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. Not so tall as
his son, he was more firmly knit, and with a kind of dainty neatness in
his appearance which suggested the beau in earlier days. But there
was nothing of weakness about the erect, trim figure. A second glance
discovered a depth of chest, a thickness of shoulder and of thigh, and
a general development of muscle such as a ring champion might show; and,
indeed, it was his achievements in the ring rather than in the class
lists that won for Dick Dunbar in his college days his highest fame. And
though his fifty years had slowed somewhat the speed of foot and hand,
the eye was as sure as ever, and but little of the natural force was
abated which once had made him the glory of the Cambridge sporting