In the year since he was captured, Tennant has gained a noticeable amount of muscle, a good farmer’s tan, and better attire. Not much better. Clad in the finest of his two shirts, a patched pair of pants, holed boots and a cocky smile, he is definitely not mistaken for his sister when he comes calling on the Governor.
Perhaps someone had tried to stop him, shooed him away. Still, he’d head back, ducking and dodging, slipping past the desk jockeys and paper pushers with whatever warnings they issued. Assuming there wasn’t a constable to stop him, though most knew his face by now and might even think him harmless; Tennant would run his hand through his hair like he was preparing for a date and head directly to see the Glenn Burnie.
