Westover had fancied him growing up to the height of his father and
brother, but Jeff Durgin's stalwart frame was notable for strength
rather 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?"

"Guess we can put you up," said Jeff.

"No chance of getting my old room, I suppose?"

"I shouldn't wonder. If there's any one in it, I guess mother could
change 'em."

"Is that so?" asked Westover, with a liking for being liked, which his
tone expressed. "How is your mother?"

Jeff seemed to think a moment before he answered:

"Just exactly the same."

"A little older?"

"Not as I can see."

"Does she hate keeping a hotel as badly as she expected?"

"That's what she says," answered Jeff, with a twinkle. All the time,
while he was t