eyes were small and set too wide apart and his ears were small and set close to his head. He was a heavy man about five feet ten inches tall and his hands and feet were large. His nose had been broken and his mouth was cut at one corner and the line of the scar across the upper lip and lower jaw showed through the growth of beard over his face.
The old man nodded his head at this man and smiled.
"He is the boss here," he grinned, then flexed his arms as though to make the muscles stand out and looked at the man with the carbine in a half-mocking admiration. "A very strong man."
"I can see it," Robert Jordan said and smiled again. He did not like the look of this man and inside himself he was not smiling at all.
"What have you to justify your identity" asked the man with the carbine.
Robert Jordan unpinned a safety pin that ran through his pocket flap and took a folded paper out of the left breast pocket of his flannel shirt and handed it to the man, who opened it, looked at it doubtfully and turned it in his hands.
So he cannot read, Robert Jordan noted.
"Look at the seal," he said.
The old man pointed to the seal and the man with the carbine studied it, turning it in his fingers.
"What seal is that"
"Have you never seen it"
"No."
"There are two," said Robert Jordan. "One is S. I. M., the service of the military intelligence. The other is the General Staff."