He had no collar nor tie, his vest was open, his hair matted, and his face mottled, like a man who has drunk heavily overnight.

He carried an ash stick, and he slashed at the whin-bushes on either side of the path.
"Why, Jim!" said I.
But he looked at me in the way that I had often seen at school when the devil was strong in him, and when he knew that he was in the wrong, and yet set his will to brazen it out.

Not a word did he say, but he brushed past me on the narrow path and swaggered on, still brandishing his ash-plant and cutting at the bushes.
Ah well, I was not angry with him.

I was sorry, very sorry, and that was all.

Of course I was not so blind but that I could see how the matter stood.