Steve Young

What do I think? Yes, out with it. Don’t be afraid”. “Oh, I’m not afraid; but I don’t want to quarrel with any man, nor to upset the lad”. “Speak out then. You will not quarrel with me, and I’m not afraid of your upsetting the lad. I like him to know the whole truth; don’t I, Steve?” “Yes, sir, of course”, cried the boy addressed, a well-built, sturdy lad of sixteen, fair, strong, and good-looking, and with the additional advantage, which made him better-looking still, that he did not know it. For though Stephen Young, son of a well-known Lincolnshire doctor who lost his life in fighting hard to save those of others, stood in front of a looking-glass every morning to comb his hair, he never stopped long, and for the short space he did stay his face was convulsed and wrinkled, eyes red, and mouth twisted all on one side, consequent upon his being in pain as he jigged and tore with the comb trying to smooth the unsmoothable .