He was grave, too--seldom smiled, and rarely laughed.

His expression almost at all times was a compound of seriousness and good-humour.

With the rifle he was a good, steady shot, but by no means a "crack" one.

His ball never failed to _hit_, but it often failed to _kill_.
After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt again shook his head, and muttered to himself, "The boy's bold enough, but he's too reckless for a hunter.

There was no need for that yell, now--none at all." Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow step towards his own cottage.
Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to an attentive ear there was a faint echo of the _brogue_ in his tone, which seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and almost worn-out heirloom.
Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked.