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Updated: June 5, 2025
At the same time, two heads were dimly visible above the parapet, and he was hailed by a guarded whistle. Something in its modulation recalled, like an echo, the whistle of the man with the chin-beard, Had he chanced upon a means of escape prepared beforehand by those very miscreants whose messenger and gull he had become?
Doubtless, he added, for he supposed that all men's minds must still be running on Teresa, 'you can divine my reason. At these words, the man with the chin-beard was seized with a palsied tremor. He seemed, for some seconds, to seek the utterance which his fear denied him; and then whipping sharply about, he took to his heels at the most furious speed of running.
Jones: a man of powerful figure, strong lineaments, and a chin-beard in the American fashion. This person was carrying on one shoulder a black portmanteau, seemingly of considerable weight.
Shaky swung a leg over the back of a chair and sat down with his arms folded across it, and his heavy bearded chin resting upon them. "But you can't expect a blind man to be the essence of amiability," said Tresler. "Think of his condition." "See here, young feller," jerked in Shaky, thrusting his chin-beard forward aggressively.
"Chin-beard an' all, Cap'n?" "Take it off take it off! 'Twas recommended to me against sore throat; but I never liked the thing nor the look of it." "Then there's one point, it seems, on which you an' your friend don't agree, sir?" The barber meant this facetiously, but Captain Cai considered it in all seriousness. "You're mistaken," he answered.
He wore a loosely-flapping cotton gown, confined at the waist by a belt that fairly bristled with knives and pistols, while a scarlet burnous was drawn over his head, affording a brilliant set-off to the glittering eyes, the tawny, shining skin, and the short chin-beard and mustache.
It is like some wild bewilderment in a farce, with one man wondering how a President could have a church-spire, and the other wondering how a church could have a chin-beard. And the moral is the moral on which I would insist everywhere in this book; that the remedy is to be found in disentangling the two and not in entangling them further.
It was half opened by a long, lanky man, with a scraggy chin-beard, who looked like the customary pictures of "Uncle Sam." "What is it?" he asked the travelers. There was a sound of voices within. Was it prudent to play the blind man once again? Or had this fellow heard of the excitement at the Peyton mansion?
So precisely it was with this strange child, unreal to me when she was real to everybody else. She had a name, a niche in the waking world. Marks, Greengrocer, was the inscription of the shop. She was Elsie Marks. Her father was a stout, florid man of maybe fifty years, with a chin-beard and light-blue eyes.
The Northern Lights was off to the east, and between her and Procyon was a fifth ship; turning the arm-mounted binoculars around, he could just make out, on her bow, the figure-head bust of a man in an ancient top-hat and a fringe of chin-beard. She was the Oom Paul Kruger, captured by the Procyon after a chase across the mountains north-east of Keegark the day before.
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