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; for Steve’s hair had a habit of curling closely all over his head; and before he had been combing a minute he used to dash the teethed instrument away, give his crisp locks a rub, and say, “Bother!”
And now he, Captain Marsham, and Dr Handscombe stood on the granite wharf at Nordoe, high up among the Norwegian fiords, talking to Captain Hendal, a sturdy, elderly, ruddy-bronze giant, who acted as a sort of amateur consul and referee for shipping folk who came and went from the little hot-and-cold port, and who was now frowning heavily at the trio whom he faced.
“Want me to speak out, do you, Captain Marsham, eh?”
“Of course. I came and asked you for your help and advice. I know you to be a man of great experience, and I say once more, what do you think?”
“Well, sir, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Why?” said Captain Marsham, smiling; and as his features relaxed, he looked in size, ruddy-bronze complexion, and hard, weather-tanned appearance wonderfully like the Norwegian consul.