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Updated: June 22, 2025
Eyes sullen and fierce, he rose and followed. Down the hill, where a creek gurgled, the man with the gun turned. He was hard-jawed, pale-eyed. The boy and woman stopped. "Shut up!" he said. The crying stopped; the convulsive sobs went on. "Shut up!" A few steps the dog rushed forward, hair risen all the way down his back. Then he sank down on the ground.
A man, tall, lean, pale-eyed, came down the platform toward him. "Some beauty here, Mr. Larsen," said the station agent. "Yes," drawled Larsen in a meditative, sanctimonious voice. "Pretty to the eye, but he looks scared er timid." "Of course he's scared!" protested the agent. "So would you be if I was to put you in some kind of whale of a balloon and ship you off to Mars."
Was it not bad enough for his petite Juanita, his Spanish blossom, his hope of a family that had held itself proudly aloof from "dose Americain" from time immemorial, to have smiled upon this Mercer, this pale-eyed youth? Was it not bad enough for her to demean herself by walking upon the pier with him? But for a boat, his boat, "un bateau Americain," to be named La Juanita! Oh, the shame of it!
I pictured the little pale-eyed rabbit of a man typing the dictum of his Napoleon, his hero, and wondering in his amiable way how "Mr. Mordan" would be affected thereby, and how he had managed to displease the great man. As for "the editor of the Daily Gazette," I had not seen him since the day of my engagement. But I recalled now various recent signs of chill disapproval of my work on Mr.
He was a little red-haired, pale-eyed rat of a man, with ferrety eyes and a goatee beard, quiet and peaceable in his ways and inoffensive enough, but a rare hand at gossiping about the beach and the walls you might find him at all odd hours either in these public places or in the door of his shop, talking away with any idler like himself.
Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos heaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell" In Cowper's poem of "Yardley Oak" there are some beautiful mythological allusions. The former of the two following is to the fable of Castor and Pollux; the latter is more appropriate to our present subject.
"You pale-eyed folk have a horrible knack of making one feel as if one is under a microscope. Your worthy uncle is just the same. If I weren't so deeply in love with him, I might resent it. But Nick is a privileged person, isn't he, wherever he goes? Didn't someone once say of him that he rushes in where angels fear to tread? It's rather an apt description. How is he, by the way?
Once or twice he went down Crane Alley, and lumbered up three pair of stairs to the garret where Kitts had his studio, got him orders, in fact, for two portraits; and when that pale-eyed young man, in a fit of confidence, one night, with a very red face drew back the curtain from his grand "Fall of Chapultepec," and watched him with a lean and hungry look, Knowles, who knew no more about painting than a gorilla, walked about, looking through his fist at it, saying, "how fine the chiaroscuro was, and that it was a devilish good thing altogether."
The devil!" shouted the pale-eyed man, hopping in haste from his campstool and dropping a well-thumbed sketching-block as he did so. "Don't be an ass," suggested Gethryn; "you'd much better help me to get up." "Look here," cried the other, "how was I to know you were not done for?" "What's the matter with me?" said Gethryn. "Are my my legs gone?" The little man glanced at Gethryn's shoes.
He could see his pale-eyed friend, the fourth engineer, spanner in hand, clinging to a moving network of steel like a spider to its tremulous web and in his breast, for the first time, a latent respect for that youth awakened.
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