than height. He could not have been taller than his mother, whose stature
was above the standard of her sex, but he was massive without being
bulky. His chest was deep, his square shoulders broad, his powerful legs
bore him with a backward bulge of the calves that showed through his
shapely trousers; he caught up the trunks and threw them into the
baggage-wagon with a swelling of the muscles on his short, thick arms
which pulled his coat-sleeves from his heavy wrists and broad, short
hands.

He had given one of these to Westover to shake when they met, but with
something conditional in his welcome, and with a look which was not so
much furtive as latent. The thatch of yellow hair he used to wear was now
cropped close to his skull, which was a sort of dun-color; and it had
some drops of sweat along the lighter edge where his hat had shaded his
forehead. He put his hat on the seat between himself and Westover, and
drove away from the station bareheaded, to cool himself after his bout
with the baggage, which was following more slowly in its wagon. There was
a good deal of it, and there were half a dozen people--women, of
course--going to Lion's Head House. Westover climbed to the place beside
Jeff to let them have the other two seats to themselves, and to have a
chance of talking; but the ladies had to be quieted in their several
anxieties concerning their baggage, and the letters and telegrams they
had sent about their rooms, before they settled down to an exchange of
apprehensions among themselves, and left Jeff Durgin free to listen to
Westover.

"I don't know but I ought to have telegraphed you that I was coming,"
Westover said; "but I couldn't realize that you were doing things on the
hotel scale. Perhaps you won't have room for me?"