Farrell, you will perceive, had chosen the better way, and had become
a voluntary exile from Engelbaum's in consequence. That, or the
exercise of running, had done him a power of good. Just now he was
bronzed, spare, even inclining to gauntness. Twelve months before,
he had shortened his whiskers, as a first step to disguise.
Since then, and to please this woman, he had grown a beard which he
kept short and trimmed to a point, naval fashion. It was
straw-coloured, went well with his bronzed complexion and improved
his appearance very considerably. It may be that this growth had
encouraged the hair on his scalp or stimulated it by rivalry to
renewed effort: more likely the play of sunshine and sea-breeze had
done the trick between them; but anyhow Farrell now possessed a light
mat of silky yellowish hair on the top of his head--as the nigger
song has it, in the place where the wool ought to grow. Shoes, blue
dungaree trousers and a striped shirt were his clothing--the shirt
opened at the throat and to the second button, disclosing a V of
naked chest as healthily tanned as his face.
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