and in a voice of which he vainly tried to conceal the emotion,
called "Michel Ardan."

"Here!" replied an individual perched on the poop.

Barbicane, with arms crossed, looked fixedly at the passenger of
the Atlanta.

He was a man of about forty-two years of age, of large build,
but slightly round-shouldered. His massive head momentarily
shook a shock of reddish hair, which resembled a lion's mane.
His face was short with a broad forehead, and furnished with a
moustache as bristly as a cat's, and little patches of yellowish
whiskers upon full cheeks. Round, wildish eyes, slightly
near-sighted, completed a physiognomy essentially feline.
His nose was firmly shaped, his mouth particularly sweet in
expression, high forehead, intelligent and furrowed with
wrinkles like a newly-plowed field. The body was powerfully
developed and firmly fixed upon long legs. Muscular arms,
and a general air of decision gave him the appearance of a hardy,
jolly, companion. He was dressed in a suit of ample dimensions,
loose neckerchief, open shirtcollar, disclosing a robust neck;
his cuffs were invariably unbuttoned, through which appeared
a pair of red hands.

On the bridge of the steamer, in the midst of the crowd, he
bustled to and fro, never still for a moment, "dragging his
anchors," as the sailors say, gesticulating, making free with
everybody, biting his nails with nervous avidity. He was one of
those originals which nature sometimes invents in the freak of