I saw that the bulging muscles of his
calves had driven the wrinkles of his butternut trousers close up under
the knee-joint and that those of his thighs had rounded out the coarse
cloth from the knee to the hip. The spread of his shoulders had
performed a like service for his shirt, which was stretched out of shape
over the chest and back. This was crossed by but one suspender, and was
open at the throat--a tree-trunk of a throat, with all the cords
supporting the head firmly planted in the shoulders. The arms were long
and had the curved movement of the tentacles of a devil-fish. The hands
were big and bony, the fingers knotted together with knuckles of iron.
He wore no collar nor any coat; nor did he bring one with him, so the
Warden said.
I had begun my inventory at his feet as he stood gazing sullenly at us,
his great red hands tightly clasped around the bars. When in my
inspection I passed from his open collar up his tree-trunk of a throat
to his chin, and then to his face, half-shaded by a big slouch hat,
which rested on his flaring ears, and at last looked into his eyes, a
slight shock of surprise went through me.
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