"I suppose I'm a perfect fright, too.
Long hair, whiskers, grimy, calloused hands, and all the rest of it. A
shave and a hair cut, a bath and a new suit of clothes will remedy
that. But I'll be the same personality in every essential quality that
I was when I sweated over the Klappan with a hundred pounds on my back."
"I hope so," she retorted. "I don't require the shave, thank goodness,
but I certainly need a bath--and clothes. I wish I had the gray suit
that's probably getting all moldy and moth-eaten at the Pine River
cabin. I wonder if I can get anything fit to wear here?"
"Women live here," Bill returned quietly, "and I suppose the stores
supply 'em with duds. Unlimber that bank roll of yours, and do some
shopping."
She sat on the edge of the bed, regarding her reflection in the mirror
with extreme disfavor. Bill fingered his thick stubble of a beard for
a thoughtful minute. Then he sat down beside her.
"Wha's a mollah, hon?" he wheedled. "What makes you such a crosser
patch all at once?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answered dolefully. "I'm tired and hungry, and
I look a fright--and--oh, just everything."
"Tut, tut!" he remonstrated good-naturedly.
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