Rob Harlow's Adventures - George Manville Fenn - Bog

"Don't they bite, sir?" "Bite?" Smick! smack! flap! "Oh, murder!" "What's the matter, sir?" "My hand." "Hurt it, sir?" "I should think I have." "You should wait till they've sucked 'emselves full and then hit 'em; they're lazy then. Too quick for you now." "The wretches! I shall be spotted all over, like a currant dumpling. I say, Shaddy, do they always bite like this?" "Well, yes, sir," said the man addressed, about as ugly a specimen of humanity as could be met in a day's march, for he had only one eye, and beneath that a peculiar, puckered scar extending down to the corner of his mouth, shaggy short hair, neither black nor grey-a kind of pepper-and-salt colour-yellow teeth in a very large mouth, and a skin so dark and hairy that he looked like some kind of savage, dressed in a pair of canvas trousers and a shirt that had once been scarlet, but was now stained, faded, and rubbed into a neutral grub or warm earthy tint. He wore no braces, but a kind of belt of what seemed to be snake or lizard skin, fastened with either a silver or pewter buckle.