pompadour.

Mary Cutting and Emma McChesney approached them very quietly just in
time to hear the weasel say:

"Well, s' long then, Shrimp. See you at eight."

And he swung around and faced them.

That sick horror of uncertainty which had clutched at Emma McChesney
when first she saw the weasel's back held her with awful certainty
now. But ten years on the road had taught her self-control, among
other things. So she looked steadily and calmly into her son's scarlet
face. Jock's father had been a liar.

She put her hand on the boy's arm.

"You're a day ahead of schedule, Jock," she said evenly.

"So are you," retorted Jock, sullenly, his hands jammed into his
pockets.

"All the better for both of us, Kid. I was just going over to the
hotel to clean up, Jock. Come along, boy."

The boy's jaw set. His eyes sought any haven but that of Emma
McChesney's eyes. "I can't," he said, his voice very low. "I've an
engagement to take dinner with a bunch of the fellows. We're going
down to the Inn. Sorry."