was such a good child that it was to be feared he would die young. But it would have to be by sudden dispensation of the gods, for he was the sturdiest youngster between two seas. He never wore out a suit of clothes, but outgrew as many as could be got for him; he never broke things by accident, but by design. He was as strong as a bear cub.
At fourteen he was as big as Judge Tyler, ridiculous as it may seem, for the judge was no pygmy—a lank, loose-jointed young creature, with fine, tawny coloring, challenging eyes, a straight, thick nose with wide nostrils, a strong, round head covered with short, tawny hair, and hands and feet of enormous size. It was to be hoped that he would grow up to his hands and feet. A time came when they looked somewhat small for the rest of him. As a young and vivid force that might one day develop into symmetry and management of self, he was a charm to the speculating eye. But of finished beauty he had only two features—the eyes, big, bold, and gray, and the big,
