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"What are you doing in Brooklyn?" Dick turned quickly, to find himself confronted by a tall, heavy-set youth, dressed in a business suit. "Dan Baxter!" he cried. "How are you?" and he shook hands. As my old readers well know, Dan Baxter was an old acquaintance of the Rover boys. When at Putnam Hall he had been a great bully, and had tried more than once to get the best of our heroes.
Two of my classmates were a grizzly, heavy-set man and his sixteen-year-old son, both trying to learn English after a long day's work. On one occasion, when it was the boy's turn to read and he said "bat" for "bath," the teacher bellowed, imperiously: "Stick out the tip of your tongue! This way." The boy tried, and failed
Have you talked over the Laird matter with him?" "Yes. He's for Laird." "Stick to Edmonds, Banneker. You can't find a better guide." There was desultory talk until the caller got up to go. As they shook hands, Enderby said: "Has any one been tracking you lately?" "No. Not that I've noticed." "There was a fellow lurking suspiciously outside; heavy-set, dark clothes, soft hat.
The one facing him was Tommie, the cook; the other was an awkward heavy-set fellow, whom he knew for the man he wanted, even before the scarred, villainous face was twisted toward him. Struve leaped instantly to his feet, overturning his chair in his haste. He had not met the big Norseman since the night he had attempted to hang Fraser. "Ay bane not shoot yuh now," Siegfried told him.
Must have been one of these heavy-set sports in his day, a good feeder, and a consistent drinker; but by the flabby dewlaps and the meal-bag way his clothes hang on him I judge he's slumped quite a lot. Still, he's kind of a dignified, impressive old ruin, which makes the contrast with the other half of the sketch all the more startlin'.
The bandit was a stranger to him, a heavy-set, bandy-legged fellow of about forty-five, with a leathery face and eyes as stony as those of a snake. "What do you want?" the bank officer asked quietly. "Your gold and notes. Is the safe open?" Before the cashier could reply a shot rang out.
Rock was disgusted, but his next question elicited information that cheered him. Yes, a pair of strangers had just passed through, one of them an active, heavy-set fellow, the other a tall, dark, sinister man with black eyes and a stormy demeanor. They had come fast and they had tarried only long enough to feed their dogs and to make some inquiries.
The man was a heavy-set, bowlegged fellow of about forty, hard-faced, and shifty-eyed a frontier miscreant, unless every line of the tough, leathery countenance told a falsehood. But he had made his experiment and failed. He knew what manner of man his captor was, and he had no mind for another lesson from him.
He was smiling over his shoulder at the next rider in line, a heavy-set, squat figure on a round-bellied pinto. That smile was to go out presently like the flame of a blown candle. A third Mescalero followed. Like that of the others, his coarse, black hair fell to the shoulders, free except for a band that encircled the forehead. Still the boy did not fire.
There was a stir in the bushes above their heads, and an elderly scout peered down upon them, rifle in hand. "Hullo, Jack Rasco, wot's the best word? Whar is Pawnee Brown?" "Dan Gilbert!" cried Rasco. "Come down, Pawnee ought to be somewhere about here." In a moment more Dan Gilbert, a heavy-set, pleasant-looking frontiersman, stood among them. A hasty consultation immediately followed.
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