And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way he stamped about when he got into the room.

He bore no grudge against Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been simply bound and gagged.

He did not wish to put his head in a halter.
There was no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the ground, and followed it himself.

That was the train of events as far as I can decipher them.

Of course as to his personal appearance he must be middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in such an oven as the Andamans.