This was a remarkable boy in many ways. He was about eleven years old; he had alert, intent black eyes; he was quick of movement; there was no hesitation, no uncertainty about him anywhere; there was a military decision in his lip, his manner, his speech, that was an astonishing thing to see in a little chap like him; he wasted no words; his answers always came so quick and brief that they seemed to be part of the question that had been asked instead of a reply to it. When he stood at table with his fly-brush, rigid, erect, his face set in a cast-iron gravity, he was a statue till he detected a dawning want in somebody's eye; then he pounced down, supplied it, and was instantly a statue again. When he was sent to the kitchen for anything, he marched upright till he got to the door; he turned hand-springs the rest of the way. “Breakfast!” I thought I would make one more effort to get some conversation out of this being. “Have you called the Reverend, or are--” “Yes s'r!” “Is it early, or is--” “Eight-five.” “Do you have to do all the 'chores,' or is there somebody to give you a--” “Colored girl.” “Is there only one parish in this island, or are there--” “Eight!” “Is the big church on the hill a parish church, or is it--” “Chapel-of-ease!” “Is taxation here classified into poll, parish, town, and--” “Don't know!” Before I could cudgel another question out of my head, he was below, hand-springing across the back yard. He had slid down the balusters, headfirst. I gave up trying to provoke a discussion with him. The essential element of discussion had been left out of him; his answers were so final and exact that they did not leave a doubt to hang conversation on. I suspect that there is the making of a mighty man or a mighty rascal in this boy--according to circumstances--but they are going to apprentice him to a carpenter. It is the way the world uses its opportunities.