During this conversation, Patching was secretly studying the effect of
the swamp, visible from the eastern windows; and Marcus was looking at
the cracked wall in a fit of abstraction.
Tiffles had observed several times, that morning, a youth, or man, of
singular aspect, following him. Occasionally, on turning around
suddenly, he would see this person at his elbow. Looking behind, at the
close of the colloquy with the landlord, he again saw the strange youth,
or man. The being was nearly six feet high, and powerfully built, like a
strong man of twenty-five. His face was childish even to the degree of
silliness. The mouth opened like a flytrap; the eyes were small and
intensely guileless. Only a few wrinkles, and a few hairs, which grew
wide apart on his cheeks and chin, indicated his manhood. But the oddest
feature was the falling away of his forehead, at an angle which a dirty
greased cap, pulled over his brow, could not conceal.
"Well, sir, what do you want?" said Tiffles.
"If you please, sir," said the singular being, in a cracked voice, "yure
the pannyrarmer, a'n't ye?"
"Not exactly, my lad, but I own it.
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