As he walked along the line, making a suggestion here, pulling on a shoulder-rope there, he looked staunch and strong as any man might wish to be.

His face was burnt so brown that eyebrows and moustache stood out almost blonde, though in reality they were only brown.

His eyes did not seem to be suffering from the heaviness noticeable in others; altogether, the climate and the mystic breath of the Simiacine grove did not appear to affect him as it did his companions.

This was probably accounted for by the fact that, being chief of the hunters, most of his days had been passed on the lower slopes in search of game.
To him came presently Jack Meredith--the same gentle-mannered man, with an incongruously brown face and quick eyes seeing all.

It is not, after all, the life that makes the man.