He rubbed liquid rouge, of a dark shade, well into the skin of his face, neck, hands and high up on his wrists, which took care of his coloring.
His main worry was the nose and ears, especially the nose. That would be most quickly noticed if it looked artificial. His first few attempts were not only badly done, but almost ludicrous. His usually fine muscular coordination seemed to be lacking. But he persevered and finally, after several hours, managed to mold a fairly reasonable snout and to so blend its edges into the skin of his face adjoining that it would, he felt sure, pass muster on casual inspection.
He built up his ears in like manner, but to help with this deception, in case of any close scrutiny, he covered them with a head bandage. He put his hat on, pulled it well down in front and on the sides, then examined himself critically in the mirror.
"Boy, that's a sloppy job, and how," he exclaimed, disgusted with his handiwork. "Trevor would disown me if he could see it." But he finally decided it would do ... he hoped.
Now that he had finished he discovered he was sweating like a nervous caval. He held out his shaking hands, and looked at them critically. What, in John's name, was wrong with him, anyway?
And a thought he had, perhaps subconsciously, pushed far down into the furthest recesses of his mind, swept over him with full force.
He did not want to think that thought. More, he did not want to have to make that decision. But....
Manning was dead.
Hooper was fleeing insanely, perhaps also dead by now.
His father was captive, imprisoned, tortured ... if still alive.