Captain Trigger beheld a well set-up young man of medium height,
with freshly shaven chin and jaws, carefully brushed hair, spotless
white shirt and collar, and,--revealed in a quick glance,--recently
scrubbed hands. His brown Norfolk jacket was open, and he carried
a brand new, though somewhat shapeless pan-ama hat in his hand.
Evidently he had ceased fanning himself with it at the moment of
entering the captain's presence. The keen, good-looking face was
warm and moist as the result of a most violent soaping. He wore
corduroy riding-breeches, cavalry boots that betrayed their age in
spite of a late polishing at the hands of an energetic and carefully
directed bootblack, and a broad leather belt from which only half
an eye was required to see that a holster had been detached with a
becoming regard for neatness. His hair was thick and sun-bleached;
his eyes, dark and unafraid, met the stern gaze of the captain
with directness and respect; his lips and chin were firm in repose,
but they might easily be the opposite if relaxed; his skin was so
tanned and wind-bitten that the whites of his eyes were startlingly
defined and vivid. He was not a tall man,--indeed, one would have
been justified in suspecting him of being taller than he really
was because of the more or less deceiving erectness with which he
carried himself. As a matter of fact, he was not more than five
feet ten or ten and a half.

Captain Trigger eyed him narrowly for a moment.

"What is your name?"

"A. A. Percival, sir."

"Your full name, young man. No initials."