Harry Merrow’s remark was quite true, true in what it said and in what it implied. When he smiled Kendall Burtis was a different looking chap entirely, but he didn’t often smile, and when he didn’t it was no exaggeration to call him homely. He was sixteen years of age, of average height, with a figure that seemed to have more than the usual allowance of corners. He had the rugged appearance of a boy who has lived out of doors, and worked there, too. He had ashy-brown hair, dark gray eyes, a nose which was almost a pug, and a broad mouth. Add plenty of brown freckles to a face well tanned, and you have a fair idea of Kendall’s physiognomy. But the mouth was kindly, the nose suggested a sense of humor, and the gray eyes were clear and honest, and somehow, in spite of its homeliness, the face was attractive.