It was a claw within him sharper than the iron one ; and as it tore him , the perspiration dripped down his tallow -LSB- waxy -RSB- countenance and streaked his doublet . Ofttimes he drew his sleeve across his face , but there was no damming that trickle . Ah , envy not Hook . There came to him a presentiment of his early dissolution -LSB- death -RSB- . It was as if Peter 's terrible oath had boarded the ship . Hook felt a gloomy desire to make his dying speech , lest presently there should be no time for it . `` Better for Hook , '' he cried , `` if he had had less ambition ! '' It was in his darkest hours only that he referred to himself in the third person . `` No little children to love me ! '' Strange that he should think of this , which had never troubled him before ; perhaps the sewing machine brought it to his mind . For long he muttered to himself , staring at Smee , who was hemming placidly , under the conviction that all children feared him . Feared him ! Feared Smee ! There was not a child on board the brig that night who did not already love him . He had said horrid things to them and hit them with the palm of his hand , because he could not hit with his fist , but they had only clung to him the more . Michael had tried on his spectacles . To tell poor Smee that they thought him lovable ! Hook itched to do it , but it seemed too brutal . Instead , he revolved this mystery in his mind : why do they find Smee lovable ? He pursued the problem like the sleuth-hound that he was .
If XXXXX was lovable , what was it that made him so ?
Michael Peter Smee damming doublet hours night presentiment sleuth-hound third