"Cooling off?" suggested the little man.

Sanderson straightened. "How in hell do you know I'm hot?" he demanded
gruffly.

The little man grinned. "There's signs. Your face looks like you'd
had it in an oven. Now, don't lose your temper; I didn't mean to
offend you."

The little man's voice was placative; his manner gravely ingratiating.
Yet Sanderson divined that the other was inwardly laughing at him.
Why? Sanderson did not know. He was aware that he must seem awkward
in the rôle of brother, and he suspected that the little man had
noticed it; possibly the little man was one of those keen-witted and
humorously inclined persons who find amusement in the incongruous.

There was certainly humor in the man's face, in the glint of his eyes,
and in the curve of his lips. His face was seamed and wrinkled; his
ears were big and prominent, the tips bending outward under the brim of
a felt hat that was too large for him; his mouth was large, and
Sanderson's impression of it was that it could not be closed far enough
to conceal all the teeth, but that the lips were continually trying to
stretch far enough to accomplish the feat.

Sanderson was certain it was that continual effort of the muscles of
the lips that gave to his mouth its humorous expression.

The man was not over five feet and two or three inches tall, and
crowning his slender body was a head that was entirely out of