His aggressive
mustache of the old days was gone, laying bare a broad, firmly set
lip. The cheap jeans clothing that fell to him when he left the
penitentiary hung loosely on his frame, for he had lost many pounds;
the coat was buttoned close about his throat, albeit the day was warm.
He wore no collar. His "hickory" shirt was soiled. He had slept in
these garments for many nights.
The contrast was appalling. That this cadaverous, prideless individual
could once have been the vain-glorious showman was almost
inconceivable. It is no wonder that David stared.
"Well, I guess you've changed about as much as I have," said Braddock,
reading the other's thoughts. He uttered a bitter laugh as he turned
to drag a chair up to the table, with something of the assurance of
old.
"I hope I've changed as much for the better as you have, Braddock,"
said David, and he meant it.
Braddock whirled to glare at him in wonder. He was silent for a
moment. Then he flung himself into the chair, his jaws setting
themselves firmly, no trace of the sarcastic smile remaining.
"I guess you have, David," he said shortly.
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