"Well, no; I didn't exactly mean that, dad. But I want to borrow a few dollars."
"And when you get them, you'll leave?"
"Yes."
Uncle Thatcher left the room. As soon as he was alone Silas proceeded to make a strange toilette. Drawing a bottle of some fluid from his pocket, he poured its contents sparingly upon a comb that he found on the bureau and vigorously combed his hair with it. From sandy brown his head quickly became an intense black. Then hunting up his father's razor, which he knew was kept in that room, he speedily removed his red moustache and goatee. While doing this before the mirror, he noticed his eyebrows and carefully blackened them. Last of all, he put a false black beard, which he drew from one of his pockets, upon his chin.
His father, returning with a roll of bank-notes in his hand, started with surprise at sight of Silas's transformation, and the look of disgust deepened on his face; but he made no remark upon it and Silas wasted no time in offering any explanation. Greedily the young man clutched the pile of money that was silently extended to him, saying as he did so:
"If that friend of mine from Boston turns up again, try to keep him hanging around here for a few days, if you can, and don't tell anybody that I've been here. And now I'll be off."
"Do you wish to see your mother?"
"No. It's no use. She needn't know I've been here. She'd be sure to chatter about it. Women are never to be trusted."
"How are you going?"
"The way I came."