"I gather, then, that he is merely a clever, idle, Irish vagabond, who
drinks."

"He does not drink. And as for his Irish name I suppose he must be Irish
either by descent or birth; but he is continually abusing Ireland and
the Irish. Probably, however, he would not let anybody else do so."

Mr. Atkinson's book-shop in the Strand was a somewhat dingy-looking
place, filled with publications mostly of an exceedingly advanced
character. Mr. Atkinson himself claimed to be a bit of a reformer; and
had indeed brought himself, on one or two occasions, within reach of the
law by issuing pamphlets of a somewhat too fearless aim. On this
occasion he was not in the shop; so the two friends passed through,
ascended a dark little stair, and entered a room which smelled strongly
of tobacco-smoke.

The solitary occupant of this chamber, to whom Brand was immediately
introduced, was a man of about fifty, carelessly if not even shabbily
dressed, with large masses of unkempt hair, and eyes, dark gray,
deep-set, that had very markedly the look of the eyes of a lion. The
face was worn and pallid, but when lit up with excitement it was capable
of much expression; and Mr. O'Halloran, when he did become excited, got
very much excited indeed. He had laid aside his pipe, and was just
finishing his gin and soda-water, taken from Mr. Atkinson's private
store.

However, the lion so seldom roars when it is expected to roar. Instead
of the extraordinary creature whom Lord Evelyn had been describing,
Brand found merely an Irish newspaper-reporter, who was either tired, or
indifferent, or sleepy. They talked about some current topic of the hour