Of this latter sort was old Farmer
Ives, as he was called, the "wise man" to whom Benjy resorted (taking Tom with him as usual), in the early spring of the year next after the feast described in the last chapter.
One day last spring, in town, I was in company with two men, striking instances of what I am talking of; Lord St
Ives, whose father we all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was to give place to Lord St
Ives, and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most deplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles, nine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top.
"By Saint
Ives!" shouted the French soldier, with a hoarse roar of laughter, "it is well that I should ride with my vizor down, for he that has once seen my face does not need to be told my name.
