quite two-and-fifty. He had the look of one worn out with anxiety
and hardship; the lines engraven upon his face were of extraordinary
depth and frequency; there seemed to be little flesh between the dry
skin and the bones which sharply outlined his visage. The lips were,
like those of his son, prominent and nervous, but none of Bob's
shrewdness was here discoverable; feeling rather than intellect
appeared to be the father's characteristic. His eyes expressed
self-will, perhaps obstinacy, and he had a peculiarly dogged manner
of holding his head. At the present moment he was suffering from
extreme fatigue; he let himself sink upon a chair, threw his hat on
to the floor, and rested a hand on each knee. His boots were thickly
covered with mud; his corduroy trousers were splashed with the same.
Rain had drenched him; it trickled to the floor from all his
garments.

For answer to Sidney's question, he nodded towards his wife, and
said in a thick voice, 'Ask her.'

'He's dyed it,' Mrs. Hewett explained, with no smile. 'He thought
one of the reasons why he couldn't get work was his lookin' too
old.'

'An' so it was,' exclaimed Hewett, with an angry vehemence which at
once declared his position and revealed much of his history. 'So it
was My hair was a bit turned, an' nowadays there's no chance for old
men. Ask any one you like. Why, there's Sam Lang couldn't even get a
job at gardenin' 'cause his hair was a bit turned. It was him as
told me what to do. "Dye your hair, Jack," he says; "it's what I've
had to myself," he says. "They won't have old men nowadays, at no
price." Why, there's Jarvey the painter; you know him, Sidney. His