The Son of the Revenue System, Died in the Purple

The father of the custom house was a certain permanent inspector. He might truly be termed a legitimate son of the revenue system. His voice and laugh had nothing of the tremulous quaver and cackle of an old man's utterance. They came strutting out of his lungs like the crow of a cock or the blast of a clarion, looking at him merely as an animal. The careless security of his life in the custom house contributed to make time pass lightly over him.