t enthralled me.

They stopped at the gateway which admits you to Bedford Row to finish
their colloquy. The halt was made by Fowkes, barely acquiesced in by
his companion. Poor old Fowkes, what with his asthma, the mopping of
his head, the flacking of his long fingers, exhibited signals of the
highest distress. "I need hardly assure you, sir ..." I heard; and
then, "Believe me, sir, when I say...." He was marking time, unhappy
gentleman, for with such phrases does the orator eke out his waning
substance. The lad listened in a critical, staring mood, and once or
twice nodded. While I was wondering how long he was going to put up
with it, presently he jerked his head back and showed Fowkes, by the
look he gave him, that he had had enough of him. The old lawyer knew
it for final, for he straightened his back, then his hat, touched the
brim and made a formal bow. "I leave it so, sir," he said; "I am
content to leave it so;" and then, with every mark of respect, he went
his way into Bedford Row. I noticed that he walked on tiptoe for some
yards, and then more quickly, flapping his arms to his sides.

The boy stood thoughtful where he was, communing by the looks of him
quite otherwhere, and I had the opportunity to consider him. He
appeared to be a handsome, well-built lad of fifteen or so, big for
his age, and precocious. By that I mean that his scrutiny of life was
mature; that he looked capable, far beyond the warrant of his years.
He was ruddy of complexion, freckled, and had a square chin. His eyes
were light grey, with dark lashes to them; they were startlingly light
and bright for such a sunburnt face, and seemed to glow in it like
steady fires. It was in them that resided, that sat, as it were,
enthroned, that mature, masterful expression which I never saw before
or since in one so young. I have seen the eyes of children look as if
they were searching through our world into another; that is almost
habitual in children. But here was one, apparently a boy, who seemed
to read into our circumstances (as you or I into a well-studied book)
as though they held nothing inexplicable, nothing unaccounted for.
Beyond these singular two eyes of his, his smiling mouth, with its
reminder of archaic statuary, was perhaps his only noticeable feature.
He wore the ordinary uniform of a telegraphic messenger, which in
those days was grey, with a red line down the trousers and a belt for
the tunic. His boots were of the service pattern,