‘Lay him down on a sofa,’ Melusine said, coming out behind them and moving towards the antechamber. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. "Good night!" "Blueskin," whispered Jack, in his natural tones, as the other passed him, "wait without. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl.
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