And on this night, as always, the cloth bulged with his muscles, while the coat between the shoulders, what of the heavy shoulder-development, was a maze of wrinkles.

His neck was the neck of a prize-fighter,* thick and strong.
So this was the social philosopher and ex-horseshoer my father had discovered, was my thought.

And he certainly looked it with those bulging muscles and that bull-throat.

Immediately I classified him--a sort of prodigy, I thought, a Blind Tom** of the working class.
* In that day it was the custom of men to compete for purses of money.

They fought with their hands.