They looked pale and sickly and harassed to Johnny, to whom desert-browned faces were a standard by which he measured all others.
A barber shop reminded him of grime and untrimmed hair, and he halted so abruptly that Bland forged several paces ahead before he missed him.
He turned back grumbling, just as Johnny went in at the door, and followed grudgingly.

He had wanted a glass of beer first of all, but yielded the point and took his shave resignedly.
Johnny spent a full hour in that shop, and when he emerged he was worth the second glance he got from the girls hurrying homeward.

Tubbed, shaven, trimmed, a fresh shine on boots that still showed the marks of spurs worn from dawn to dark when those boots were new, he towered above Bland Halliday, who looked dingier and more down-at-heel than ever by contrast.

It would take more than shaven jowls to make a gentleman of Bland.
They went on to Broadway, crossed it precariously, and reached the pavement by what Johnny considered a hair's-breadth of safety as a big car slid past his heels.

They passed lighted plate-glass windows wherein silver and gold gleamed richly.