His clothes were too fine, despite their tawdriness, his sword hilt too much in evidence.

What could be seen of his dark face, the upper half of which his slouched hat concealed, was rather that of a fighter than of a writer.

The landlord summed up the signs of a swashbuckler and approached him deferentially.
"Good evenin', sir.

What's your pleasure ?" The stranger cast a rapid glance over the revellers sitting round the long, narrow table before he replied.
"Half a pint of gin, landlord," said he, in the deep, husky voice of Captain Jeremy Rofflash, and he strode towards the chimney corner of one of the settles, whence he could see the noisy party of drinkers and not be seen himself very well.
The landlord brought the gin in a pewter pot and set it down on a ledge fixed to the chimney jamb.
"See here, landlord," growled Rofflash, "d'ye know Mr.Jarvis ?" "Sure, sir; 'tis he yonder with the lantern-jawed phizog." "Aye.

Watch your chance when he's not talking to the rest and bid him look where I'm sitting.