He was dressed in the brown
over-alls of Southern California, stained and discoloured by sun and
tar-weed. His face, brown as the over-alls, had, however, a pinched
look, and in his eyes lay a curious tenseness familiar enough to
deputy-sheriffs. For the rest, he had a mild forehead, which he was
wiping as he crossed the creek, a pleasant mouth, and a chin a thought
too delicately modelled for a man. He walked soberly, with the
dragging stride of a tired pedestrian. He was tall, thin, and angular.
Bud ran to meet him.
"We've comp'ny," he cried, indicating Jeff. Sillett quickened his
step.
"Company?"
Sillett met Jeff's glance with a simple bow, and the inevitable
remark, "Hurt yourself?"
Jeff explained. While describing his misadventure he decided that Bud
could not be a party to the father's crime. Sillett asked for
permission to examine the wounded leg Presently he asked Jeff to stand
up.
"Oh, Dad!" protested Bud.
Jeff obeyed, glad to discover that he could stand upon the injured
foot.
"Same thing happened to me once," Sillett remarked. "The tight boot
caused more than half the trouble.
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