Chapter 1
_ CHAPTER I
The most remarkable thing about the boy was his eyes--that is, if any man with his spread of shoulder and masculine grace of flat muscled hips could be spoken of any longer as a boy, merely because his years happened to number twenty-four.
They, however--the eyes--were gray； not a too light, off-color, gleaming gray, but more the tone of slate, deep when one chanced to find oneself peering deep into them. And they were old. Any spontaneity of youth which might have flashed from them at one time had faded entirely and left a sort of wistful sophistry behind, an almost plaintive hunger which made the pity of his shoulder-stoop--still mercifully only a prophecy of what the next twenty years of toil might leave it--an even more pitiful thing. His sheer bigness should have been still unspoiled； instead it was already beginning to lose its rebound； it was growing imperceptibly slack, like the springy stride of a colt put too soon to heavy harness.
Late after

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