His sword lay on the turf beside him, and a hat of soft cloth edged with feathers hung on the arm of the bench.
This long gentleman looked up as the gate clicked, stretched out his legs, rose, and disappeared within the pavilion, returning after a minute with a jug of beer and a fresh tankard.
"Paid off your crew already ?" The little hunchback took a pull, answered "No" as he set down the tankard, and looked up at the weathercock overhead.
"Wind's in the south-east." The long man looked at the little one and pursed up his mouth.
His face proclaimed him of a like age with Captain Barker.
It did not at all match his figure, being short as a bull-dog's; and like a bull-dog he was heavily jowled.

Many weathers had tanned his complexion to a rich corn-colour.

His name was Jeremy Runacles, and for two years, that had ended on this very morning, he had commanded the _Trident_ frigate.

As he climbed down her ladder into his gig he had left on the deck behind him a reputation for possessing a shorter temper than any three officers in his Majesty's service.

At present his steel-blue eyes seemed gentle enough.
"You've something to tell," he said, after a minute's silence.
The hunchback kicked at a plantain in the turf for two minutes longer, and asked-- "How's the little maid, Jemmy ?" "Grown.