The surprise was mutual, and each halted aghast.
Joe felt a hysterical desire to laugh, for he thought that he knew precisely how he looked.

In reality he looked far worse than he imagined.

What Mr.Bronson saw was a boy with hat and coat covered with dirt, his whole face smeared with the stains of conflict, and, in particular, a badly swollen nose, a bruised eyebrow, a cut and swollen lip, a scratched cheek, knuckles still bleeding, and a shirt torn open from throat to waist.
"What does this mean, sir ?" Mr.Bronson finally managed to articulate.
Joe stood speechless.

How could he tell, in one brief sentence, all the whole night's happenings ?--for all that must be included in the explanation of what his luckless disarray meant.
"Have you lost your tongue ?" Mr.Bronson demanded with an appearance of impatience.
"I 've--I 've--" "Yes, yes," his father encouraged.
"I 've--well, I 've been down in the Pit," Joe succeeded in blurting out.
"I must confess that you look like it--very much like it indeed." Mr.Bronson spoke severely, but if ever by great effort he conquered a smile, that was the time.

"I presume," he went on, "that you do not refer to the abiding-place of sinners, but rather to some definite locality in San Francisco.