Sandy was the first one finished. Russ Steele looked up and grinned as his nephew appeared in the doorway, running a comb through his unmanageable blond hair with dogged determination.
“Still having trouble with that cowlick, I see,” Russ said.
“One of these days I’m going to get a butch haircut like Jerry James’s. Then all I’ll have to do is run a washrag across it.”
“Your mother will never buy that,” Russ laughed. “How are the folks?”
“They’re fine,” Sandy said. “Dad’s down in Mexico for two weeks.”
Russ took a long draw on his pipe. “On another one of those government geological expeditions, I suppose. I envy John, getting to see so much of the world.”
“He enjoys it, all right,” Sandy admitted. He looked up as a big, sleek-haired dog came bounding out of the pines on one side of the house. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Prince, the cook’s Doberman pinscher.” Russ whistled softly through his teeth.
The dog’s sharp ears and muzzle thrust alertly into the air; then, with the bounce of a recoiling spring, he came striding across the sunburned lawn and cleared the front steps in a single leap, to squat in front of Russ with his short stub of a tail wagging vigorously.
“Talk about jet propulsion!” Sandy exclaimed. “What do you feed him on?”