Jimgrim by Talbot Mundy

It was one of those sun-drunken days in spring for which the South of France is famous. There was the usual nondescript crowd at Notre Dame de la Garde -- tourists, beggars, women selling candles and rosaries -- a few citizens of Marseilles in love with the view -- a few youngsters in love with each other. In the distance the Chateau D'If stood grimly silent in a sapphire sea. The funicular railway kept disgorging passengers, too lazy or too wise to make the climb on foot, and I envied them. I never could see why Jeff Ramsden will insist on walking when there are easier ways to get there. Churches don't particularly interest me, and I would rather look at Times Square on a warm night than at all the views in Europe. I was wishing myself on a chair at a cafe window watching the crowd in the Canabiere, although the street is overrated and the beer is beastly. But it is no use arguing with Jeff.

He is a tank of a man-one-eighth of a metric ton of bone and muscle that can go through anything on earth and come out mildly wondering why other people got excited.