy against Ashy Down Plantations last night, I'll be sworn,' said he, in a squeaking, sneaking tone.
'Well, what harm was the man doing ?' 'Oh, ay, that's the way you young 'uns talk.

If he warn't doing mischief, he'd a been glad to have been doing it, I'll warrant.