"Why, it's burning hot, I do declare."
Jeff closed his eyes, murmuring confusedly, "I b'lieve it'd help me some if you was to stroke my derned head."
Bud obediently smoothed his crisp curls. Jeff's forehead was certainly hot, and it grew no cooler beneath the touch of Bud's fingers.
"Hello!" exclaimed Bud, a few minutes later.
"Here's Dad coming across the creek."
* * * * *
Sillett advanced leisurely, not seeing the figures under the live-oak. He carried a tin box and a butterfly-net. He was dressed in the brown overalls of Southern California, stained and discoloured by sun and tar-weed. His face, brown as the over-alls, had, however, a pinched look, and in his eyes lay a curious tenseness familiar enough to deputy-sheriffs. For the rest, he had a mild forehead, which he was wiping as he crossed the creek, a pleasant mouth, and a chin a thought too delicately modelled for a man. He walked soberly, with the dragging stride of a tired pedestrian. He was tall, thin, and angular.
Bud ran to meet him.
"We've comp'ny," he cried, indicating Jeff. Sillett quickened his step.
"Company?"