He was very tall, very stout, exceedingly red-faced.
Any budding medico who understood the pre-eminence enjoyed by _aq.
ad_ in a prescription, would have diagnosed him as a first-rate subject for apoplexy.
Producing a tremendous telescope, he vainly endeavored to balance it on the shoulder of a native servant.
"Can't you stand still, you blithering idiot!" he shouted, after futile attempts to focus the advancing boat, "or shall I steady you by a clout over the ear ?" His companion, the army man, was looking through a pair of field-glasses.
"By Jove!" he cried, "I can see Sir Arthur Deane, and a girl who looks like his daughter.

There's that infernal scamp, Ventnor, too." The big man brushed the servant out of his way, and brandished the telescope as though it were a bludgeon.
"The dirty beggar! He drove my lad to misery and death, yet he has come back safe and sound.

Wait till I meet him.

I'll--" "Now, Anstruther! Remember your promise.

I will deal with Lord Ventnor.
My vengeance has first claim.