Imagine the soul of a Bald Eagle in the body of a Poland China sow and you begin to have some idea of Fatty Matthews.

Fat filled his boots as with water and he made a "squnching" sound when he walked; fat rolled along his jowls; fat made his very forehead flabby; fat almost buried his eyes.

But nothing could conceal the hawk-line of his nose or the gleam of those half-buried eyes.

His hair was short-cropped, grey, and stood on end like bristles, and he was in the habit of using his panting breath in humming--for that concealed the puffing.

So Fatty Matthews came through the doors and his little, concealed eyes darted from face to face.