Francis the third brother of the Dorper -Cross clan was convinced at a very young age that he was swapped at birth, and that his mother brought home the wrong son. For no sooner than he could lift himself up on his very spindly legs did he realize that no-one else around him had been blessed with his golden locks and stop-you-in-your-tracks big brown eyes.
Furthermore it was Francis’s love of classical tunes that set him apart, and his sudden need to leap for joy, doing a cabriole or soubresaut at the turn of a head, and the bleat of eye. Yes he was a very strange boy out there in the booneys where the flies and the dust and the heat forced most young men under the shade of the leanest tree and there they spent most of their lives til the next shearing time and the buzz of the clippers.
So at the earliest opportunity that presented itself young Francis skipped town hiding quietly in the sidecar of some peculiar rider clad in leathers and chains who fled the scene and rode uninterrupted all the way to Casino on the right side of the road.
Francis has since lived ever so well on his wits and his wile, as a swift fingered croupier in the town that’s fast asleep.