He was two years past his majority, yet he carried the air of a youth of eighteen, in which shyness and fearlessness looked out from his deep blue eyes.

It was well that he wore no hat to hide the mass of rich brown hair that waved back from his forehead.
"You'll do, boy," said his father, in a voice whose rigid evenness of tone revealed the emotion it sought to conceal.

"You'll take all the shine from me, you young beggar," he added in a tone of gruff banter, "but there was a time--" "WAS a time, dad?
IS, and don't tell me you don't know it.

I always feel like a school kid in any company when you're about.
'When the sun comes out All the little stars run in,'" he sang from a late music hall effusion.

"Why, just come here and look at yourself," and the boy's eyes dwelt with affectionate pride upon his father.
It was easy to see where the boy got his perfect form.