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Updated: June 17, 2025
I took off my coat and lent him a hand, and when he stopped to rest from his labours which was every five minutes, for he had no kind of physique he would mop his brow and rub his spectacles and declaim about the good smell of the earth and the joy of getting close to Nature. Once he looked at my big brown hands and muscular arms with a kind of wistfulness.
He took a corner chair, pushed back his hat until a mop of hair fell down his forehead, and began to roll a cigarette. The man of the tawny hair took the next seat. "Seems to be quite a party, stranger," said the tall fellow nonchalantly. "Sure," growled he of the black beard, and after a moment he added: "Been out on the trail long, pardner?" "Hardly started." "So'm I."
His eyes, under massively arched brows, were wide apart and black with the blackness that is barbaric, while before them was perpetually falling down a great black mop of hair through which he gazed like a roguish satyr from a thicket. He invariably wore a soft flannel shirt under his velvet-corduroy jacket, and his necktie was red.
"If there be any truth in the doctrine of metempsychosis," faltered Gentleman Waife, "if the great Newton could have transmigrated into that incomparable animal! Newton, Newton!" To that name Mop made no obeisance, but, evidently still restless, walked round the room, smelling at every corner, and turning to look back with inquisitive earnestness at his new master.
Perhaps his most striking feature was a mop of reddish-brown hair that overshadowed a little triangular white face accented by two reddish-brown quadrilaterals that served as eyebrows and a pair of inscrutable chipmunk eyes. For a moment he poised erect in the great calm of the public performer. Then slowly he began to revolve the log under his feet.
Captain Davenport yelled suddenly and with such force as to startle every man on board and to frighten the offender into a wild wail of terror. "Mr. Konig," the captain said in a voice that trembled with rage and nerves, "will you kindly step for'ard and stop that brat's mouth with a deck mop?" But it was McCoy who went forward, and in a few minutes had the boy comforted and asleep.
Both were over six feet, and thin as rails; Ashurst pale, idealistic, full of absence; Garton queer, round-the-corner, knotted, curly, like some primeval beast. Both had a literary bent; neither wore a hat. Ashurst's hair was smooth, pale, wavy, and had a way of rising on either side of his brow, as if always being flung back; Carton's was a kind of dark unfathomed mop.
He was not fond of games and never had he experienced a desire to win fame as a fighter. "Aw, let him alone, can't you, Mop?" said big Ben. "He ain't hurtin' you none." "Hurtin' me," cried Mop, who for some unaccountable reason had worked himself into a rage. "He couldn't hurt me if he tried. I could lick him on my knees with one hand behind my back.
This rag was of a fine, sooty-black color, and had a suggestion of oil about it as if it had been on duty in the engine-room. The youth grew warm, and used it also to mop his perspiring countenance. I ceased to inspect at that point, and went forward. Several black and white kids of an inquisitive turn of mind were resting under my steamer chair, which had been sent on board the day before.
Arthur and Norman, he found, believed in evolution and had read Spencer, though it did not seem to have made any vital impression upon them, while the young fellow with the glasses and the mop of hair, Will Olney, sneered disagreeably at Spencer and repeated the epigram, "There is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is his prophet."
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