For the ugliness of Mac Strann was that most terrible species of ugliness—­not disfigured features but a discord which pervaded the man and came from within him—­like a sound.  Feature by feature his face was not ugly.  The mouth was very large, to be sure, and the jaw too heavily square, and the nose needed somewhat greater length and less width for real comeliness.  The eyes were truly fine, being very large and black, though when Mac Strann lowered his bush of brows his eyes were practically reduced to gleams of light in the consequent shadow.  There was a sharp angle in his forehead, the lines of it meeting in the centre and shelving up and down.  One felt, unpleasantly, that there were heavy muscles overlaying that forehead.  One felt that to the touch it would be a pad of flesh, and it gave to Mac Strann, more than any other feature, a peculiar impression of resistless physical power.

In the catalogue of his features, indeed, there was nothing severely objectionable; but out of it came a feeling of too much strength! A glance at his body reinsured the first thought.  It was not normal.  His shirt bulged tightly at the shoulders with muscles.  He was not tall—­inches shorter than his brother Jerry, for instance—­but the bulk of his body was incredible.  His torso was a veritable barrel that bulged out both in the chest and the back.  And even the tremendous thighs of Mac Strann were perceptibly bowed out by the weight which they had to carry.  And there was about his management of his arms a peculiar awkwardness which only the very strongest of men exhibit—­as if they were burdened by the weight of their mere dangling hands.

This giant, having placed his eyes in shadow, peered for a long moment at Haw-Haw Langley, but very soon his glance began to waver.  It flashed towards the wall—­it came back and rested upon Langley again.  He was like a dog, restless under a steady stare.  And as Haw-Haw Langley noted this a glitter of joy came in his beady eyes.

“You’re Jerry’s man,” said Mac Strann at length.

There was about his voice the same fleshy quality that was in his face; it came literally from his stomach, and it made a peculiar rustling sound such as comes after one has eaten sticky sweet things.  People could listen to the voice of Mac Strann and forget that he was speaking words.  The articulation ran together in a sort of glutinous mass.

“I’m a friend of Jerry’s,” said the other.  “I’m Langley.”

The big man stretched out his hand.  The hair grew black, down to the knuckles; the blood of the bear still streaked it; it was large enough to be an organism with independent life.  But when Langley, with some misgiving, trusted his own bony fingers within that grasp, in was only as if something fleshy, soft, and bloodless had closed over them.  When his hand was released he rubbed it covertly against his trowser leg—­to remove dirt—­restore the circulation.  He did not know why.