Henshaw was very old.

He was always so erect and carried his chin so high that the loose skin of his throat hung in two sharp ridges.

In spite of the tight-lipped mouth, the beaklike nose, and the small, gleaming eyes, there was something about his face which intensified his age.

Perhaps it was the yellow skin, dry as the parchment from an Egyptian tomb and criss-crossed by a myriad little wrinkles.
"And you, sir ?" he said to the Irishman.
"One of my crew," broke in McTee carelessly.

"He'll be quite contented in the forecastle.