A greedy-eyed man stood in the doorway, his hands in his trouser-pockets.

He looked with contemptuous scrutiny at the bare-footed lad approaching him.

He had black hair and black eyes; his nose looked as if a heavy finger had settled upon its point, and pressed it downwards: its nostrils swelled wide beyond their base; underneath was a big mouth with a good set of teeth, and a strong upturning chin--an ambitious and greedy face.

But ambition is a form of greed.
"A fine day, landlord!" said Donal.
"Ay," answered the man, without changing the posture of one taking his ease against his own door-post, or removing his hands from his pockets, but looking Donal up and down with conscious superiority, then resting his eyes on the bare feet and upturned trousers.
"This'll be the Morven Arms, I'm thinkin' ?" said Donal.
"It taksna muckle thoucht to think that," returned the inn-keeper, "whan there they hing!" "Ay," rejoined Donal, glancing up; "there is something there--an' it's airms I doobtna; but it's no a'body has the preevilege o' a knowledge o' heraldry like yersel', lan'lord! I'm b'un' to confess, for what I ken they micht be the airms o' ony ane o' ten score Scots faimilies." There was one weapon with which John Glumm was assailable, and that was ridicule: with all his self-sufficiency he stood in terror of it--and the more covert the ridicule, so long as he suspected it, the more he resented as well as dreaded it.

He stepped into the street, and taking a hand from a pocket, pointed up to the sign.
"See til't!" he said.