Fortunately I put on a clean shirt. Will I do, dad?
You know I'm 'scairt stiff,' as Harry Hobbs would say."
His father looked him over, but there was nothing critical in his
glance. Pride and love filled his eyes as they ran over his son's face
and figure. And small wonder! The youth was good to look upon. A shade
under six feet he stood, straight and slim, strength and supple grace
in every move of his body. His face was beautiful with the beauty of
features, clean cut and strong, but more with the beauty of a clear,
candid soul. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere of cheery good nature
and unspoiled simplicity. 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.
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