drew a pamphlet issued by the State of Iowa on hog cholera and
proceeded to scan it.

Five feet, ten inches in height, weighing a clean-muscled one hundred
and eighty pounds, Dick Forrest was anything but insignificant for a
forty years' old man. The eyes were gray, large, over-arched by bone
of brow, and lashes and brows were dark. The hair, above an ordinary
forehead, was light brown to chestnut. Under the forehead, the cheeks
showed high-boned, with underneath the slight hollows that necessarily
accompany such formation. The jaws were strong without massiveness,
the nose, large-nostriled, was straight enough and prominent enough
without being too straight or prominent, the chin square without
harshness and uncleft, and the mouth girlish and sweet to a degree
that did not hide the firmness to which the lips could set on due
provocation. The skin was smooth and well-tanned, although, midway
between eyebrows and hair, the tan of forehead faded in advertisement
of the rim of the Baden Powell interposed between him and the sun.

Laughter lurked in the mouth corners and eye-corners, and there were
cheek lines about the mouth that would seem to have been formed by
laughter. Equally strong, however, every line of the face that meant
blended things carried a notice of surety. Dick Forrest was sure--
sure, when his hand reached out for any object on his desk, that the
hand would straightly attain the object without a fumble or a miss of
a fraction of an inch; sure, when his brain leaped the high places of
the hog cholera text, that it was not missing a point; sure, from his
balanced body in the revolving desk-chair to the balanced back-head of
him; sure, in heart and brain, of life and work, of all he possessed,
and of himself.