Indeed, Sir Henry's girth is so great that, though he is six feet two high, he does not strike one as a tall man.

As I looked at him I could not help thinking what a curious contrast my little dried-up self presented to his grand face and form.

Imagine to yourself a small, withered, yellow-faced man of sixty-three, with thin hands, large brown eyes, a head of grizzled hair cut short and standing up like a half-worn scrubbing-brush -- total weight in my clothes, nine stone six -- and you will get a very fair idea of Allan Quatermain, commonly called Hunter Quatermain, or by the natives 'Macumazahn' -- Anglic/CHAR: e grave/, he who keeps a bright look-out at night, or, in vulgar English, a sharp fellow who is not to be taken in.
Then there was Good, who is not like either of us, being short, dark, stout -- _very_ stout -- with twinkling black eyes, in one of which an eyeglass is everlastingly fixed.

I say stout, but it is a mild term; I regret to state that of late years Good has been running to fat in a most disgraceful way.

Sir Henry tells him that it comes from idleness and over-feeding, and Good does not like it at all, though he cannot deny it.
We sat for a while, and then I got a match and lit the lamp that stood ready on the table, for the half-light began to grow dreary, as it is apt to do when one has a short week ago buried the hope of one's life.