"J. Trent, Master" at the top of the card
directed me to a smallish, wizened man, with bushy
eyebrows and full white beard, dressed in a frock-coat
and white trousers; a flower stuck in his button-hole,
his bearded chin set forward, his mouth clenched with
habitual determination. There was not much of the
sailor in his looks, but plenty of the martinet; a dry,
precise man, who might pass for a preacher in some
rigid sect; and, whatever he was, not the Captain Trent
of San Francisco. The men, too, were all new to me:
the cook, an unmistakable Chinaman, in his
characteristic dress, standing apart on the poop steps.
But perhaps I turned on the whole with the greatest
curiosity to the figure labelled "E. Goddedaal, 1st
off." He whom I had never seen, he might be the
identical; he might be the clue and spring of all this
mystery; and I scanned his features with the eye of a
detective. He was of great stature, seemingly blonde
as a Viking, his hair clustering round his head in
frowsy curls, and two enormous whiskers, like the tusks
of some strange animal, jutting from his cheeks.
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