If he got into difficulties, he got out of them pretty easily: if he was in want of bread, which had been frequently the case, his friends at home knew nothing of it.

Beyond the regular new outfit, in the way of clothes, that his mother made for him each time that he returned home, he had never had anything from his parents, and resolutely refused it if offered.

Always cheerful, hopeful, in high spirits, open as the day, affectionate, and attractive, he was a welcome guest wherever he went.

Did he come home in rags, or as now, with a peep-show in his arms, or as once before, with a hurdy-gurdy and monkey, all his old friends made merry, and gave parties in his honour.
And whatever the state of his wardrobe or exchequer, he was sure to be in the fields the following day, reaping, hay-making, ploughing, sowing, or even milking, as either of these, or similar avocations, came in his way.

Nobody could be angry with him, and his father's lectures, and his brother's reasonings all melted away before the row of white teeth that he was for ever displaying in his joyous laughter.
Of middle height, athletic, sunburnt--with hands almost as brown as his merry brown eyes--with black, long, curly hair, a bushy beard, and plenty of whiskers, a bronze neck from which, in sailor fashion, the blue and white shirt-collar receded--and a broad forehead, showing all kinds of bumps, particularly those of locality over the bushy black eyebrows--Owen Prothero was as fine a type of an English sailor as could be found the broad seas over.
He was in the habit of falling desperately in love with at least one out of every five or six girls that came in his way, and of making frightful havoc in the hearts of females of all ranks and ages.