He stopped a moment, and looked Hamlin in the face, as if to find out what sort of man he might be. He himself might be any age between thirty and forty, of the darkest possible Scotch type, sun-burnt like a bargee, snub of feature, with a huge, overhanging forehead; he was a man such as Hamlin had never dealt with–a type which he recognised as having seen among workmen and Dissenting preachers: ugly, intellectual, contemptuous–the incarnation of what, to the descendants of Cavaliers and Jamaica planters, seemed the aggressive lower classes.