eyes blinked, and through his wicked rusty saw of a mouth, he started a flow of Gargantuan epithet and Nicotian lava—all accurately gauged—constant eruptions of which had stained the natural silver of his Oom Paul whiskers a sulphur yellow. But he was very diverting in his ugliness, and each epithet, grotesque gesture, and grimace was flavoured with a childlike yet diabolical air of gaminerie. He seemed immortal in his youth and wickedness, "too old," folks said, "and too ornery to die."
The term, "gentleman," stuck in his ancient craw, and thereon he was haranguing the man on the bunk, with unholy glee, spiced with malice—for the boy's benefit.
"What's yer idee, Swedie, uv a gentleman? How would yer define it? Now I affirm—havin' a prejoodice agin swearin'—that it's a thin-skinned, white-copussled shadder uv a man who cops all the swag, while us does all the dirty work."
The man on the bunk, who had been bending forward so that only the broad back and the bare biceps bulking large under the sleeveless undershirt, were heretofore visible, raised his head. It was bullet-shaped, covered with light hair, cropped short.
"Ay tank so," he muttered. But he was not so stupid as he seemed. The wide vacuous mouth looked harmless enough. But the eyes had the unpleasant shade of light blue, with the disquieting trick of immediately shifting when full-met, whether or not he was afraid of the gazer. Because of the perennial sanguineness of complexion, he was called "The Pink Swede."
