this greasy, shapeless straw hat, with its dozen matches showing
their red heads over the band, the good soils and fertilizers of
Kansas resting placidly in his ears and the lines of his
neck--such a Romeo might not tempt his Juliet; he must spruce up.

On an aged soap-box behind the house, several inches of grey
water in a battered tin-pan indicated a previous effort. He
tossed the greasy liquid to the ground and from the well, near
the large, home-built barn, refilled the make-shift basin.
Martin's ablutions were always a strenuous affair. In his cupped
hands he brought the water toward his face and, at the moment he
was about to apply it, made pointless attempts to blow it away.
This blowing and sputtering indicated the especial importance of
an occasion--the more important, the more vigorously he blew.
Today, the cold water gave a healthy glow to his face, which,
after much stropping of his razor, he shaved of a week's growth
of beard, tawny as his thick, crisp hair where the sun had not
yet bleached it. This, he soaked thoroughly, in lieu of brushing,
before using a crippled piece of comb. The dividing line between
washed and unwashed was one inch above his neckband and two above
his wrists. Even when fresh from a scrubbing, his hands were not
entirely clean. They had been so long in contact with the earth
that it had become absorbed into the very pores of his skin; but
they were powerful hands, interesting, with long palms and
spatulate fingers. The black strips at the end of each nail,
Martin pared off with his jackknife.

He entered the house a trifle nervously, positive that his only
clean shirt, at present spread over his precious shot-gun, had
been worn once more than he could have wished, but, after all,