Dowell Peck, the mail-order beau, presented anything but a romantic appearance as he stood beside his luggage where the driver of the livery rig had unloaded him. He was a long, lean man, a peering inquisitiveness in his sharp features, adorned by a sprangling brown moustache, so long, so immense and so heavy, he appeared to carry his head to balance it, as a buck his spreading antlers. His nose was singularly juvenile, his light eyes were large, outstanding in their sockets, such a glassy brightness of artificialty in them as caused the beholder to wonder if he could see.
Peck carried his head thrust forward a little on his long, gaunt neck, as if to keep his moustache clear of entanglements. This pose, taken with the sharp angle of his neck that looked like something in a stocking, gave him the straining appearance of a horse stretching its neck to relieve the pressure of an uncomfortable collar. He was enveloped to the knees in a garment once popular with travelers from such places as St. Joe, known as a linen duster. Few of them were linen, Peck's being no exception. His was cambric of a greenish hue, wrinkled, drawn, drooping. It had large mussel-shell buttons, large packets of some weighty stuff in the pockets of it which contributed nothing to the engaging appearance a man might well desire to
